At the head of the ladder, Cavendish was intercepted by one of the carpenter's crew.
"I've been sent to fetch you, sir," explained the man. "There's a nasty mess up for'ard."
The lieutenant hurried along the mess-deck, negotiating various obstacles and passing groups of men "standing easy". Many inquiries they made of how things were going, but Cavendish, beyond reassuring them, could give no definite news.
When at length he arrived upon the scene of the damage for'ard, he looked grave.
A 15-inch shell had penetrated the unarmoured end, twenty feet abaft the stem, blowing jagged rents in the plating and in places starting whole sheets of metal from their frames. The cable stowed in the manger had been flung about like string. A fire had been started, but had been already got under control by the fire-party, who, under the orders of the chief carpenter, were endeavouring to plug the rents with canvas and bedding.
It was a useless task. The sea was pouring in like a mill race, washing men and gear away like corks. The sunlight was streaming through the gaps into the smoke-laden compartment, giving Cavendish the impression that he was in a train about to emerge from a tunnel—only that the din was a hundred times greater.
The only thing to be done was to abandon this compartment.
[Illustration: "WEEDS! BEAR A HAND!" Page 275]