A blinding flash sprang from the side of the transport, a flash that dazzled the eye even in the bright day, and for one infinitesimal measurement of time everything stood out plainly—the side of the ship, the lighter, the men bending over, the men grouped among the provisions, and those who had manned the chains. Then, in contrast with the lightning-like movement of the great glare was the slow movement of the steamship, parting in twain. She opened as though a giant wedge had cleft her in two; she had been rent asunder by a force that was titanic. And as she thus divided, a roar the like of which no man in Callao had ever heard came thundering over the water. The great sound waves threw themselves upon buildings, causing them to tremble to their foundations, and thrust upon sensitive ear-drums with deafening force. Then they swept on, over the seacoast city, over the pampas country, up to Lima, rattling windows there, and passed from the City of the Kings to the spurs of the Andes, which threw them back in a prolonged echo, so that all the valley seemed filled with sound.
While the roar was spreading, a column of water had sprung into being out in the bay, and spurting through it was a writhing mass of steam. This vaporous geyser bore in its embrace fragments of men and fragments of iron, steel, and wood; it carried dismembered human beings aloft in its gray fantastic flight, and it also bore piston rods, segments of crank shafts, plates, torn and twisted from the hull, hatch coverings, deck railings, and sides of superstructures; it enveloped a medley of wrought metals and rough wood, and a medley of quivering bodies. It bore upward also the ragged ends of the transport Loa, lifting the segments that had been torn asunder, so that the bow of the ship dipped down, and the stern did likewise. Then these two parts plunged beneath the surface, going in opposite directions, and as they went, the spout of water fell, and the steam settled down over all. This steam could be seen whirling and eddying, and when the light wind threw it to one side, the water was seen to be whirling and eddying even as had done the vapor, throwing up pieces of wood in places, and also black objects, which those who still looked—and they were not many, for the great majority had turned their heads because of the horror—knew to be the bodies of men.
From the sides of the Blanco Encalada boats commenced to creep; from farther out in the bay other vessels of the fleet cast great columns of smoke into the air as they made haste to the rescue.
The many persons on the veranda of the English Club said nothing for fully five minutes, so struck with awe were they. Then Captain Saunders found voice to call the boys.
“We had better go now,” he said. “You have witnessed what will go down into history as the crime of the Chile-Peruvian War.”
His prophecy was true. That which Mr. Dartmoor and Señor Cisneros had said also came to pass, for Peru as a nation mourned what had been done, and the blush of shame came to the cheeks of many whenever the sinking of the Loa was mentioned.
Months later those in Callao who had watched this spectacle learned that one hundred Chileans had been killed and fifty wounded by Old John’s infernal machine.
“We had better go to Lima,” added the captain, when they had left the veranda and had mingled with the thousands who were slowly leaving the beach.
“Why? Do you think there will be a bombardment?”
“Assuredly there will be. The Chileans will be avenged to-night.”