THE TORPEDO
MR. RYERSON was not concerned with international etiquette; it was not his business that his captain's action in sending him with a detail of men on board this Japanese torpedo-boat at three in the morning might involve England in the war, should Russia find it out. Russia might go hang—Japan, too, as far as he was concerned; he would instruct a Russian as quickly as he would a Jap, or torpedo the ship of either without asking why, provided he was so ordered. Nor was it the nature of the work that had got upon his nerves this dark night. It was cold, of course—even for the month and latitude—and there was snow in the air, with a keen, penetrating wind from seaward that reached in through pilot-cloth and flannel; while the suspected proximity of Russian warships made it wisest, even as subjects of a neutral country, to work without lights. And the Japanese he had come to instruct—only the commander of whom understood English—seemed to be as stupid as they were eager to learn. These things of themselves could not disturb the trained and experienced torpedo lieutenant of H.M.S. Argyll; though it was because he was a trained and experienced officer, with a proper pride in his country, his ship, and himself, that he was disturbed. Finnegan—Old Man Finnegan—the only one of the whole ship's company privileged to drink with impunity, the most skilled and efficient seaman of them all when properly primed, the butt of all hands when thoroughly drunk, or thoroughly sober, had, as the work progressed, shown signs of elation and enthusiasm, due to nothing but unwise over-stimulation; and this, to the scandal of the British service, before the eyes of these critical, though untutored, Japanese, who knew nothing of Finnegan's peculiar privilege. While they were at work on the forward torpedo-tube, Mr. Ryerson had driven the old fellow away with unkind and indelicate comment on his condition, and it was a little later that the Japanese lieutenant in charge of the boat informed Mr. Ryerson that Finnegan had sneaked aft in the darkness and taken a long swig from a large, flat bottle. So, when the Whitehead torpedo had been driven home in the tube, the breech charged, primed, and closed, the tube swung around a few times, and the discharging mechanism explained to the Jap, Mr. Ryerson hunted for Finnegan, and found him "soldiering" under the lee of the after funnel.
"Where's that bottle?" demanded the irate officer.
"Got no bottle, shir," answered Finnegan, saluting unsteadily.
"Don't lie. You were seen, Where's that bottle?"
"Washn't much, Misher Ryerson, and I put it away, shir."
"I should think you had put it away," coughed the officer, backing off. "Heavens, what a breath! Keep to leeward of everybody. Go and hide yourself, Finnegan, and when we go back I'll report you for getting drunk before the heathen. Come aft here, men!" he called. "We'll try this other tube. Pick up a Whitehead on the way."
Whitehead torpedoes, be it known, are mechanical fish about sixteen feet long, carrying two hundred and twenty pounds of gun-cotton in their heads, which travel under water of their own volition to explode upon impact, but which are aimed and merely propelled from long, eighteen-inch tubes by the explosion of a small charge of powder which, compressing the air behind the torpedo, exerts a pressure just sufficient to overcome its inertia. The small Japanese craft, a recent acquisition from America, was equipped with a bow and a stern tube and four torpedoes, one of them already placed in the forward tube, the others stowed in brackets about the deck. As her commander had explained, it was his hurriedly drafted crew's inexperience that had induced him to steer up in the face of the Argyll's search-light and ask instructions of the English.
Torpedo methods having been explained at the forward tube, there was little to do on the other except to load, charge, and close it. So, while his men, followed by the eager Japanese, came aft with a torpedo, Mr. Ryerson opened the breech, and when they were ready he said: "In with it now, and let's get through. Finnegan, clear out! Go and hide yourself, I said."
Finnegan, who had untactfully stumbled in front of the blunt nose of the torpedo, held poised in air behind the tube, was pushed aside just as he was about to peep into the long, hollow cylinder, an inspection well performed by the lieutenant a moment before.
"I think that everything is all right, Finnegan," said Mr. Ryerson, ironically, bowing politely to the old man in the darkness. "Now go and hide yourself."
"Hide m'shelf," repeated Finnegan, softly and stupidly. "Very good, shir—hide m'shelf—m'shelf. Hide m'shelf."
