“Look!” cried Astor, suddenly, pointing to two black spots in the sea about a thousand yards away.
“Periscopes,” said I.
At the same moment we saw two white trails swiftly moving along the surface and converging on the Pennsylvania with deadly precision.
“Torpedoes! They’re going to finish her!” murmured Astor, his hands clenched tight, his eyes sick with pain.
There was a smothered explosion, then a thick column of water shot high into the air, and a moment later there came another explosion as the second torpedo found its target.
And now the great super-dreadnought Pennsylvania was sinking into the Caribbean with Admiral Fletcher aboard and seventeen hundred men. She listed more and more, and, suddenly, sinking lower at the bows, she submerged her great shoulders in the ocean and rolled her vast bulk slowly to starboard until her dark keel line rose above the surface with a green Niagara pouring over it.
For a long time the Pennsylvania lay awash while the battle thundered about her and scores of blue-jackets clambered over her rails from her perpendicular decks and clung to her slippery sides. We could hear them singing “Nancy Lee” as the waves broke over them.
“Are we afraid to die?” shouted one of the men, and I thrilled at the answering chorus of voices, “No!”
Just before the final plunge we turned away. It was too horrible, and Astor swung the aeroplane in a great curve so that we might not see the last agonies of those brave men. When we looked back the flagship had disappeared.
As we circled again over the spot where the Pennsylvania went down we were able to make out a few men clinging to fragments of wreckage and calling for help.