It was indeed a desperate situation. The occupants of the fore-top were craning their necks over the sizzling flame. Projectiles were still hurtling through the air. Although the for'ard guns of the flagship had ceased fire, Q and X turrets were still hard at it, trained abeam to starboard. Smoke was pouring from the funnels and enveloping the fore-top. Either the wind had changed, or else the ship had swung round sixteen points and was retracing her course. At least, Peter imagined so, until a partial clearing of the smoke showed that the _Rebound_ was going astern, but still towards the enemy line. Battered and bruised for'ard, and with her bows well down, she was still holding her place in the line. Even as he watched, Peter fancied that the column of white flame was diminishing. Men, looking no larger than flies, were swarming round the turret with hoses directing powerful jets of water into the raging inferno. Steam mingled with the flame. The pillar of fire wavered, died down, flared up again, and finally went out like a guttered candle. Losing all account of time, Peter "carried on"--doing absolutely nothing. His range of vision was limited, owing to dense clouds of smoke, steam, and spray. The turret sighters and men at the rangefinders on the "Argo" towers, could see much better than he, since the atmosphere was less obscured closer to the waterline and the opposing fleets had drawn to within torpedo range. As far as Corbold was concerned, existence seemed to be composed of a continual roar and vibration, punctuated by deeper concussions that indicated direct hits from Rioguayan guns. How the battle was progressing, he knew not. That it was being fiercely contested, he had no doubt, nor had he that ultimate victory would be with the ships flying the glorious White Ensign. He was beginning to feel horribly sick, for in addition to the distracting vibration, a whiff of poison gas-shell had wafted over the fore-top. A flash of orange-coloured flame rent the billowing clouds of acrid-smelling smoke. The light seemed to spring from a source within a few feet of the tripod mast-head. Actually a 5.9-inch had glanced obliquely from the hood of B turret and had burst outside the massive steel walls of the conning-tower. Again Peter was hurled against the side of the fore-top. How long he remained there, he had not the faintest recollection. At length he raised his head. His companions were strangely quiet, except the midshipman, who was vainly attempting to stifle his groans. There were jagged rents in the floor and in the sides of the fore-top; there were also holes punched as neatly as if done by a pneumatic drill. There were pools, too, of dark sticky liquid....