With the closing of the last means of entering the hull of the submarine the spell was broken. The crew, realising the fate that awaited them, were seized with panic. Some began to struggle into their cork lifebelts, others made a mad rush for the davit-boats, to find to their consternation that they were no longer capable of floating.
A shell, evidently of light calibre, struck the Alerte a few feet abaft the bows, demolishing the dummy fo'c'sle like a pack of cards. It was fortunate for the men that they were either in the waist or on the poop, for no one was hit; but the exploding missile warned them that their pursuer was getting to work in earnest.
"Lower that cursed rag!" shrieked Pengelly, pointing to the skull and cross-bones which, on the masts being lowered, the gunner in reckless bravado had hoisted at the end of a boathook. "Has anybody got anything that'll do for a white flag? No? Then, for heaven's sake, some of you in the poop hold your hands up, or she'll blow us to bits."
Several of the hands did so, while the signalman, clambering on the bridge, frantically semaphored that the ship had surrendered.
Even as the message was being signalled, the Alerte began to settle. In less than half a minute she disappeared beneath the surface, leaving the agitated water of the Bahia Arenas dotted with the heads of her mutinous crew.
The pirate submarine Alerte had made her final plunge.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE FATE OF THE PIRATE SUBMARINE
"BY the mark seven... Less a quarter... By the deep six!" chanted the leadsman, as the Canvey approached the bar.