Dead on shore it blew, the crested breakers thrashing upon the shallows that flanked the entrance. The sky was overcast, and heavy rain descended incessantly. At about noon the waves became so high that the British ships, already rolling their main decks under, stood out to sea so as to escape the discomforts of an on-shore berth. Nevertheless, as night fell, the searchlights played with unceasing vigilance upon the harbour of Talcahuano.
"Confound those searchlights!" muttered Captain Brookes, then turning to Gerald he exclaimed, "Look here, Mr. Tregarthen, does my compact forbid me the use of the Z-rays? I think not."
Gerald did not know what to reply. This act alone could hardly be termed a belligerent one, and at the same time no permanent damage to personnel or material was likely to ensue.
"I'll risk it," continued the captain, and giving orders to clear deck for general quarters, he made his way to the conning-tower.
One glance at the foaming bar where the water gleamed silvery white under the beams of the concentrated searchlights showed him that the plan was a desperate one. A deviation of half a cable's length to port or starboard would be fatal even to the Olive Branch, for no vessel could run aground on those deadly shoals and hope to survive.
Suddenly, as if by the touch of a magic hand, the searchlights vanished, leaving only a black expanse of storm-tossed waters. Captain Brookes had made use of the Z-rays.
Slowly the anchor came home from its muddy bed, the engine-room telegraph signalled full speed ahead, and at her utmost possible speed the Olive Branch dashed towards the bar, every revolution of her propellers bringing her nearer the alert yet mystified British squadron.
She was running the gauntlet. Perils unseen awaited her ahead and on either hand. Another five minutes would decide her fate.
(Another long instalment of this splendid serial next month.)
[a/]