He disappeared behind the group, and the torpedo was inserted in the tube. But it stuck when about half-way in, and all the strength of the men could not push it farther.
"Out with it," ordered the officer. "Let's see what's wrong. Put it back in its chocks or it'll take you overboard."
It was a wise order; the boat was rolling heavily, and the men, weighted by the torpedo, were unsteady on their legs. Mr. Ryerson struck a match within the tube, but as far as the glow reached saw nothing but shining steel. "All clear here," he said. "Something wrong with the Whitehead."
He went to the torpedo and felt all over it with his hands. "No wonder," he said, as he fingered the clutch, or T-iron on top, which, fitting into a traveler within the tube, held the weight of the torpedo while being ejected. "It's bent; but, still, not too much, I should think. Try it again, men, and I'll see if it enters the traveler."
The men stooped for the torpedo, but did not pick it up. There was a bumping noise alongside, a few muttered but intense expletives in Russian, and an uprush of large, active men who fell upon the Englishmen and Japanese alike with cutlass and pistol.
"Into the boat, our side," yelled Mr. Ryerson. "This isn't our fight. Away with you all."
And away they went, bowling over with fist or shoulder a few Russians in their path, to enter their boat in a manner not prescribed in the regulations—by flying leaps. Mr. Ryerson, however, was mindful of naval etiquette to the extent of being the last to leave, waiting at the rail with drawn pistol—the only arm in the party—while his men rushed by him.
"All down?" he called, when the hegira had ceased.
"All here, sir," they answered from the boat.
Then he jumped, first discharging his pistol into the face of an oncoming Russian with a cutlass.
In the white glare of the Argyll's search-light, unwisely turned upon them by the watchful battle-ship, and to the sound of Russian oaths and Japanese outcries, the Englishmen pulled on the oars, ducking their heads to dodge the fusillade of bullets with which the Russians answered Mr. Ryerson's shot. But soon the search-light lifted and covered the torpedo-boat, by which time the oaths and outcries were silenced; then they could see the boat, with empty hawse-pipe, drifting astern with the tide, while limp forms dropped from her rail.
"Hell!" shuddered the lieutenant. "Capture and massacre! They've got the boat, but I wonder if they can fix that torpedo. I'd like to have finished the job."
A trained and efficient torpedo lieutenant must have a mechanical soul; hence the remark. But, from association of ideas, the remark was followed by another, much louder.
"Is Finnegan here?" he called.
"Finnegan—Finnegan," the men replied. "Pass the word. No, sir. Not here. Finnegan's gone, sir."
A groan went up from them, and there was a perceptible lessening of vigor in their strokes, as though they waited for the order to turn back, unarmed though they were, to rescue the beloved old reprobate. It would have been hopeless, even with arms; the torpedo-boat, still illumined by the search-light, was now emitting black smoke from all three funnels, and was plainly under steam.
"Give way, men!" ordered the lieutenant, excitedly. "Nothing but the ship herself can stop her now."
But the ship did not, even though they found the crew at quarters when they boarded her. And when Mr. Ryerson had made his report to his superiors, mournfully mentioning the loss of Finnegan before he spoke of his unfinished job on the tube, the grave-faced captain seemed little concerned with either.
"I am sorry you fired your pistol, Mr. Ryerson," he said, "even in self-defense, with the situation so strained."
"Do you think complications may arise, sir?" asked the young officer, anxiously.
"Who knows? I trusted to your discretion, or—but let it go. We may hear by wireless at any moment that war has been declared, and then it will not matter. Still, in the absence of such news, I should rather that the Russians had struck first."
"They attacked the boat, captain. They've got one of our men."
"Some diplomats might argue that we had no business there," responded the captain, quickly, but with a smile. "However, we'll hope for the news."
"And Finnegan, captain?" inquired Mr. Clarkson, the executive officer. "Shall I send a shot after that boat, or shall we trust to Finnegan's luck?"
"Trust to his luck; it is all we can do. There is an inscrutable Providence behind Finnegan; he never yet got drunk but to a purpose—unknown to himself perhaps, but vital."
