“It was her torpedo,” Phil cried in joyful relief. “She fired it, and as it struck the water a six-inch shell must have hit the high explosive head. It’s all over.”
“Cease firing,” cried O’Neil as he saw some of the gunners were about to reopen fire. Phil’s words had been in English and had conveyed no intelligence to the anxious sailors. “She’s gone to the bottom, now.”
Captain Garcia stood overcome with conflicting emotions. After his first wild joy had died away his thoughts dwelt upon the fate of the brave men who had a moment before with splendid courage aimed a deadly blow at his vessel.
The “Aquadores” was brought to rest amid the whirling eddies, the aftermath of the explosion of hundreds of pounds of gun-cotton; but there was not a living shape on the surface of the sea: all had perished gallantly and their torpedo-boat had furnished their bodies a fitting sepulchre.
Four days brought the cruiser in sight of La Boca. To the three Americans on her bridge, straining to catch the first glimpse of their ship, it seemed an age since the day on which they had set out so cheerfully to seek information within the rebel lines. The experiences of the past ten days were like a bad dream from which they were fast awakening.
Rounding the headland the harbor burst into view with its fleet of vessels anchored therein.
“The whole battle-ship squadron is there,” exclaimed Phil in amazement. “What does it mean?”
There was no reply. Captain Garcia’s face showed that he too was surprised.
“There can be but one explanation,” he answered; “your government fears the intervention of some foreign power. That array of fighters would deter any open act.”
The “Aquadores” and the captured “Barcelo” steamed in between the sentinel forts at the entrance and then between the lines of the American war vessels.