A cloud of black smoke poured down one of the hoists. "Black powder," said the men, sniffing, as it drifted along the passage and made them cough. "A shell's burst somewhere."
A man from B3 slid down the rope of his hoist, and sang out that one had just burst against the side of the gun port. "No one hurt," he added, with a little tinge of regret.
A few seconds later a very cheery voice bawled down one of the starboard hoists to say that shells had come into the mess deck and burst there.
The men were genuinely pleased that their old ship had at last been hit.
"Anyone killed?" they shouted up.
"Don't know yet. The whole blooming place is on fire; port side, half a dozen knocked out. Old Cooky got one in his leg. No one badly hurt."
Rumours flew up and down these hoists. No one knew what had actually happened. A lot more smoke came down the hoists. The Fleet-Surgeon fidgeted lest he ought to go up, but he had to wait for orders, and stay there until he was sent for.
"They're giving it 'em back, a fair treat," the men sang out, as the guns up above fired very rapidly and the whole ship shook.
The engines had stopped their rumbling during this time, but now they started again. No more crashes came against the armoured side, the guns ceased firing, and presently a message came down: "The Captain wants the Fleet-Surgeon."
"Now for it," growled the Fleet-Surgeon, and swung himself awkwardly up the dangling ladder through the hoist up into the casemate, and so out to the wrecked mess deck.