ABSTRACT
FOR seven days the British fleet smashed on through fog and head seas, losing at intervals some crippled unit, which had been unable to stand the stress of that killing pace, while during the suspense of the long maddening watches, when one nerve-racking question: “Shall we be in time?” tortured the mind of every officer, events were framing themselves in England, as we have seen, until the moment came when “Mr. Smith” smiled on reading the account of the explosion in the Suez Canal. The action of Captain Rudesheim, prompted of course by his 356receipt of the cable with the fatal word “Bismarck,” was the last link in the chain which Germany had forged to gain world-empire. The time for brief but decisive action had at last arrived, and a laconic message to the Berlin Foreign Office informed the Chancellor that no further delay was necessary. “Mr. Smith” had left his shop in Tottenham Court Road to despatch the cable himself, and as he strode back through the crowded streets, his heart was filled with pride. It was the pride at a life- achievement carried through to the bitter end. His hands—and none others—swayed the destinies of these thousands, whilst he stood amongst them, nameless, unknown. For a brief spell he could enjoy to the full the tragic irony of his position. In a few hours the mystery of the colliers, the holocaust of the freight ships would be known to a curious world, while as regards the cargo for which the various tramps mentioned in the Hull Courier had been chartered, it was destined to remain in the memory of the inhabitants of Whitehaven, a tiny village on the Yorkshire coast, for many a long day to come.
