The foreign fleet is now in sight from Sutro Heights. A glance through the powerful telescope tells the General it is the enemy—six first-class battle-ships and eight cruisers, for the belligerent country depends upon the capture of this rich city to defray the heavy expense of the war.
They are approaching in double column, the battle-ships leading. Nearer and nearer they come. The range-finders at the different batteries show the range is rapidly diminishing. News has reached San Francisco, and the high bluffs about the city are thronged with an excited crowd. The blue-coated regulars have dispersed from the little knots about the guns, and have gone to their stations, and stand ready at the command to open the greatest battle the West has ever seen. On the ships of the enemy come, majestically cutting the smooth sea, throwing the silvery spray upon their bare forecastles, over which their heavy turret guns are to soon speak.
"Four miles, sir!" reports one of the General's aides. The batteries at Lobos and Bonito are ordered to open fire. The six big 16-inch rifles thunder forth their challenge almost simultaneously, and nearly three and a half tons of steel go speeding toward the approaching enemy. All eyes are turned seaward, and are just in time to see columns of water thrown up close aboard the on-coming ships. Again and again the heavy batteries speak; shot after shot goes on its deadly flight, making havoc on board the silent vessels. The fleet is approaching at nearly fifteen-knot speed; it will take them but eight minutes to reach the range, when tons of gun-cotton will be sent out to meet them both above and below the peaceful sea. They are heading directly for the entrance. What can be their intention? Will they dare attempt to run the forts? Do they suppose the harbor is clear of mines and they have naught to fear save the guns? The range-finder dials point to 4000 yards from the Gate. All the guns on the forts are blazing forth fire, but the gunners' aims are poor, and the better part of the shots are fruitlessly ploughing up the sea in the vicinity of the enemy. One well-aimed 16-inch shell strikes home on the nearest ship; her armor is pierced, and she has become unmanageable and drops out of the advancing columns. Nearer and nearer comes the fighting. At last the dreaded puffs of smoke dart from the battle-ships' turrets, and the shells are coming screeching ashore, tearing up the earth in the fortifications. With a glass one of the aides is scanning the sea at the entrance to the harbor. An exclamation escapes him as his glass focuses on some object of interest; with a flinger trembling with emotion he points out to the General two small red flags, barely distinguishable on the water's surface, midway between Point Lobos and the nearest ship. A glance shows it to be the flags on the Sims-Edison controllable torpedo. Out it goes at a terrific speed; nearer and nearer it approaches its intended victim. Harmless enough look these small pieces of bunting, but underneath the water not many feet lurk nearly five hundred pounds of deadly gun-cotton. It has passed astern of the leading ship. Will it run out its scope and fail? A small column of water is seen to ascend from the flags, and the next moment the second battle-ship is nearly engulfed in a mighty explosion. The first charge tears the torpedo net; the second makes one less ship to attack the batteries, for she is fast sinking. The gun-cotton has exploded against her steel hull. A cruiser drops out to render assistance.
An explosion that seems like an earthquake to those in the fortifications tells that the first gun-cotton shell has exploded near the enemy. One of the leading battle-ships heels over and slowly sinks beneath the waves; her seams have been opened by the force of the explosion. The enemy now is in irregular formation, more nearly like double echelon; they are pouring in a scathing fire on all the batteries. As they approach the torpedo range they starboard and stand out to sea, bringing to bear their after turrets. Some of their shots have committed awful havoc ashore; gun after gun has been dismounted, one of the pneumatic guns has been struck by a shell and is a total wreck. The remaining controllable torpedoes have failed.
The pneumatic gun on Point Bonito is aimed at the nearest ship, but a mile and a half away; the gauge on the accumulator shows the air pressure is sufficient. The lever is tripped, and the quarter-ton of gun-cotton, with a whir, is hurled on its errand of destruction. The eye can distinguish the aerial torpedo as it soars to the height of its trajectory, and then majestically and swiftly steals down toward its helpless prey. Will it explode? It strikes the water a few yards from the target, but the looked-for explosion does not follow; the fuse has failed. The next minute every gun of the enemy is trained upon this terrible weapon, knowing that if the shell is again let loose their ships will be like chaff before this tremendous power. The enemy is now confident of victory. Signals go up on the flag-ship, and in a very few minutes the old formation is resumed, and once again they head for the harbor.
The firing becomes hot and furious; broadside after broadside belches forth from the enemy's steel sides; a few shells go wide into the city, and dense columns of black smoke from the buildings set on fire lend a more awesome aspect to the picture depicted.
HE SEES THE FAMOUS "OREGON" COME RUSHING DOWN TO THE FIGHT.
The observers at the mining-station are nervous with the suppressed excitement within them. The ships of the enemy plot on their chart only eight hundred yards away from their mines. Will it be their fortune to decide the fate of the Golden City? The ships still advance. Soon they will be over the mines. A pressure of the key under the hand will discharge tons of the hidden explosive.
But the enemy has stopped. What does this foretell? Five hundred yards from the mines the ships are nearly motionless in the troubled sea lashed to foam by the ploughing of so much steel.