But no explosion tore her asunder. By less than a couple of yards the deadly missile cleared her stern, to detonate harmlessly against the steep bank of the river half a mile away.
The Alerte's quick-firer was now silent. The manoeuvre that had saved her from the torpedo had brought her almost bows-on to the Villamil, with the result that the former's fo'c'sle masked her line of fire.
By this time the Spanish destroyer had closed to about a thousand yards. She was yawing badly. Possibly her steam-steering gear had been demolished and she was being conned from aft. Nevertheless, she was keeping to the channel which at this particular time brought her almost abeam. Her decks were a shambles, two of her funnels had disappeared. The rest of the bridge that had survived the Alerte's first shell had collapsed. One gun well aft alone was spitting defiance. Either she meant to ram her anchored opponent, or else she was manoeuvring for a position favourable for the release of a second torpedo.
Again the Alerte's engine-room telegraph bell clanged. With the port propeller going hard astern, and her cables tautened like harp-strings, she began to swing into her former position.
For the first time since the action commenced Captain Cain spoke. Leaning over the bridgerail he shouted to the gunlayer to aim for the Spaniard's aft torpedo-tube.
The Villamil was well down by the head and had a pronounced list to starboard. Her speed had appreciably fallen off. The menace of being rammed was now hardly worth taking into account; but the torpedo—— At that range, if the Spanish torpedo-gunner knew his job, it was almost a matter of impossibility to miss.
Cain could see four or five grimy figures bringing the loading cage to the after-end of the tube. The torpedo was launched home.... He could see the convex metal cover swing into the closing position... the torpedo coxswain was getting astride the tube... in another three or four seconds...
A deafening crash told the anxious skipper of the Alerte that the six-inch was again at work. At a range of six hundred yards the shell got home. A terrific flash—it was far too vivid for the explosion of a shell—leapt from the destroyer. An enormous cloud of smoke was hurled skywards, completely obliterating the Villamil from Cain's vision. A blast of hot air swept over the superstructure of the submarine. Pieces of metal tinkled on her steel deck. Heavier pieces were falling with a succession of splashes into the smoke-enshrouded water.
Slowly the pall of acrid-smelling vapour dispersed. Where the destroyer had been was an expanse of agitated water surrounding a broad and steadily-growing patch of black oil. Of the eighty men who formed her crew, not one survived.
The only casualty on board the Alerte was No. 3 of the gun's crew, and he had been knocked out only after the Villamil had been destroyed. A fragment of steel descending with terrific force had struck him on the head, killing him instantly.