"Where did you see him last, Mr. Ryerson?" asked the executive.
"It was when we were loading the after tube. He was much in the way, and I told him to go and hide himself. I wonder if he did. I hope so—my God, yes. I hope he did, and escaped that butchery."
"Was he stupidly drunk—that is, ready to fall down?"
"Oh, no—he could navigate; and he said he'd drunk it all, or, in his words, 'put it away,' so he couldn't have got much worse."
"Put it away," repeated the first lieutenant, musingly. "Well, Ryerson, he's dead, no doubt; but wherever he hid himself, at your suggestion, he went where he had first hidden the bottle."
"Small comfort," remarked Mr. Ryerson, sadly. "They would kill everybody, drunk or sober. It was too dark to distinguish uniforms. Poor old devil; it's all my fault."
"No, Ryerson," replied Mr. Clarkson, gently. "Not your fault at all. Get it off your mind. Think of something else."
"You are not to blame, Mr. Ryerson," added the captain, fully as kindly. "Go and turn in now. Get what rest you can."
"Think of something else," said the executive. "Think of anything at all—some mechanical or mathematical problem."
Whereupon Mr. Ryerson, being, like all mechanical souls, largely amenable to suggestion, responded with a grateful look at their sympathetic faces, and went to his berth resolutely thinking of the only mechanical problem on his mind—that of the damaged torpedo; and, being young, went instantly to sleep, to waken at daylight with only a dumb regret for Finnegan, and his soul fully obsessed with the still unsolved problem: Could the Russians repair it?
All hands had breakfasted, and, bolting his hurriedly, he went on deck; there was excitement in the air. It was a clear, cold morning, and the wind had lulled to a gentle breeze that barely crisped the level waters of the bay. Inshore from the Argyll, and about a half-mile toward the southern point of the bay, swung at anchor a second-class Japanese battle-ship, and astern of her two armored cruisers, from whose protection had come the inquiring torpedo-boat of the night before—all riding at short cables, all flying battle-flags, and belching thick smoke from every funnel. The cause was apparent: lying off the northern point, about three miles away, were two uncouth Russian battle-ships and two cruisers from which, doubtless, had come the cutting-out party; and dodging back and forth among them was the captured torpedo-boat. The four craft, battle-ships ahead, cruisers in the rear, were coming in column, and even as they came, while Mr. Ryerson was climbing the bridge-stairs to join his brother officers, a puff of smoke left the third ship, and a shell hissed over the water. It fell short of the Japanese fleet, but it was the signal of battle. The three ships answered with every gun that would bear, tripped their anchors, and steamed ahead.
"Hopelessly outclassed," said the captain, as he viewed the Japanese ships through his binoculars. "That little Shikoku, with her two ten-inch guns, and the Hondo and Yesso, with nothing bigger than six, against those four bruisers." He looked toward the Russian fleet. "Do you make them out, Mr. Clarkson?"
"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Clarkson, his glass to his eyes. "There are the two new battle-ships, if I'm not mistaken—the Ladoga and Onega; and there are the Königsherg and Dünaburg, armored cruisers, about the weight, I think, captain, of the Hondo and Yesso. The torpedo-boat is making tracks."
"And that is what we must do," rejoined the captain. "They're going to fight, and we are in the way—tnat is, unless war is on; and if that is the case we'll know very soon. Those ships are right out of Newchwang, and would have the news—by wireless even—long before we would. Lift the anchor, Mr. Clarkson. We'll move on.
The Argyll also was lying at a short cable and belching thick smoke from her funnels. It was but five minutes' work to get under way, and she steamed seaward at full speed, aiming to avoid the line of fire. But even though her amicable intent was further indicated by the hoisting—long before eight bells, in view of the emergency—of a large and conspicuous British ensign, the intent was seemingly ignored by the Russians; for an eight-inch shell arrived from the largest cruiser—the flagship—struck the Argyll's stern, exploded, made a large and ragged cavity in that part of her, and lifted the ensign, flagstaff and all, overboard.
"Heavens!" gasped the captain, as he looked at the shattered deck and the prostrate forms of men—some writhing, others still—visible through the smoke. "Was that shot aimed. We are out of the line of fire."
