The old skipper shook his head.
"I'm downright sorry," he replied boldly.
"Sorry our fellows didn't do you in. My sole regret would have been that I should have to go to Davy Jones' locker in such rotten company."
Filled with a violent passion von Brockdorff-Giespert swore at and threatened the imperturbable Englishman. He gave him no credit for his patriotism. To the Hun such a standpoint was incomprehensible. He could only attribute it to the crass stupidity of the schweinhund Englander. Yet, somehow, Count Otto rather admired the old skipper in the present juncture. He envied his calm demeanour. The bronzed face and white hair of the old man haunted him.
Then came the terrific impact of the Boche torpedo. Flung completely out of his bunk von Brockdorff-Giespert lay inertly upon the floor for nearly a couple of minutes. At length, regardless of his injuries, he staggered to his feet and battered the locked door with his open palm, the while bellowing for assistance.
To be drowned like a rat in a trap: it was a fate inconceivable to a member of the Prussian nobility—a junker of the first water. He redoubled his cries as the doomed destroyer listed more and more. Had he but known it he might well have saved his breath. His shouts were drowned by the hiss of escaping steam and the inrush of water.
At length through sheer exhaustion he ceased his cries, yet he sobbed like a child in his rage and terror. It seemed an eternity, but in reality only three minutes elapsed between the time of the explosion and the unlocking of his prison door.
"Blow me, ain't the Boche got the wind up?" remarked one of the bluejackets to his raggie, as the pair lifted the now speechless Hun from the cabin floor, over which the water was rising swiftly, and carried him up the narrow companion-way to the deck.
Very carefully and tenderly the men lifted their enemy into the first boat to be cleared away. In the company of half a dozen badly wounded and scalded men the men pushed off, deeply laden for the high sea that was running.
Placed in the stern sheets and supported by a rolled canvas awning von Brockdorff-Giespert could watch with every roll of the boat the last throes of the British destroyer. Had he not been in peril of being thrown into the sea by the swamping of the boat he might have gloated over the scene. As it was he watched and waited, fervently hoping that before long he would be transferred to a larger and more seaworthy craft.