ings up, the chief officer telephones from aft that the
starboard chain has parted, the rudder jammed hard to port. From the
upper spars, the signalman calls out a message from an approaching
destroyer--"What is the matter? Are you torpedoed?" Through all, we
swing out--swiftly, inexorably!

Troops and look-outs scurry off the forecastle-head, in anticipation of
a wrecking blow. On the other ship, there is outcry and excitement. She
has altered course and her stern throws round towards us, further
encroaching on the arc of our manoeuvre. So near we are, we look
almost into the eyes of her captain as we head for the bridge. Troops,
the boat-guard, are scrambling aboard from the out-swung lifeboats,
their rifles held high. On her gun-platform the gunners slam open their
breech, withdraw the charge, and hurry forward to join the mass of men
amidships. All eyes are centred on the narrowing space of clear water
that separates us, on our high sheering stem that cuts through her
out-flung side-wash.

Strangely the movement seems to be all in our sweeping bow. The other
vessel appears stationary, inert--set motionless against the flat
background of misty cloud; our swinging head passes point upon point of
the chequered camouflage on her broadside; subconsciously we mark the
colours of her scheme--red and green and grey. We clear her line of
boats, and sway through the length of her after-deck--waver at the
stern-house, then cover the grey mounting of her gun-emplacement. In
inches we measure the rails and stanchions on her quarter, as our
upstanding bow drives on. Tensely expectant, our mind trembles on the
crash that seems inevitable.

It does not come. Our eye was right--we clear her counter! With some
fathoms to spare we sheer over the thrash of her propellers, the horizon
runs a line across our stem, we have clear yielding blue water under the
bows!

The illusion of our sole movement is reversed as the mass of the other
vessel bears away from us. The unbroken sea-line offers no further mark
to judge our swing; we seem to have become suddenly as immobile as a
pier-head, while our neighbour starts from our forefoot in an apparent
outrush, closing and opening the line of her masts and funnels like
shutting and throwing wide the panels of a door.

With no indecision now we pull the lever over hood of the telegraph. One
case is cleared; there still remains the peril of the lurking submarine.
The destroyers are busy on the