Von Riesser alternately kept glancing ahead and astern. The haze was beginning to envelop the monitor and her escort.
He shouted an order to a petty officer. The man doubled aft, bawling as he ran. Then from the ensign staff fluttered the Black Cross of the Imperial German Navy.
The cruiser's reply was a salvo from her quick-firers. Two shells struck home, one bursting on the poop and blowing the emblem of Germany to atoms, besides causing considerable damage to the deck. A second burst amidships, shattering a couple of ventilators, splintering one of the boats, and destroying the greater portion of the bridge. Fragments of metal and splinters of wood flew in all directions. Kapitan von Riesser narrowly escaped being hit. As it was, one of his officers and two seamen were killed outright, five others being seriously wounded, while the kapitan was thrown to the deck by the concussion.
For a few minutes the Pelikan was enveloped in smoke and spray thrown up by the shells that exploded on either side; but before the cruiser could get in another effective shot the raider was lost in the mist.
Von Riesser guessed, and rightly, that the cat was out of the bag, otherwise the cruiser would not have hoisted that peremptory demand to heave-to. He realized that his position was a hazardous one. Thousands of miles from a friendly port, sought by perhaps a score of British cruisers, and, moreover, running short of coal, the Pelikan stood a very small chance of dropping anchor in East African waters, except as a prize.
On the other hand, Fate, in the guise of the mist, had dealt kindly with the Pelikan. For the rest of the day she steamed westward. Down below the firemen toiled like Trojans, shovelling coal into the glowing furnaces. On deck the crew worked hard, clearing away the debris left by the British cruiser's shells. The wireless staff were busy "jamming" the numerous messages thrown out from various vessels, that were converging on the monitor and her escort for the purpose of cutting off the audacious Pelikan.
About an hour before sunset the mist cleared. The sea was still calm, although high overhead the ragged and greasy clouds betokened the approach of a southerly gale. The setting sun, a ball of bright yellow, set in a pale greenish-yellow sky, threw its slanting rays across the damaged bridge, almost blinding the look-out with its brilliance.
"Sail on the starboard bow," reported one of the watchers.
Von Riesser, who had practically recovered from the shock of being capsized by the explosion, had not left the bridge. He immediately gave orders to starboard the helm. At the present juncture he would not risk meeting even an unarmed tramp laden with military stores.
The stranger was the British light cruiser Actæon, of 3000 tons, and with a speed of slightly over 20 knots. Pelting towards the scene of the encounter between the Pelikan and her foiled antagonist, the Actæon was unwittingly approaching the fugitive. She, having the advantage of the light, recognized the German liner almost before the latter had noticed her presence.