The Warrior and Defence, hemmed in by vastly superior numbers, and menaced by guns of far greater calibre, were seemingly doomed to annihilation. All that remained, as far as human judgment went, was to fight to the last and worthily uphold the glorious traditions of the Senior Service.
The Warrior held grimly on her way, battered fore and aft on all sides from the gradually contracting circle of big German ships. In spite of the terrific hail of projectiles rained upon her, the Warrior still maintained a rapid and determined fire. It was against overwhelming odds, and the Huns knew it.
Presently a violent thud caused the already trembling fire-control platform to shake to such an extent that Sefton quite thought the whole concern was about to tumble over the side. A shell had shattered the fore-topmast, the debris falling athwart the steel canopy protecting the range-finding officers. With the topmast came a raffle of gear, including the wireless aerials.
By this time the cruiser was hulled over and over again. Several of her 7-inch-gun turrets had been bodily swept away with their crews; two funnels had gone by the board; the remaining pair, perforated like sieves, were held in position merely by the wire guys. A fierce fire was raging aft, an incendiary shell having landed in the wardroom, while a heavy dose of poison-gas prevented any of the crew from attempting to quench the flames.
Twelve minutes of terrible battering the Warrior stood, until an 11-inch shell, ripping through her 6-inch armoured belt, burst inside the port engine-room, shattering the main steam-pipe.
The scene in the confined space was terrible beyond description. The concussion had shattered every electric lamp, the oil ones were extinguished by the noxious fumes. The floor of the engine-room was flooded to a depth of four inches with scalding water that surged to and fro with each roll of the sorely-pressed vessel, and added to the torments of the men already wounded by the shell explosion.
Yet even in that inferno there were men whose courage did not desert them, and dozens of heroic and never-to-be-recorded deeds were performed in the darkness of the scalding engine-room.
Then the starboard engine-room was swept by the explosion of a shell, increasing to a terrible extent the casualties amongst the courageous "black squad". For nearly two miles the Warrior carried away, until, deprived of the means of propulsion, she lay, a battered hulk, surrounded by her enemies.
It was the story of the Revenge over again, but with a different sequel.
Sefton realized that he and his companions were virtually prisoners in the fire-control platform. Even had they dared to risk descending through that tornado of shrapnel and flying slivers of molten steel, their means of escape was limited to one solitary shroud. The rest, "whipped" into a confused tangle, were trailing over the ship's sides.