Literally imprisoned below the armoured deck, the grimy stokers were preparing for the coming ordeal. Hidden from the rest of the ship's company, they toiled like Trojans in order to raise such a terrific head of steam as would make the cruiser "foot it" at a speed far in excess of her nominal 22.33 knots. In action the lot of the "black squad" is perhaps the worst on board. Knowing nothing of what is going on, they have to work in a confined, heated steel box, shovelling coals with a dexterity that is the outcome of months of strenuous training. Besides the risk of torpedoes and shells there is ever the danger of the boilers giving way under the pressure of steam, with the inevitable result--a horrible death in a pitch-black stokehold filled with scalding steam. And yet, for easygoing joviality and good comradeship the naval stoker is hard to beat. He will face discomforts with a smiling face and a cheerful heart. He will be ready to risk his life for his chum--or on the altar of duty.
These thoughts flashed through Sefton's mind as he watched the rapid and methodical preparation of clearing ship for action. For once the sub realized that he was a mere spectator--a sort of pariah, dumped from a comparatively insignificant destroyer upon a cruiser mustering a complement of over 700 officers and men. He was aware of the fact that he was a "deadhead"--an individual having no right to take part in the forthcoming contest. The inaction seemed the worst part of the business as far as he was concerned.
Presently Sefton's thoughts were interrupted by the shrill, long-drawn-out trills of the bos'n's mates' pipes summoning the ship's company to muster on the quarter-deck. At the double the men romped aft--every seaman, marine, stoker, and "idler" not actually prevented by pressure of duty elsewhere.
Since the captain could not quit the fore-bridge the assembled ship's company was addressed by the commander. In crisp sentences of simple brevity he explained to the men the position of affairs. At length a big action was in progress, he announced, for a wireless message had just come in to the effect that the battle-cruisers were already engaging the enemy at 18,000 yards--a distance of nearly 11 land miles. More than that, the German Battle Squadron was coming from the nor'ard, and there was a grave possibility of the British battle-cruisers being engaged between the enemy battleships and their battle-cruisers. In which case, the commander hastened to explain, losses would doubtless be severe; but it was part of the Commander-in-Chief's plan to risk certain of his battle-cruisers in order to cut off and detain the German fleet until the British Main Battle Squadrons got between the enemy and their bases.
"I do not expect that we shall go into action just at present," concluded the commander, "but should events shape themselves all right we'll be in the thick of it before long. And I have not the faintest hesitation in expressing my firm belief that every man jack of us will do his duty to King and country, and uphold the traditions of H.M.S. Warrior."
With that the men were dismissed, and, all preparations having been made, they were at liberty until the "Action Stations" sounded. That interval was perhaps the most trying of all. Many of the ship's company were going into action for the first time. The majority were laughing and cutting jokes; some could be seen with grey, anxious faces as they thought of their dear ones at home; but amongst the whole complement there was not the faintest trace of faint-heartedness. From the captain down to the youngest "first-class" boy the same sentiment held sway: that the Warrior would be able to acquit herself with glory and with honour.
Through the sultry air could be faintly heard the distant and constant rumble of heavy gun-firing. The naval action was developing, although the engaged portions of the rival fleets were fifty or sixty miles away. The subdued noise made a fitting accompaniment to the stirring words of the commander.
Sefton, still remaining on the quarter-deck, could not help admiring the steadiness with which the cruisers kept station. From time to time hoists of bunting fluttered to the yard-arm of the flagship Defence, the orders they expressed being carried out with the utmost celerity and precision.
A lieutenant descending from the after-bridge passed along the quarter-deck towards the companion on the half-deck.
"You're out of it, Sefton, I'm afraid," he remarked. "We've just had another wireless. Our destroyers are giving the Huns socks. The old Calder is in the thick of it."