With the morning came the blaze of the tropic sun. It drove the fog off the sea and showed us the hull of the cruiser, looming up out of the purple mist. Steadily, we held our course, with steam up to the danger line. By noon we had gained a little, and again, with the approach of night, the fog began to rise and soon enveloped us in its grey cloak. But that beacon light from our funnel shone hateful as its spurting jets flashed signals to the enemy in pursuit.
Another night passed, and, when the fog lifted again, there was the vampire even nearer than before.
The nervous strain was telling on our crew. The day before we joked and laughed––we would outrun him yet in the night. We would have; but for the glare from that funnel. We might have stolen into some 169 cove and let him pass us in the dark, but for that. He did not waste shot anymore, we were going his way. He could afford to wait. The third day the crew was worn and silent. They had the look of desperation in their faces, as they threw furtive glances back at the spectre, the Ship of Death––The Black Coffin––we called him now.
At high noon, we met an American warship. His crew crowded to his decks and gave cheer after cheer in sympathy for our desperate plight. The big greyhound of the sea was chasing the rabbit he had bitten and maimed, and the sympathy was with the weak. By night the nervous strain had become almost a frenzy. Then to add to our peril, the coal in the bunkers was running low. Something must happen in our favor soon. Our signal still flashed from the half funnel––our signal of distress––and by midnight we called it our funeral candle. The sky was clear now and the stars were shining. We could see lights flash now and then through the haze 170 of the sea. When morning came there he was big, black, hideous––still in our wake.
Coal for eight more hours only. Surely something would happen; help must come, out of the sea, out of the sky, out of somewhere, only it must come. The sea was smooth; not a ship could be seen on the horizon. All on board were in restless anxiety. Only coal for three more hours.
We were now off Ecuador. The officer in command called the crew.
“We shall have to surrender the boat,” he said.
The assistant engineer, two stokers and myself, all of us British, shouted “Never! We are not here to lay in a Chilean prison and perhaps be shot! We beach the boat!” Our emphasis was our drawn revolvers.
Without a word, the officer headed the boat for the shore. We gathered up a few edibles and when we grounded the boat, swam to the beach. The officer lingered for some time after all were ashore, then hurried over her sides and made his escape. The Chilean cruiser launched her 171 boat, eight sailors to each side of rowlocks, an ensign and a party of marines. They rowed rapidly to the torpedo boat and half of them climbed on board, when her sides parted and a terrific flame shot upward, bearing the bodies of a dozen men. The officer had lit the fuse that did the work.
Ten days afterwards the two stokers, assistant engineer and myself, footsore and ragged, went on board the British mail steamer at Guayáquil and presented ourselves to the gruff old captain.