The crew, appalled by the steel hail which now began to pour from the
sides of the _Calvo_, became so demoralized at the crisis that heroic
measures were necessary. Stanley and Herc drew their revolvers and
forced the deserters back to their guns.
“I’ll throw the first man who leaves his post to the sharks!” yelled
Herc, and, although they couldn’t understand what he said, the crew
appeared to comprehend the import of his words. At any rate, they
rallied, and began serving the guns once more.
Suddenly a loud cheer went up from the bridge of the _Barrill_. A
black, gaping hole appeared in the foreworks of the _Calvo_, and two of
her guns were silenced. This cheered them hugely. It meant that their
fire was taking effect at last.
“Close in!” shouted Captain Gomez to the men at the wheel in the
conning tower below.
The space between the two vessels began to close. Ned at once
understood the meaning of these tactics. They were to demolish the
_Calvo_ before the other vessel, which was hastening to the rescue,
arrived. Thus they would have only one foe to tackle at a time.
For a space the two vessels jockeyed, but, deprived of officers as
she was, the _Calvo_ was no match for the tricky destroyer at this
game. As he found his broadside fairly raking the other’s quarter,
the Spanish-American captain gave the word. The range was about two
thousand yards, and that tornado of steel was in position to do the
most deadly work of which it was capable.
Before the few officers remaining on the _Calvo_ could swing her bow
on to avoid the full effect of the _Barrill’s_ fire, Stanley and Herc
received the signal from the bridge. As the tempest of shell took
effect, the _Calvo_ careened, till her underbody showed, and then
staggered drunkenly back on an even keel. But she seemed water-logged,
and began drifting down on the destroyer.
“Hooray! we’ve smashed her steam steering gear!” yelled Ned, half crazy
with excitement.
But, crippled as she was, the _Calvo_ could still fight. Suddenly two
bright flashes showed at her midship section, and a couple of six-inch
projectiles shrieked toward the _Barrill_. The bridge was carried half
away before they could stir. Ned caught Midshipman Stark as the young
officer was hurled back against him. Captain Gomez stood grimly at the
engine-room telegraph, which, luckily, had not been carried away. Nor,
by good fortune, had the range-finder and fire-control instruments.
At the same instant as the _Calvo’s_ shell shrieked its way through one
end of the destroyer’s little bridge the other missile from the same
vessel carried away the canvas forward funnel. The little destroyer
stood revealed in her true colors.
An instant’s glance served to show that the midshipman was not
seriously wounded. A deep cut on his head from a steel splinter was
his only injury. But it had temporarily disabled him, and two sailors
carried him to the small cabin, in which the surgeon had established
himself.
Ned now stood alone on the bridge by Captain Gomez. A thrill ran
through the boy as he realized this. They were in a real battle, and he
was actually second in command!
“Shall we let them have it again, sir?” he asked, as the shouts and
cries of the terrified crew died out under Stanley’s persuasion and
Herc’s reckless flourishing of his weapon.
“Yes, my boy. This time we’ll sink them, if possible. It will be in
revenge for the terrible fright they gave me when I saw our brave young
friend wounded.”
As the signal was transmitted, Stanley’s battery mingled its fire with
Herc’s. This time the _Calvo_ did not answer. Instead they could see
that the greatest confusion prevailed on her decks.
“Give her some more!” shouted the captain.
But even as he spoke there resounded from the crippled ship a terrific
explosion. She seemed to lift for half of her length upward out of the
water, and then, in a shroud of dense, white vapor, she settled back.
“Her boilers have exploded!” shouted Ned, as he gazed with
horror-stricken eyes on the tragedy.
“Lower the boats; we must save all we can!” exclaimed Captain Gomez.
“Alas! my poor countrymen!”
The _Calvo_ wavered only for an instant after the explosion, and then,
with a dreadful roar and a furious hissing, she vanished amid clouds
of white steam. As the vapor cleared away, all that remained on the
surface to show her end were a few ash-streaked pools of grease, amid
which human heads showed like black dots.
The _Barrill_ steamed among the debris, and many a man owed his life to
her heroic efforts. But hardly had the work of rescue terminated before
the destroyer was called upon to face a fresh emergency. The other
vessel was within four thousand yards, steaming furiously toward them.
“It is the _Bolivar_!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, as he gazed through his
glasses.
For a flash hope almost died in Ned’s heart. The newcomer was the
torpedo-equipped craft. As we know, of this class of weapon the
_Barrill_ had but four on board. What chance would she stand, crippled
as she was, against this new enemy? Hastily Stanley and Herc were
called to the bridge and the situation explained to them. It was
decided to get the _Barrill’s_ torpedo apparatus in order, and at least
discharge all the Whiteheads she carried at the _Bolivar_--provided,
that is, that the other vessel gave them a chance. On came the
_Bolivar_, her officers apparently not the least dismayed by the fate
that had overtaken the _Calvo_. The _Barrill’s_ batteries opened fire
on her at three thousand five hundred yards. The accuracy of Stanley
and Herc’s fire halted her for a moment in the same manner as a
ferocious bulldog pursuing a cat will halt, in a puzzled way, as her
claws encounter his nose.
