“There ’tis, Tom! Look! Just beside that big patch of weed!” he cried.
“Dern their dirty hides!” exclaimed old Pem. “Fetch me a bomb lance, boys. I’ll show ’em!”
“No!” commanded the captain, “we can do nothing. Possibly they may spare us if they see we are a whaleship and have no oil aboard. Get the other boats over, Mr. Potter. If we’re sunk we have enough boats to save all hands, thank Heaven.”
Turning, the mate bawled the orders to the crew, and, badly frightened as they were, and realizing their helplessness, the men flew about the work of getting more boats in the water. Meanwhile, the submarine had gradually emerged from the water and now floated with her deck awash, and her conning tower and superstructure well above the sea. Presently, from a hatchway, a uniformed figure appeared, stared at the Hector through his glasses for a space and raised a megaphone to his lips. Then, thin but clear across the intervening sea, the anxious watchers on the bark heard the fateful words, “Take to your poats! We’re apout to sink dot shib!”
Panic-stricken, the crew rushed to the waiting whaleboats and commenced to pile into them, the Portuguese and negroes leading, and all fighting and striking in a mad attempt to be first to reach a place of safety, for, while fearless in attacking the giants of the seas and cheerfully facing death a dozen times a day in the pursuit of their calling, yet these men were terrified out of all reason at the thought of being blown to atoms by a torpedo. There were more than enough boats for all, but like frightened sheep, the men all dashed for one boat. Hurrying to the deck, the captain and mates strove to restore order, shouting, and threatening, but all to no avail. The men were insane with terror. And then, suddenly, a wild figure sprang among them, gray hair flying, eyes blazing, a boarding-knife in one hand, a heavy iron bar in the other.
It was the one-legged Irishman, and before his impetuous onslaught the crowd fell back.
“Wan at a toime, ye spalpeens!” he screeched. “Take it aisy now! B’gorra ye’re a foine bunch! Shure there’s enough boats an’ to sphare! Tumble into thim in order now—six in aich, mind ye, an’ Oi’ll shtick the furst thot rushes! Howly St. Pathrick, but it’s foine cowards, yez arre! Shure ’tis no sinse ye have, at all, at all!”
Presently the boats were manned, the doughty little Irishman clambered into one with the two boys and Cap’n Pem at his heels. Mr. Kemp took his place in another and Captain Edwards, last to leave the bark, leaped into the third as painters were cast loose and the men bent to their oars. Scarcely had they taken a dozen strokes from the doomed ship when there was a deafening explosion. An upleaping mountain of water enveloped the Hector, and the next moment the boats were almost swamped in a descending avalanche of water, blood, flesh and blubber.
Frightened, dazed, choking and spluttering the boys looked about. Rocking to the force of the explosion, with water pouring in cataracts from her scuppers, but apparently unhurt, the bark towered above the sea.
“Well I’ll be—,” began Cap’n Pem, but his words were cut in twain by a shout from Mr. Kemp.