“She’s a transport. Moreover, she was formerly in the coast service.”
“Yes?”
“If I am not mistaken, she is the Loa, formerly one of the Chilean Transportation Company’s vessels. You will remember her. She was on the Callao-Valparaiso run a year or so ago.”
“I remember her well,” said Mr. Dartmoor. “I once took passage on her to Arica. Why has she been called?”
“Because she has machinery on board that can be used for lifting the provisions from the lighter. There is a heavy swell outside, and the Blanco could not bring the small boat close enough to transfer the green stuff; so the former coaster has been ordered to do it. She is especially equipped, with steam winches and swinging cranes, which have been used for that purpose for many years, up and down the coast. Watch, and you will see that I am correct,” and he settled himself firmly in the chair, convinced that the tragedy had been postponed, not avoided.
Other club members had noticed the manœuvre out in the open, and had returned to their seats and positions near the railing; and still others, who were descending the stairs, had been called back by their friends. A movement had been noticed in the crowd on the beach, a wave of humanity had receded toward the city when the Blanco put out to sea again; now the wave was sweeping back, for keen eyes all along the water-front had noticed that change in position by ships of the enemy.
The Loa, one of the largest passenger steamers on the Pacific in that day, had been bought by the Chilean government for the purpose of carrying troops from Valparaiso to the Peruvian seaports. Pending the embarkation of the large force that was ultimately to march on Lima, she had been sent to the blockading fleet with supplies. The vessel was almost new, her engines were of a late pattern, and she could steam a good fourteen knots. Therefore her progress from the line was much more swift than had been that of the Blanco Encalada. On she came, parting the glassy rollers, throwing a curved wave to port and another to starboard, smoke belching from the stack, and steam flying in gray tangles from the escape pipe.
“What a shame!” remarked Señor Cisneros, as they watched her approach. “I have heard that the poor fellows out there have been attacked with scurvy. Think what a treat those vegetables would be to them after these long months of salt pork and dry bread!”
“We can only hope that they will discover the plot,” said Mr. Dartmoor.
For ten minutes little was said by those on the veranda; then Captain Saunders, who remained with his eye glued to the object glass, exclaimed:—