"There
aren't no code letters for submarine!" he cried at last--"not in here!"
"No," shouted Black, the _Vulcan's_ former captain, "that's an old
code--wasn't any submarines then!"
"Spell it out!" commanded Caradoc from the bridge. "Sharp about it!"
The men worked in a clutter of buntings, assembling the flags in nervous
haste. Black laid out the nine letters and the crew hurriedly hooked
them together. Ten minutes later, they strung the signal between the two
splintered masts with a queer drunken gala effect.
The _Vulcan_ was no longer the German squadron's sole target. Down
on the Teuton battle line thundered five English cruisers, filling the
north with rolling smoke, their turrets spangled with cannon flashes,
prows shearing white walls of foam.
The sky above the _Vulcan_ was filled with the drone of hurtling
shells. They sounded as thick as swarming bees. The cannon fire of the
approaching English ships mounted to a ragged roar. When the on-coming
line was less than five miles distant, Caradoc shouted an order to
Galton and the little tug swung around broadside on, displaying her
warning signal like a billboard. Through the battle smoke, Madden saw an
answering flag go up on the nearest ship. A cheer broke out from the
crew at this recognition of their work.
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