Round the precipitous face of the island appeared the lean bows of the Spanish destroyer. Then her round bridge, mast and funnels came into view. Through his glasses Cain saw that her fo'c'sle gun was manned by a crew of white-clad, swarthy-faced men.... There was a deafening crash as the Alerte's six-inch sent the hundred-pound projectile hurtling on its way.... Even as he looked, Cain saw a vivid flash immediately in front of the destroyer's bridge... a cloud of smoke torn by diverging blasts of air.... The smoke dispersed, or rather the destroyer's speed carried her through it.... The crew of her fo'c'sle six-pounder had dispersed, too; with them the gun and its mounting.... The bridge didn't look the same as it had a few seconds previously—a bit lopsided. Flames were pouring from a heap of débris in the wake of the foremast.
At two thousand yards the appalling noise caused by the explosion of the Alerte's first shell was inaudible to the solitary watcher on her bridge. The scene brought within a very short distance through the lenses of the powerful binoculars resembled a "close-up" picture on the cinematograph—unrealistic by reason of the absence of sound.
Two vivid flashes leapt from the Spanish destroyer's deck, one on the port side, the other to starboard. They were her reply to the destructive "sighting shot" from the pirate submarine.
The Villamil had received a rough awakening. Her crew, not one of whom had previously been under fire, were lacking in that courage and tenacity that marks the Anglo-Saxon race. Appalled by the havoc wrought on the fo'c'sle, the gunlayers of the remaining weapons that could be brought to bear certainly did make reply. Their aim was bad. One shell whizzed high above the Alerte's masts, shrieking as it sped to bury itself harmlessly in the sand three miles away. The other, striking the water a hundred yards short of its objective, ricochetted and hurtled through the air full fifty yards astern.
Cain paid no attention to either. His interest was centred upon his attacker. He could hear the rapid crashes of the Alerte's quick-firer. He could see the results by the frequent lurid bursts of flame and the showers of débris as shell after shell struck the luckless Spaniard.
Still she came on, leaving an eddying trail of smoke. One of her six-pounders was firing spasmodically. She was reeling like a drunken man.
Suddenly Cain put aside his glasses and made a spring for the telegraph indicator, moving the starboard lever to "full ahead." His quick eye had discerned a glistening object curving over the Villamil's side. A torpedo was already on its way, travelling at the speed of a train in the direction of the pirate submarine.
Well before the action the Alerte's oil-engines had been started with the clutches in neutral position. It was a precaution that was justified in its results. Under the action of one propeller only the Alerte forged ahead, her stern swinging round as she overran her anchors.
Cain had no occasion now to use his binoculars. The double diverging wake of the submerged locomotive torpedo was plainly visible to the naked eye. It was approaching very rapidly; the ship was swinging very slowly—too slowly, it seemed.
For ten seconds the captain held his breath. Looking aft, the rise of the poop intercepted the wake of the torpedo. It seemed as if the Alerte was doomed.