A ONE-SIDED ENGAGEMENT
THRASHING through the chaos of broken water on the bar, the spindrift
flying in blinding showers over her knife-like bows, the _Olive
Branch_ held swiftly yet steadily on her course, steered by her
impassive, automaton-like captain.
Every man was at his post, for the cruiser was cleared for action,
although it was an understood thing that not a shot would be fired
under any circumstances. Yet Gerald wondered, as he stood in the
darkened conning-tower, whether the mental strain might prove too
great, and whether the temptation to touch one of the deadly levers
that were within arm's length might overcome the captain's iron
nerve. Could any human being run the gauntlet, receive the fire of
four cruisers armed with modern quick-firing guns, and yet withhold
the means of offence at his command?
Not a word did Captain Brookes utter. With his hands steadily
grasping the electrical steering-gear, his eyes peering through the
narrow slit in the armoured walls into the intense blackness of the
night, he stood as rigid as a marble statue, save for an occasional
slight movement of his hand as he altered the vessel's helm.
To Tregarthen, looking through his aperture in the conning-tower, the
task of steering through that mirk of blinding rain and spray seemed
an impossibility; but, without a bearing to fix his course, and
ignoring the presence of the compass, Captain Brookes seemed to feel
his way by a supernatural instinct.
Exactly at four minutes from the time of getting under way a bright
flash, followed almost instantaneously by a crash that out-voiced the
roaring of the wind and sea, burst from the darkness away on the
starboard bow. Then with a long-drawn shriek a 4.7in. shell screamed
overhead.
Then another missile, coming from right ahead, struck the sea a bare
twenty yards to port, knocking up a cascade of spray that rose high
above the foam-flecked waves as it ricochetted into the darkness
astern.
Still the _Olive Branch_ held on, steering straight for the yet
invisible cruiser that had fired the second shot. The firing now
became general from the British cruisers, for the luminosity of the
spray churned up by the swiftly moving blockade-runner gave the
gunners some knowledge of the position of the on-coming craft.
_Crash!_
A 6in., striking the bow of the _Olive Branch_ in an oblique
direction, exploded with a deafening report, the flash throwing the
outlines of the ship into strong relief.
Then, with a concussion that shook the massive conning-tower to its
foundations, a heavy missile landed fairly on the base of the
armoured citadel.
Gerald could not refrain from closing his eyes, though the danger of
that particular shell had passed, yet he did not move from his
position at the look-out slit. The experience gained in the action
with the _Independencia_ was beginning to assert itself.
Now the blows that ought to have been described as staggering
redoubled as shell after shell struck the cruiser's armoured plating,
while to the louder detonations of the 6in. and the 4.7in. guns was
added the sharp bark of the 6- and 12-pounders. The air that eddied
furiously through the apertures in the conning-tower was foul with
the acrid fumes, while fragments of glowering metal even found their
way into the steel shell.
Suddenly one of the quartermasters who was standing in reserve at the
after end of the tower spun round, and blindly fumbling with his
outstretched hands, sank lifeless to the deck. As he did so he
grasped one of the levers, thrusting it downward as he fell.
Instinctively Gerald turned, disengaged the man's grasp, and replaced
the lever; but the mischief was but partly averted. The funnel,
windscreens, and the sliding hatches that concealed the boats were
beginning to raise themselves above the deck, and, caught by the
withering blast, the thin steel plating was riddled like paper.
Then did Captain Brookes shift his position; but it was not on
account of the damage caused by the lifeless quartermaster. The
_Olive Branch_ was drawing within the danger zone of her own Z-rays.
Separating the pointers and springing back to his post, the captain
put the helm hard over. Round swung the _Olive Branch_, listing
dangerously outwards as he described a short curve with undiminished
speed; and at that moment the British cruisers, freed from the
irritating influence of the Z-rays, threw their searchlights upon the
daring fugitive.
Having gained an offing, Captain Brookes shaped a course to the
south'ard, thus presenting the whole broadside as a tempting target
to the _Niobe_. Eight of her 6in. guns thundered on the irresistible
_Olive Branch_ with but little effect, though she reeled as the
missiles smashed against her lofty sides. A round from one of the
latter's weapons could pulverise the 11,000 tons unarmoured cruiser,
yet even in the heat of this one-sided encounter Captain Brookes kept
his word.
Then the running fight soon became a hopeless stern-chase, and
fifteen minutes after leaving Talcahuano Harbour the report of the
last gun died away in long-drawn reverberations like the growl of a
beast of prey.
