Through the starboard portholes of our batteries we were now able plainly to see the _Alexander_, which was almost on our beam and steering straight towards us--the remainder following her. The distance rapidly diminished, and with our glasses we could clearly see her battered sides, broken bridges, burning cabins and spar-deck, but her funnels and masts were still standing. After her came the _Borodino_, burning furiously. The enemy had already succeeded in forging ahead, and we now lay between the fleets. Our ships approached from starboard, _i.e._ the port side of the _Suvoroff_, and we came under a hot fire. Our forward 12-inch turret (the only one that was now serviceable) took an active part in the fight, and no attention was paid to falling shells. I was wounded in the left leg, but only looked down with regret at my torn boot! We all waited, holding our breath, watching the Japanese fire, which was apparently concentrated on the _Alexander_. At times she seemed completely enveloped in flames and brown smoke, while round her the sea literally boiled, throwing up great pillars of water. Nearer and nearer she came, till the distance was scarcely 2,000 yards. Then--one after another, we saw a whole series of shells strike her fore-bridge and port 6-inch turret, and turning sharply to starboard she steamed away, having almost reversed her course, while after her went the _Borodino_, _Orel_, and others. The turn was hastily made, being neither “in succession” nor “all together,”[24] and the line ahead formation was not maintained. A deafening clamour resounded in our batteries. “They’ve given it up. They are going off. They couldn’t do it,” I heard on all sides. These simple folk had, of course, imagined that our fleet was returning to the flag-ship in order to rescue her. Their disenchantment was distressing to witness, but still more was it distressing to realise the true significance of what had happened. How pitiless is memory!--A scene never to be forgotten came clearly and distinctly before my eyes--just such another scene--the same awful picture. After Prince Utomsky’s signal on the 10th August our battleships had steamed north-west in the same disorder and just as hurriedly. “They couldn’t do it!” And the awful, fatal word, which I had not even dared to think, rang in my brain, and seemed to be written in letters of fire on the smoke, on the battered sides, and even on the pale, confused faces of the crew. Bogdanoff was standing beside me. I caught his eye, and we understood one another. He commenced to talk of it, but suddenly stopping, looked round, and said in an unnaturally calm voice: “We seem to be heeling over to port.” “Yes--some 8 degrees,” I answered, and, pulling out my watch and note-book, jotted down: “_3.25 p.m.--a heavy list to port, and a bad fire in the upper battery._”