The guard is turned to face inboard.
The colonel is impassive; only his eyes wander over the restless men and
note the post of his officers. He turns towards us, inquiringly. What is
it to be? His orderly bugler is standing by with arm crooked and trumpet
half raised.

Our lips are framing an order, when a second thundering shock jars the
ship, not less in violence and shattering impact than the first. A high
hurtling column of water shoots up skyward close astern of the ship. We
suppress the order that is all but spoken, stifle the words in our
throat. We are not torpedoed! Depth-charges! The destroyers' work! At a
sign, the bugler sounds out "_Still!_" and slowly the tumult on deck is
arrested.

The commodore's _half-right_ has been instantly acted on, and we are
steadied on a new course, bearing away at full speed, with the torpedoed
horse transport and the racing, circling destroyers astern. Suddenly our
bows begin to swing off to port, falling over towards the outer column.
The helmsman has the wheel hard over against the sheer; we realize that
our steering-gear has gone; the second depth-charge has put us out of
control. We swing on the curve of a gathering impetus--it is evident
that the rudder is held to port; converging on us at full speed, the
rear ship of the outer column steams into the arc of our disorder!

The signalman is instant with his 'not under command' hoist, the crew
are scattered to throw in emergency gear, but there is no time to arrest
the sheer. The first impulse is to stop and go astern. If we arrest the
way of the ship, a collision is inevitably assured, but the impact may
be lessened to a side boarding, to damage that would not be vital; if we
swing as now, we may clear--our eye insists we should clear. If our
tired eyes prove false, if the strain of a long look-out has dulled
perception, our stem will go clean into her--we shall cut her down!
Reason and impulse make a riot of our brain. The instinct to haul back
on the reins, to go full astern on the engines, is maddening. Our hand
curves over the brass hood of the telegraph, fingers tighten vice-like
on the lever; with every nerve in tension, we fight the insane desire to
ring up and end the torturing conflict in our mind!

A confusion of minor issues comes crowding for settlement, small stabs
to jar and goad in their trifling. There is a call to carry on
side-actions. Every bell on the bridge clamours for attention. The
engine-room r