The Fujiyama was foremost in every rush, and staggered under the blows she received. Oto was everywhere, with his savage little ship, launching his torpedoes at the biggest vessels of the enemy. He was in full attack upon the Sissoi-Valiki, one of Rojestvensky's finest battle-ships, when a great shell exploded just in front of the conning-tower of the destroyer. It was a fatal blow. Oto, with a dozen others, all of them wounded, was hurled into the sea, from which he was rescued and taken on board the Kasuga, insensible, and therefore blissfully unconscious that his ship had gone to the bottom. The fight drifted northward.
Sunday morning dawned, "so cool, so calm, so bright." The battle was resumed, each flying ship of the Russians with three or four of the enemy hanging about her and hammering her with shell and solid shot. As on the preceding day and night the terrors of the Baltic crews were increased by the evident presence of submarines. Several of the western ships, with no hostile craft visible in the open sea, had suddenly felt the impact of an awful blow from below, followed by an explosion that tore her hull to pieces, while the unseen assailant darted off beneath the waves for fresh prey.
The terrible drama was brought to a close by the surrender of Admiral Nebogatoff's ships, on Sunday afternoon, off the rocks of Liancourt. The next morning the world stood thunderstruck as it heard of the utter annihilation of Russia's proud fleet. Six battle-ships, five cruisers, and many other smaller vessels sunk, and two battle-ships, with several defence ships or destroyers, captured. It was this last item that was most significant. Even Spain had gone down fighting, on the coast of Cuba and off Manila, under the withering fire of Dewey, Sampson, and Schley; for the first time in modern warfare a battle-ship, nay, two of them, had run up the white flag. Truly Russia, haughty Russia, which "never carried to the front material from which to make a flag of truce," had been humbled in the dust. And in the Winter Palace of Tsarskoe-Selo the pale young Czar was weeping.
CHAPTER XXVII. ORDERED HOME.
"Ow-yow!" yawned Midshipman Robert Starr in the wardroom of the Osprey. "I'm tired of this dodging back and forth between two fires, with no chance for a slap at either of them. We might have got up a good scrap over Junk, here," he added, patting the Newfoundland's broad head, and looking reproachfully at Liddon.
The dog yawned, as if in sympathy with the young officer, and stretched himself at full length on the deck, his paws under the mess-table.
"You're teaching our coloured friend bad manners, Bob," laughed the ensign, giving Junk a playful push with his foot. "Get up, there, you old peripatetic door-mat, and muster on the forecastle. There's no room for yawners down here."
"I consider that remark personal," retorted Bob, as he rose. "I'm going to—" Here he was interrupted by the entrance of a marine, who announced that the captain wished to see his officers in the after cabin.