“No, let them go,” he said, in a voice he strove in vain to render steady. “My unfortunate countrymen! how many of you have gone to your last accounting to-day?”
Ned could not help but respect Captain Gomez’s grief. It was the sorrowing of a brave man over a fallen enemy. He was glad that no order to complete the annihilation of the Bolivar had come. If the insurgents could beach her, they—those who were left alive—would have a chance to gain the shore. Ned felt sure that the ends of the republic had been met when they inflicted such a crushing blow on the mutinous vessels.
The first thing the Americans hastened to do, after cheering their victory in ringing tones, was to hasten below and see how the injured were faring. They found that Midshipman Stark, with a bandage about his head, was practically as well as ever, and bitterly disappointed over missing the “cream of the shindy,” as he expressed it. The other wounded were all doing well. Their dead numbered twenty—not a heavy loss, considering the sharp work they had been engaged in. But the poor Barrill was a melancholy sight. Her jury funnel was, of course, gone, and lay, a shapeless mass, on the decks. Her other stacks were riddled through and through with shells till they almost wobbled. Her conning tower was sadly battered and punctured, and her superstructure forward showed a great, gaping wound, received when Stanley’s two bow-chasers had fired their last shot.
While her officers stood amidships, soberly regarding the havoc, the chief engineer emerged from below, hastened up to the captain and drew him aside. In a low voice he imparted what was evidently grave news. What this information was the Dreadnought Boys soon learned. One of his aides had that moment reported to him that the condenser of the vessel had been so badly damaged by a shell that it was doubtful if she could proceed much farther. He could tinker it up for a few hours, he thought.
“Do so,” ordered the captain, a troubled look coming over his face. “In the meantime, my comrades—for such I must call you—let us have some luncheon, and discuss our next steps.”
“We do not wish to interfere with your plans, sir,” spoke up Midshipman Stark, who had been conferring with his men, “but if it is all the same to you, we should like to be put ashore as soon as possible.”
The captain looked disappointed.
“I was hoping to have you with me longer,” he said, “but I would not for the world thwart your inclinations.”
“It is not our inclination, sir, but our duty,” rejoined the middy. “We left our ship on an errand of confidence. We have so far been unavoidably detained, but now we wish to get back with all the speed possible.”
“I have it!” exclaimed the captain suddenly, “I will put you ashore at Los Olivos. It is not far from here. I do not know if the rebels have infested it, but even if they have I have powerful friends there who will provide you with horses and a means of getting safely into Boca del Sierras.”