Harper's Round Table, September 29, 1896

by Various

The younger man shakes his head in concurrence with his comrade's views of the situation, but dares not venture a word, for fear he may betray his nervousness in his voice. He knows exactly what is expected of him, and will sacrifice his life without an outward qualm in this his first real duty to his flag.

Suddenly on the port bow a small light springs up from out the darkness. It is on one of the patrol torpedo-boats of the enemy. If it discovers the invaders all is useless: the alarm will be given, and the forts cannot be passed. It would be foolhardiness to attempt it. Once beyond them, undiscovered, the mission will be easily accomplished. On go the insidious weapons of war on their errand of destruction. They are now between the forts on the harbor's entrance. The many guns there are pointed in their direction, but are dumb. Their crews are asleep, and are peacefully ignorant of the angels of death stealing past their vigil. The night is so dark that the outline of the land so close aboard has melted into the all-pervading blackness. No sound can the officers in the leading boat hear save the slight whir of the little engines making hundreds of revolutions a minute, the swash of the water cut like a knife by the sharp bow of the little craft, and the beating of their own hearts. The last seems so loud that each thinks the other surely must hear.

The minutes drag slowly by; they seem like hours to the anxious men on the torpedo-boats. The forts are passed in safety. The discovery must come soon. Farther and farther the destroyers penetrate into the bay. If there are ships here they must soon discover these unwelcome visitors. Hark! From out of the darkness to port is heard the report of a rifle-shot, quickly followed by a number of others in rapid succession. The officers in No. 5 suppress a cry of relief. The suspense has been telling. Hot work is better than uncertainty.

In a very short time lights are shown on the forts astern of the attacking party; they are the unfocussed rays of the powerful search-lights, and soon will make the torpedo-boats as conspicuous on the surface of the bay as the picture in a magic-lantern slide is on the sheet. The tunnels of light sweep quickly, nervously, about the bay, endeavoring to concentrate upon the swiftly moving enemy. On, on goes the flotilla in its mighty effort to reach its goal. Every torpedo is in its tube, and to launch it on its errand will be the work of a second. The long shafts of light are now rapidly focussing on one after another of the long line of small hulls, stretching nearly across the bay, ready to sink anything that may lie in their path.

The stillness of the night is disturbed by the thunder of heavy artillery and the fitful report of rapid-fire and machine guns. Shells go screeching about them, throwing columns of water high in the air as they strike it with a baffled hiss.

Search-light after search-light flashes up from the men-of-war in the inner harbor, and are sweeping the bay with their blinding light.

Closer, closer draw the attacking boats to their huge enemies.

An exclamation of terror escapes from the officers in No. 5 as they see what resembles a bunch of enormous sky-rockets shoot high above the bay almost directly over them. But they know it is from a group of 16-inch rifled mortars on the shore only a short mile away. With a sickening whir the mighty bolts of steel swoop down and blot out of existence three of the small crafts. Church has left his Lieutenant's side, and with a nervousness hard to suppress stands at the breech of the bow torpedo-tube, ready to launch its 300 pounds of guncotton at the owner of the search-light ahead of them, if they escape the rain of metal long enough to get within the limited range of the weapon.

Right ahead, nearly within the coveted distance, a dark hull looms up; her search-light is boring through the inky darkness, but as yet has not discovered the whereabouts of the fast-approaching danger. All at once Church, from his position in the bow, sees the small conning-tower lighted up through the peep-holes by the dazzling light, and hears simultaneously the quick reports of her machine-guns.

All about the bay is a scene of firing; but for this the men in No. 5 have no eyes; the deadly peril of their boat from the countless guns on the black hull ahead is their only concern. No thought of personal safety now enters their minds; such feeling has long since been forgotten; their only idea is to reach the enemy in front of them. Church, lockstring in hand, sees the moment has nearly arrived. In the next they may all be blown to pieces by a well-aimed shot. His hand is nervously clutching the lanyard, while his eyes are fixed on the face of his superior. He sees his face, pale as death, in the terrible glare of the search-light. He sees his lips move, yet he can hear no sound above the roar of the firing. He knows the word they frame. Fire! A sharp report fills the small compartment, and the next second he is thrown heavily against the vessel's side, as, in answer to her helm, she swiftly swerves to starboard, and is soon speeding away from the column of water thrown up by the explosion of her torpedo against the steel hull of the sinking ship. For the shot has done its work, and the great mass of steel and cannon will soon lie at the bottom of the bay. The commands of her unfortunate officers to "Abandon ship!" can be distinctly heard in the lull after the explosion.