"My fault—my fault," groaned Mr. Ryerson. "The torpedo-boat has told them."
"What of it?" demanded the executive officer, excitedly. "It's war—that's what it is. War must be declared, captain. They aimed that shot. They wouldn't dare to without authority from St. Petersburg. They have fired on her Majesty's ship."
"Yes—yes," rejoined the captain, pale of face and calm of speech. "But we must make no more mistakes"—he looked significantly at the unhappy Mr. Ryerson—"we have made enough. We will try to get the despatch-boat off Weihaiwei. There may be news for us."
He entered the chart-room abaft the pilot-house, and while the intermittent, rasping sound of wireless telegraphy arose above the humming of the engines, the officers watched the carrying-down of the dead and wounded, and excitedly discussed the reason of that single shot; for no more were fired at the Argyll.
"We cannot connect," said the captain, when the rasping had ceased, and he came among them. "Yet we all know that England's ultimatum is given, and that she cannot retreat. But if Russia should give in? What then—if we answer that shot? And if she does not, what of the Argyll with that shot unanswered?" He looked perplexed.
"It was not a chance shot, captain," said Mr. Clarkson.
It might have been; they have not repeated it."
"They are busy, captain," said the navigating officer. "They have knocked a chip off England's shoulder, and are waiting for England's return blow. And in English history, captain, it has never been withheld." There was entreaty in the voice of the navigator, and a little of the perplexity left the face of the captain.
"They have shot away the ensign, captain, and have killed our men," said Mr. Clarkson. "There is no signal for apology. War must be on, sir. The despatch-boat is captured, surely, or we should have received orders."
"But the consequences, gentlemen?" said the wavering captain. "You are young and patriotic, but I am responsible. A false step at this juncture will involve England in the imbroglio. France must follow; then Turkey, Germany, and possibly the United States. In these days of wireless telegraphy we can afford to wait until sure."
But the attack on the torpedo-boat was arranged with regard to us, captain," implored Mr. Clarkson. "They knew we were there. It was done under our guns. They fired on our men."
"Our men ought not to have been there, and a shot had been fired at them."
Though the captain's words were emphatic, there were doubt and hesitation in his utterance; and he did not look at Mr. Ryerson.
"And they've killed Finnegan," ventured this young officer.
"He was drunk," responded the captain, somewhat regretfully.
"Too drunk to take care of himself, captain," said Mr. Clarkson, earnestly. "You have said yourself, sir, that Providence was behind Finnegan—that he never gets drunk but to a purpose that is vital. Perhaps it is showing in this. He got drunk, sir; he delayed the boat-party in its work, and involved it in the friction with the Russians that has resulted in that shot—that insult to England—to the end that, in the absence of news that war is on, we may, by resenting the insult, act rightly and save England's prestige."
"Quarters, gentlemen!" answered the captain, promptly. "Strip ship for action! We'll take a hand in this."
And so was reached the decision that sent the Argyll into battle, that menaced the integrity of boundaries, the ownership of isthmian canals, the peace, the purpose, and the progress of the world for a hundred years—not because England's dignity was in danger, but because Old Man Finnegan got drunk.
There was confusion confounded in that ship for a few moments. Drum-calls, bugle-calls, whistles, and profanity troubled the air. Men scurried about, in and out of superstructure doors—up and down hatchways and ladders. Stanchions, gratings, all wooden deck-fittings went below the water-line; all boats, with the plugs out, went overboard, fastened together, with their oars for a sea-anchor; everything movable, or productive of splinters, was placed out of the way of shot and shell, except the signal-yard and halyards; and to this yard arose numerous combinations of small flags, each holding a message to the Japanese, while high overhead flew the white naval ensign of Britain-another chip to replace the one knocked off. Then order came out of chaos, and all was quiet but the voice of an officer aloft calling out ranges.
Rounding slowly to a port wheel the Argyll headed to cross the bows of the Russians and take a position at the rear of the Japanese column, this being the matter decided with the small flags. But long before she reached her place the eight- and thirteen-inch rifles in her turrets were speaking, and several tons of steel had reached the vicinity of the Russians.
