There was a sharp hiss, as of outrushing steam, a splash, accompanied by a bright flash of whirring metal. The Whitehead was speeding on her errand of annihilation.
CHAPTER XXI.
VICTOR AND VANQUISHED.
“Bo-o-om!”
As if some subtle dissolvent chemical had been suddenly applied to them, the stern works of the Bolivar appeared to melt away as the torpedo struck her. For an instant she floated on the surface—half a ship—steam and smoke pouring from her as the water rushed into her engine rooms. Then, with a wallowing motion, like a stricken bull sinking to its knees, she staggered and heeled partially over, exposing her keel.
Then, with the utmost deliberation—as if she were making up her mind to it, in fact—the Bolivar righted herself and began to crawl, like a stricken animal, toward the shore.
“They’ve closed her watertight bulkhead, sir!” called up the smoke-begrimed, half-naked Stanley. “They’re making for the shore to beach her. Shall I fire and finish her, sir?”
The captain’s eyes were filled with tears. Now that the strain of the fight against such odds was over, his emotional nature asserted itself. Ned saw that it was with great difficulty that he framed his words when he finally spoke.