Night came on with no sign of the enemy; but as Mejillones was in Bolivia, and had only very recently been occupied by the Chilians, the danger was almost as likely to come from the direction of the shore as from the sea, as the port was full of Bolivian and Peruvian refugees who would stop at nothing to effect the destruction of part of the Chilian fleet. As soon as the dusk began to fall, the launches of the two ironclads were hoisted out, their crews picked, and at half-past six Jim and his friend Terry took their places in the flagship’s boat, which steamed off slowly in one direction round the harbour, while that of the Almirante Cochrane started, under easy steam, in the opposite direction. Both launches were provided with a Gatling gun in the bows, and their crews were armed with rifles and revolvers, and orders had been given that any strange craft upon failing to answer a challenge should be fired into immediately.
It occupied the launches about an hour, running under easy steam, to circumnavigate Mejillones harbour, and Jim’s boat had already made her round five or six times without any suspicious circumstance occurring, and he himself was beginning to feel very tired and sleepy, when about a mile and a half away, at the northern extremity of the bay, he fancied he saw a spark of light flare up for a moment and then go out suddenly, as though hastily quenched.
He was broad awake immediately, with every sense on the alert, and he strained his eyes into the darkness—for there was only a very thin crescent moon shining—in order to try to make out where the light had come from and what had caused it.
“Terry,” he whispered to his chum, who was sitting drowsily over the little engines, with the starting lever loosely clutched in his hand, “did you catch sight of a glimmer of light away there to the northward just now?”
“Light? No; I saw no light,” replied Terry, suddenly pulling himself together. “Did you? Whereabouts was it, old boy? This continual going round and round has become rather monotonous, and I am afraid that I was very nearly asleep.”
“Well, it was over in that direction,” explained Douglas, pointing, “and it looked as though some one had suddenly opened the slide of a dark lantern, and as quickly closed it again. However, it may, of course, only have been my fancy—for I, like you, have been frightfully sleepy for the last two hours; and in any case it could hardly have been an enemy, for the light was quite two miles away from the ironclads. No, I must have been— Hallo! though, there is the light again, and, by jingo! how quickly it is travelling over the water, too. Here, Terry, man, wake up! There is something amiss, after all. Go full speed ahead, for all you are worth. That light is heading straight for the Blanco Encalada, and if it should be an enemy’s boat which is carrying it we shall have all our work cut out to intercept her before she reaches the flagship. I wonder whereabouts the Cochrane launch is. She would be of great assistance to us now. Get every knot you can out of your engines, old man, for I fear foul play.”
Terry O’Meara needed no second bidding, for he also had caught sight of the swiftly moving point of light, and the circumstance reminded him very forcibly of their own attempt to torpedo the Peruvian fleet lying in Arica Bay. He pushed over his regulator to its top notch, and started the weary stokers to the task of shovelling on coal with all possible dispatch. The tiny screw revolved faster and faster, churning and frothing the water up astern, and the launch darted away like a greyhound slipped from the leash. The seamen handled their rifles and revolvers, to make sure that they were loaded, opening and closing the breaches with a smart click, while the men in charge of the Gatling gun moved up forward, close to their weapon, and trained it up and down, and from side to side, to assure themselves that the mechanism was in perfect working order.
For a few seconds Douglas’s heart seemed to stand still with anxiety, for it appeared as though the launch would not be able to intercept the rapidly moving spark of light—which he was now convinced belonged to a torpedo-boat—before it reached the Blanco Encalada, for which ship the boat was undoubtedly heading. But little by little, as soon as the engines got into their swing, the launch drew ahead, and after about ten minutes’ steaming Jim saw that he would, all being well, cross the stranger’s bows before she reached the flagship.
The launch was showing no lights, and the torpedo-boat—if such she was—was still too far away for a hail to reach her. Jim was therefore in hopes of taking her by surprise, and ordered the men to maintain perfect silence, but to be ready to open fire directly he gave the word.
Closer and closer the two converging craft swept toward each other, until barely a quarter of a mile separated them, and then, just at the critical moment, when Jim was about to shout his challenge across the water, an accident happened which had well-nigh proved disastrous for the Chilians. A seaman who had remained behind in the cockpit was ordered to go forward and join the crew of the Gatling gun, which it was now discovered was one man short, and in clambering along the narrow strip of deck which ran round the little steamer the man stumbled and dropped his rifle. Unluckily, the weapon fell muzzle downward, and the fixed bayonet dropped edgewise into the tiny crank-pit. There was a sudden shock and a noise of cracking metal, and the screw ceased revolving with a jerk that shook the launch from stem to stern, while her way, of course, fell off immediately.