The while the din was simply terrific. The air trembled under the violent, irregular pulsations of sound as guns large and small, exchanged their mutual "hate".
With all his work cut out to keep the vessel on her course Branscombe gripped both handles of the engine-room telegraph, and peered through the smoke-laden night. Feelings almost akin to panic assailed him. He was no longer a fighting man dashing into the fray, but a fugitive—a human being endeavouring to escape from all the terrors of the jaws of hell, as exemplified by the hitherto considered impregnable harbour of Zeebrugge.
"If the motors konk out we're dished," he thought, as he listened to detect any ominous sound from the pulsating engines. The vibration was excessive, far more than is usual even with a heavily-powered M.-L., but apparently the staunch little craft was still maintaining her speed.
"She's making water badly, old man," exclaimed a voice.
Branscombe turned his head to find Seton standing behind him.
"Think she'll last out?" inquired Branscombe.
"Another hour—that's all I can give her," was the reply. "The stern-post was badly strained when the rudder-head carried away."
"Auxiliary engine running?" inquired the M.-L.'s Sub speaking through the voicetube to the engineer.
"No, sir," came the answer. "The mag's six inches under water,"
That meant that the power bilge-pumps were useless. The hand-pumps were hopelessly jammed long ago. The search-light in being shot away had done that damage. There were no means now of checking the steady flow of water through the gaping seams.