Mr. Clarkson had gone to his station in the forward turret, and the other officers to various gun-positions scattered about the ship, where, subject to telephonic communication from the conning-tower, they oversaw the work of hurling steel through the air. But Mr. Ryerson's specialty was the launching of mechanical fish, useless at more than two thousand yards range; so, after an inspection of his torpedoes and his men, he returned to the bridge as an aide to the captain and navigating officer.
No one cares to enter a conning-tower in action until driven in by gun-fire, and the captain and his officers remained without, where, though there was greater danger, there was more air and a clearer view. Leaving out the tale-bearing torpedo-boat, now far to the rear of the Russians, the two fleets were evenly matched in numbers, each consisting of two battle-ships and two cruisers; but the advantage in weight of armor and armament lay with the Russians; for the two heavier ships of the latter were equal to the Argyll, while the Shikoku, the Japanese battle-ship, was much smaller—hardly better, in fact, than an armored cruiser of a Western power. Her position in the van was her undoing. While the fleets were approaching she received the full fire of the Ladoga and the Onega, the two leading Russian ships, and armor-piercing shells, designed for heavier work, entered her citadel, exploded within, disabled her engines, and set her afire. She reeled drunkenly out of line and came to a stop. Smoke poured from hatches, ventilators, and gun-ports, but her heavy guns were speaking and sending their messengers while her crew could breathe in the turrets. The following ships came up and passed her, and as the Argyll brought her abreast it could be seen that she was sinking. But there is no stopping to save life in a sea-fight. The Argyll passed on.
Whatever the animus of that first eight-inch shell, there was no mistaking that of the horizontal hail that pounded the Argyll now. The Hondo and Yesso, ahead of her, received attention only from the Königsberg and Dünaburg, the two cruisers of the Russians, while the battle-ships, high-sided, heavily armored craft, sent their twelve- and seven-inch shot and shell directly at the Argyll. Soon the formation was broken, and the battle became a mêlée—the cruisers engaging in a four-cornered fight by themselves, the Argyll engaging the two battle-ships, steaming up between them in order to use all guns.
And from the heavier of these guns came thirteen- and eight-inch shot and shell.
Loosely speaking, a battle-ship's gun-positions are protected by armor equal in thickness to the caliber of the guns within, and it is accepted that pointed projectiles from these guns will, at short range, pierce such armor on an enemy's ship, but will shatter to pieces on the outer surface of armor that is slightly thicker. Thus the Argyll, though fighting two ships each as heavy as herself in total weight had the advantage of one inch in armor and calibers, and, had victory depended upon large-gun fire this inch would won it; but an important factor in naval warfare is the efficacy of the secondary battery of quick-fire guns, potent against gunners gun-sights and torpedo-boats; and about the time that the captain and his aides were driven into the conning-tower this battery, scattered about the Argyll's deck, superstructure, and fighting-tops, began to disintegrate under the well-directed seven-inch shell-fire of the Ladoga and Onega.
Men died under that storm of steel and flame; shrieks and groans followed the rattle and roar of each exploding shell; smoke and gas came into the conning-tower, blinding and choking the inmates, and Mr. Ryerson, his ears ringing, his eyes streaming, striving to keep a lookout through a peep-hole to port while he attended to three telephones and a speaking-tube, had little time to think of unsolved mechanical problems, or even the fate of poor old Finnegan. Yet for one brief moment the troubles of the night flashed into his mind because of what he saw far away through his peep-hole—a high-crested funnels and a glimpse of low hull.
"The torpedo-boat, captain!" he called. "See her—over to port! She's making for the cruisers!"
"I see," answered the captain, withdrawing his pale face from the slit before him. "Bring every eight- and six-inch gun to bear upon her. We haven't a secondary gun left; but she must be stopped."
They could not stop her. A torpedo-boat at thirty knots is an elusive target, and though the sea about her was churned into foam by the fusillade from the Argyll, the Yesso, and the Hondo, she seemed uninjured and went on.
