I crossed over to the port side, between the forward 12-inch and 6-inch turrets, to have a look at the enemy’s fleet. It was all there, just the same—no fires—no heeling over—no fallen bridges, as if it had been at drill instead of fighting, and as if our guns, which had been thundering incessantly for the last half-hour, had been firing—not shells, but the devil alone knows what![19]
Feeling almost in despair, I put down my glasses and went aft.
“The last of the halyards are burned,” said Demchinsky to me. “I think I shall take my men somewhere under cover.” Of course, I fully agreed. What was the use of the signalmen remaining under fire when nothing was left for them to signal with!
It was now 2.20 p.m.
Making my way aft through the débris, I met Reydkin hurrying to the forecastle. “We can’t fire from the port quarter,” he said excitedly; “everything is on fire there, and the men are suffocated with heat and smoke.”
“Well! come on, let’s get some one to put the fire out.”
“I’ll do that, but you report to the Admiral. Perhaps he will give us some orders.”
“What orders can he give?”
“He may alter the course. I don’t know!”
“What! leave the line? Is it likely?”