“For the love of God,” cried a voice in English from the sloop, “help us!”
“Strike your flag!” cried the Captain.
The gay flag came down, and the Captain brought the Swift nearer. “What is the matter?”
“Your cursed torpedo has blown away our propeller, and the shaft—oh, Sancta Maria!—listen to it!—is breaking the ship.”
“Why don’t you shut off steam?”
“Our engineer is dead. Demonios! Don’t talk, but act.”
“I’ll send our engineer to you.”
“Quick, quick!”
Mr Dixon came up from the bowels of the Swift, where, without the stimulant of action, he had stood by his work, animating his men with a quiet courage, which was the finer because he stood in absolute darkness regarding the progress of the fight, and knew that at any moment he might be sent to the bottom a helpless victim in an iron prison. His face was white and streaming with perspiration, and at the first touch of the cold air he reeled with dizziness, but when told what was required of him, he prepared for his new task without a word. The Swift moved gently under the tall sides of the sloop, and the engineer, with Webster, Hume, and six men, were quickly on board. Mr Dixon went at once to the engine-room, whence proceeded a truly infernal din.
“Where Is the Captain?” asked Webster of a dozen men round him.