The next instant, from the bow of the Barrill, came two bright flashes. They were followed by two sharp reports. At the same instant, from the Calvo’s side, came similar spurts of bright flame. A mountain of spray arose close aboard the destroyer as the shells struck, but no damage was done. Through his glasses Ned could see that their first shots had also been ineffective. Both had fallen short of the insurgent vessel.
“Did we get ’em?” yelled up Herc from the lower deck, where, with Stanley, he was circulating everywhere among the nervous, high-strung crew.
Ned shook his head.
Suddenly a puff of brown smoke came from the side of the Calvo, and a sharp screech followed. The next instant Ned felt the Barrill quiver in every fiber. She had been struck. A strange feeling came into the boy’s mind. It was not nervousness, but a sort of dread for those under him. As the smoke and dust cleared away, he gazed back below him and saw fresh blood on the decks. Part of the rail lay shattered and riven, and one of the rapid-fire guns appeared to be damaged.
The touch of the captain’s hand on his shoulder steadied him. The absolute calm of the man was a tonic in itself.
“What is the range now?” he inquired in a cool, steady voice.
“Two thousand. We’ve been drawing away from them, sir,” rejoined Ned, studying his instrument. He turned to the middy, who had gone almost as pale as he had. This was no battle practice, but real war, with modern ships and modern guns. Would they come out of it alive?
As these thoughts coursed through his mind, Ned gazed about him, and the next moment gave a shout and pointed to call the attention of his officers to what he had observed.
Out of the north was approaching, at tremendous speed apparently, another vessel. It was one of the insurgent ships. The question was—which one? If it were the torpedo-equipped craft, the Bolivar, things could not be much worse.