Giving the helm in charge of the remaining quartermaster, and
ordering a lieutenant to take command of the conning-tower, Captain
Brookes began a tour of inspection. It was too dark to see the amount
of damage done on deck, for the arc lamps had been totally destroyed,
but below the glow of the incandescent lights showed that the _Olive
Branch_ had not come scathless out of the fray.
Aft, the lighter side armour, above the lower or turtle-backed steel
deck, had not been able to resist the passage of four 6in. shells.
Three of the officers' cabins were completely wrecked, the fireproof
furniture being shattered into fragments. The distilling plant and
the bread-room were also demolished, while for'ard, the impact of two
heavy projectiles on one spot had so weakened the armour plate that a
third shell had burst under the fo'c'sle, the concussion injuring the
delicate mechanism of the wireless gear.
Beyond the loss of the quartermaster the casualties were confined to
minor contusions, though most of the crew complained of deafness for
the next few days.
"This comes of adopting the principle of passive resistance,"
commented Captain Brookes. "There's a month's hard work to make all
shipshape again."
"I must give the skipper due credit for his word," said Gerald to his
chum as they turned in for the night. "I don't think I could have
blamed him if he had kicked."
During the greater part of the following day the _Olive Branch_
resumed her southerly flight, though for the space of one hour she
was hove-to. Daylight had revealed the extent of the damage done on
decks. Practically everything that could be shot away had vanished;
the two quarter boats had been swept from their davits, which were
twisted into fantastic shapes; the stanchions and handrails, though
stowed flat on the deck, were torn like pack-thread, while the steel
decks were furrowed in all directions by the glancing blows of the
projectiles. As for the conning-tower, it seemed a marvel how any of
its occupants could have escaped, for almost every square inch of its
massive armour was dented by the heavy shells, and pitted by the hail
of the quick-firers.
"Well, Mr. Tregarthen, how do you think the _Olive Branch's_ mission
of universal peace is progressing?" asked Captain Brookes.
"Since you've asked me, sir, I am afraid that I cannot say it is a
success. You see, sir, we fired the first shot in the Chilian and
Peruvian set-to, and sent a cruiser to the bottom."
"That I admit. But see the result. By the sacrifice of the
_Independencia_ the two fleets were prevented from coming to blows. I
know these fellows; they fight like tigers, so I can claim credit for
saving twenty times the number of poor fellows lost in the Peruvian
cruiser, while the war is stopped--that is, unless that British
squadron, by driving us away, have encouraged the two Republics to
fly at each others' throats."
"That may be so," assented Gerald.
"Here comes Mr. Selkirk, with trouble written on every line of his
face as plainly as A B C. Well, Mr. Selkirk, what's amiss now?"
Selkirk, the chief engineer, was a Scotsman whose whole existence
seemed bound up in his beloved motors. He was a comparatively young
man, with thin drawn features and a crop of sandy hair. When off duty
he possessed a vein of dry humour that belied the oft-repeated
statement that a man born north of the Tweed can never appreciate a
joke; but while on duty his attention to his particular work was
beyond reproach.
"No. 3 propeller on port side, sir," he exclaimed. "Wurkin' a wee bit
loose."
"Then disconnect the shafting," replied Captain Brookes.
"Will ye no stop the ship awhile, sir. Wi' the shaft at rest the
propeller may hauld on, but I ha' ma douts. An' ye'll call to mind
we've no spare wan."
"In that case we'll haul it aboard. It's the best thing to be done,
Mr. Selkirk. How long do you think it will take the divers to unkey
it?"
"A matter of twa hoors, sir."
"Then carry on. I'll give orders to bring-to. Mr. Slade, tell the
bo's'un's mate to warn the diving party for duty."
By this time the _Olive Branch_ had outrun the storm, though by the
erratic behaviour of the mercury there was every reason to expect a
repetition of the gale. Nevertheless, there was a long heavy sea on,
so that the task of shipping the defective propeller was hazardous
both to the divers and the working party on deck.
When at length the propeller was hoisted in over the side Selkirk was
on the verge of despair; for one of the phosphor bronze fans was so
badly fractured that it was a marvel how the greater part of the
blade had not been torn away.
"Yes, it's a bad job," asserted Captain Brookes, "but it cannot be
helped. There's only one thing to be done, and that is to make for
some secluded creek, take the fan ashore, and weld it. I don't think
we can do better than make for Desolation Inlet."
[Illustration: chapter XVI]