"Nothing but small calibers can touch her," exclaimed the captain, as he looked. "We have nothing, but perhaps the Japanese cruisers can do it. Protect them. Turn every gun possible on those Russian cruisers. Sink them quickly."
And by speaking-tube and telephone this order went to the turrets; but not before Mr. Clarkson in the forward turret had discharged the two thirteen-inch rifles in his care at the target aimed at—the Ladoga, the nearest and largest battle-ship. One after the other, two pointed cylinders, each over half a ton in weight, sailed through the air and struck nearly in the same place, at the water-line at the stern. There were two explosions, and when the yellow smoke had cleared they could see that the whole after part of the monster ship had disappeared and that she was settling by the stern.
"Steering-gear gone, surely," remarked the captain. "Let her alone for a while. Attend to those cruisers."
They were attended to; and in five minutes—the Königsberg down by the head, the Dünaberg leaning heavily to port—they were making for the beach, their guns silenced and their crews swarming on deck. No cruiser may withstand the fire of a battle-ship.
In the integrity of that oncoming torpedo-boat now lay the palm of victory, and the Russian battle-ships profited by the lesson, turning their guns to the Japanese cruisers; but by this time they had demolished the last of the Argyll's small rifles, leaving nothing but the heavy eight- and thirteen-inch guns in the turrets—terrible weapons when they could touch a target, but useless for quick work. So, having the Ladoga at his mercy when he should have time to choose position, the Argyll's captain directed his fire at the Onega, hoping to disable her and trusting to the secondary guns of the cruisers to stop that menacing torpedo-boat.
She could not be stopped. The demoralizing fire of the Russians silenced the guns of the Hondo and Yesso, and the two cruisers, enveloped in steam and smoke, headed shoreward, struggling lamely to reach the beach, and still pounded by the pitiless fire of the battle-ships. But things were happening to these battle-ships. Little by little, as the Argyll's shells plunged into them and exploded, their softer parts changed shape and identity. Superstructures were reduced to scrap-heaps, and the seven-inch fire lessened as gun after gun was demolished. Funnels, boat-cranes, and ventilators became tangled masses of steel. Masts bent, tottered, and fell, one of them—on the smaller ship, the Onega—jamming the protruding guns of the forward turret and putting them out of action. Then an uprising of shattered metal amidships and a cloud of steam and yellow smoke told of exploded ammunition and punctured boilers; and but for an occasional belching from the still intact after turret this ship's work was done. She heeled to starboard, settled by the stern, and showed signs of sinking.
There was still the Ladoga, however, a floating pile of iron unable to steer, but with two intact turrets containing four twelve-inch rifles, and there was an onrushing torpedo-boat, now but half a mile away. Yet, aside from the presence in the fight of this torpedo-boat, the battle was with the Argyll, even though there was nothing left of her but her citadel, conning-tower, turrets, machinery, and the submarine part of her cellular hull that floated the whole; for it was but a matter of time when she could hammer the three remaining Russian turrets out of commission. But on came the torpedo-boat; and, there being nothing but an occasional twelve-inch shell coming their way now, the captain and officers stepped out of the conning-tower to watch her.
There was a mournful procession making for the beach—four smoking, reeling ships creeping along, the two in the van spitting at the two in the rear, these two spitting at the low, three-funneled craft rushing along between its two high waves. And over to the southward was a still more mournful sight—the sinking Japanese battle-ship, her deck crowded with men and her boats far away from her.
Neglecting the battle-ships, the captain gave steam to the Argyll, and she rushed ahead, her eight-inch guns barking at the one dangerous enemy; but nothing touched the small terror—more feared by naval men than the largest fighter—and she raced on, rapidly closing the distance between herself and the rearmost Japanese cruiser, the Yesso. In a storm of rattling small fire she crept up, passed out of sight behind the cruiser, and emerged ahead, her crew wheeling a torpedo from amidships to the smoking tube in the bow. Then a convulsion was seen in the cruiser; she rolled to starboard, rolled back, and out of all midship apertures came yellow smoke. She did not roll to starboard again; she settled as she lay—torpedoed.
