Not in vain had months of discipline been drilled into the crew of the "Tantalus." Every man stood rigidly at attention, the babel of voices ceased as if by magic, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the rapid crashes of the quick-firers, the hiss of escaping steam, and the inrush of water through the gaping hole in the ship's side fifteen feet below the waterline.
The "Tantalus" had received a mighty blow. Whether it were sufficient to sink her was yet to be determined. One torpedo had missed its mark, but the other had exploded in No. 1 stokehold on the starboard side, almost instantly flooding that compartment and killing most of the stokers on duty in that part of the ship.
For five long-drawn-out minutes the men stood motionless, while the captain, commander, and officer of the watch conferred and awaited reports. From the engine room came the information that the port engine was still intact, thanks to the longitudinal bulkhead. The starboard engines were almost useless, owing to the loss of pressure. In the flooded stokehold gallant volunteers were groping in the swirling water and risking death from the deadly fumes in an endeavour to rescue their luckless comrades.
The cruiser was heeling badly to starboard. Although her steering gear was unaffected she had begun to circle under the impulse of the port propeller; until steadied on her helm, she floundered through the water at the greatly reduced speed of five and a half knots.
"We'll save the old ship yet, I fancy," remarked the captain to the commander. "It will be best, I think, to muster all hands aft. Is steam available for the boat-hoists?"
"Yes, sir," replied the commander.
"Very good. It's well to know that in case we have to hoist out the boom-boats. Pass the word for the men to fall in."
The shrill trill of the bos'uns' mates' pipes and the hoarse orders, unintelligible to the civilian element on board, had the result of clearing the lower deck in a remarkably short space of time. Clad in a motley of garments the watch below surged through the doorways in the after-bulkhead of the battery, each man with his pneumatic life-saving collar and in many cases a small bundle containing his cherished possessions. A petty officer appeared with a Manx cat in his arms; a yeoman of signals with a parrot that persisted in screeching choice lower-deck epithets at a piebald monkey; a corporal of Red Marines was grasping a cage containing a couple of canaries; while it would be impossible to guess with any degree of accuracy how many men had pets securely hidden in their jumpers.
The ship had now slightly recovered her heel and evinced no tendency to capsize. A course was now being shaped for the North Cornish coast, in the hope that the vessel could be beached or, at least, anchored in shallow water. Very sluggishly she forged ahead, the bent plates in the vicinity of the hole made by the torpedo requiring a considerable amount of helm to counteract the inclination of the ship to turn to starboard.
The din of the quick-firers had died away. Cheerful optimists there were amongst the crew who felt certain that the U-boat had been properly strafed, but there was no evidence to confirm their belief. As a matter of precaution the guns were still manned, while the wireless, which had been temporarily deranged, was sending out appeals for aid.