For several seconds following the final plunge of the torpedoed vessel silence reigned. The wind lulled, the waves were quelled under the influence of the widely-spreading oil. It seemed as if Nature were paying homage to the departed destroyer. Then the silence was broken by shouts of encouragement and exchange of rough, almost incomprehensible banter by men struggling for their lives.
In spite of their efforts—for there were only two oars available—the whaler drifted considerably to leeward of the rest of the boats. Even the Carley rafts were lost to sight in the darkness.
Presently a voice hailed.
"Boat ahoy! Can you take an officer on board?"
The stroke boated his oar and peered into the faces of the men lying in the stern-sheets before replying.
"Right-o," he replied.
"No, don't," expostulated von Brockdorff-Giespert. "Already the boat is overcrowded. It is madness."
"Shut up!" growled the man, a first-class petty officer. "Are you running this show, or am I? If it weren't for the likes o' you the likes of us wouldn't be in this bloomin' fix."
"But——" persisted the Count.
"Dry up," growled the petty officer, "or into the blinkin' ditch you go pretty sharp! Toss them two overboard, mate," he continued, addressing another seaman. "They won't want any more suppers."