The hesitation was only for an instant, however, and then the craft
began to swing.
“They are going to try a broadside!” exclaimed Captain Gomez,
signaling “astern,” and swinging his vessel till her bow pointed at
the other’s beam. It was an effective position, and gave the destroyer
the advantage for the moment. Stanley, with his bow guns, took full
advantage of it. He opened fire with his two rapid-fire weapons forward
and succeeded in opening up several holes in the _Bolivar’s_ bow.
But the insurgent vessel retaliated fearfully. Her steel projectiles
ripped and tore the forward structure of the little _Barrill_, putting
Stanley’s two bow-chasers out of commission, killing two of his
men and, of course, driving them all from that part of the vessel.
Fortunately, however, not one of all the rapidly fired missiles struck
the _Barrill_ below the water line, or in any vital spot.
The screech and hiss of projectiles were now incessant on both sides.
About the _Barrill_ the water shot upward in a hundred geysers as the
steel rain roared about her. As fast as their gunners were killed
or wounded, Herc and Stanley replaced them by men rescued from the
sunken _Calvo_. The revolvers both Americans carried proved wonderful
persuaders in driving them to the guns.
“Where are their torpedoes?” asked Ned anxiously, as, after ten minutes
of this hot work, no sign of one of those deadly messengers of death
had appeared.
There was no time for the silent, anxious figure beside him to reply.
A sudden puff of white smoke showed low down on the _Bolivar’s_ bow.
The sunlight glinted for a breath on white metal, and then came a
splash. Ned grew pale and clutched the rail desperately as he realized
that five hundred pounds of high explosive had been launched at the
destroyer.
He wanted to shout out, but his lips refused obedience. All he could do
was to keep his wide-opened, staring eyes fixed on the line of white
air bubbles which marked the path of the approaching torpedo. But while
Ned stood paralyzed, the _Barrill’s_ commander had acted. He did the
only thing possible to do. Skillfully he manœuvered his vessel till her
sharp bow pointed toward the oncoming torpedo.
But even as she swung, it seemed to the watchers of the approaching
steel tube that the _Barrill_ must swing herself directly in the path
of the messenger of death. By some subtle wireless telegraphy the news
of the peril had already traversed the decks. White under their yellow
skins, the frightened crew showed twitching faces and nervous, shaky
hands. Even the revolvers of Stanley and Herc seemed powerless now to
drive them to duty. In their fatalistic way they argued that death was
upon them, and that it was no worse to be shot by a revolver than to be
blown to atoms by a striking torpedo.
Ned, ashen to his lips, leaned forward above the shattered rail and
watched through his glasses the approach of the Whitehead. It was
running but a short distance under the surface, and once or twice he
thought he could detect a shimmering flash as it shot through a wave.
The bursting bubbles marking its way were clearly apparent. It could
only be a few minutes now.
Fascinated, like one in a trance, the boy kept his eyes glued on it.
Below him, on the decks, he could hear the shouts and screams and
prayers as the thoroughly demoralized crew rushed about, leaping over
the dead and the wounded, and then stopping short, baffled at the
impossibility of escape.
The torpedo was now so close that a few seconds would decide all.
Without realizing it, Ned gripped the rail and braced himself with
his feet. Silently he waited for the terrific impact of the explosion
he knew must come when the deadly point of the gun-cotton “war-head”
plowed into the steel plates of the _Barrill_.
But death was not destined for them at that moment. With a flash of
bright steel, a whirr of her tiny propellers and a white streak of
foam, the awful menace swept by, missing her prey by a hand’s breadth.
Ned felt sick and weak as he realized that the Whitehead had dashed
close by and gone onward. Its mission of death had proved futile.
“Back to your posts, every one of you!”
Captain Gomez’s sharp voice cut the tense silence on the decks.
“You put them out of business this time!” yelled Stanley, “or they’ll
let loose another of those, and blow us all to a dago heaven.”
“Can’t two play at that game, captain?” asked Ned, as the fire broke
out afresh. “Why can’t we try a torpedo at them?”
“A good idea, my boy! Give the orders.”
Ned hailed Stanley in an interval of the fire and gave the necessary
command. The torpedo was rigged in a stern tube, and the _Barrill_
swung to deliver it. It was dangerous work. At any moment one of the
enemy’s shots might have struck the “war-head” of the implement and
blown them all to eternity. But by the same good fortune that had so
far protected those on the bridge, Stanley and Herc managed to get the
torpedo in the tube and the compressed-air connections made.
Ned snatched up a megaphone as the _Barrill’s_ blunt counter swung till
it was aimed at the leaden side of the converted yacht.
“Now, then, boys!” he cried at length.
Stanley took careful aim and released the catch.
There was a sharp hiss, as of outrushing steam, a splash, accompanied
by a bright flash of whirring metal. The Whitehead was speeding on her
errand of annihilation.