On went the destroyer, her crew launching home the second torpedo. The officers on the Argyll's shattered bridge watched her through binoculars, the pallor o£ intense emotion -showing through their grime-stained faces, and only the mechanical soul of Mr. Ryerson rising above the horror of the situation to inspire the remark between tightly drawn lips: "Bunglers—they handle it like a piece of beef—not torpedo-men."
The murderous craft disappeared behind the other Japanese cruiser, and again was the death-blow delivered. The Hondo rolled, smoked, and settled, like her sister, and out from behind her again emerged the torpedo-boat, turning slowly in a wide circle, her crew again wheeling a torpedo forward.
"Our turn next," said the captain, grimly, as he moved the steering-lever to port and gave full speed to the engines. "We'll meet her end on."
But the wide curve of the torpedo-boat became a straight line, and she rushed south toward the sinking Shikoku.
The two Russian battle-ships were still sending heavy shells into the soft parts of the Argyll—in view of this the deck seemed the safest place on board—and, while her own thirteen-inch guns were answering the Russian fire, her eight-inch fire was directed solely at the elusive torpedo-boat. Yet nothing hit her from this point. It was only when she drew near to the burning, sinking Japanese battle-ship that a storm of small projectiles from a still intact secondary battery met her and drove her back; in the froth of water raised by this hail of steel she turned swiftly on her keel, and, steering for a point ahead of the onrushing Argyll, raced along to meet her. She presented a moving target on this course, not only to the dwindling small fire of the Shikoku, but to the eight-inch fire of the Argyll, and she came on uninjured, only to again court real danger when she should turn for the final, end-on rush in the Argyll's track; and even then she could expect only one blast from the forward guns before she would be within their limit of depression. But when she had turned suddenly in the Argyll's path, and the two craft were approaching at the rate of their added speeds, it was fated that one eight-inch shell, sent from a hurriedly swung turret, should hit her squarely in the bow and explode. When the yellow smoke had cleared, it was seen that there was little left there of that bow, or of the torpedo-tube above it, or of the men near it; but, though perceptibly down by the head, she was still coming at a good rate of speed, and her balance of men were rushing aft to man the tube in the stern. Soon she was within the range of torpedo action, and a little later within the circle of gun depression; but still she came on, slower and slower as she settled, her remnant of crew, with sure death before them, waiting for close quarters before striking the last blow permitted them by fate.
"All hands on deck!" said the captain. "Every man for himself now! Hammocks, Mr. Ryerson!"
A man-of-war-man's hammock, if the mattress be half filled with cork, is an efficient life-preserver. The cry went through the depths, and seven hundred men swarmed up, black and grimy, more or less naked, each bearing his hammock and breathing deeply of the sweet, fresh air. They crowded to the side and looked at the coming death with more of relief in their faces than anxiety; they had been an hour in closed compartments.
But there was anxiety in the faces of those on the wrecked bridge; the human dread of death is keener to those who must watch and wait—who cannot move and work. Pale of face, with folded arms and tightly pressed lips, the officers looked at the crippled little craft with its handful of men dancing and shouting around the tube at the stern—doomed themselves, but bound to take with them to the bottom this strong and majestic battle-ship with her seven hundred souls. Only the executive officer was practical.
"Did they torpedo the Shikoku?" he asked, calmly, of Ryerson.
"I don't know—I didn't notice," answered the young officer, explosively. "Why, yes, they must. There's none on deck. They repaired the damaged one, after all, and put it in aft."
"Here she is, gentlemen," said the captain. "Good-by, everybody. Each man for himself, but—I shall go down with my ship. I thought too much of Finnegan's importance."
The supreme moment had arrived. The Argyll was steaming at eighteen knots, the torpedo-boat at about fifteen—a total rate of approach equal to thirty-three knots an hour. At this railroad speed the little craft, with her nose nearly buried and the tube trained athwartship, swung up alongside of the giant battle-ship, so close that the whites of the Russians' eyes were plainly visible. She came amidships, a puff of smoke arose from the breech of the tube, a cough of compressed air came to their ears, and there shot out of the tube—not a deadly Whitehead torpedo, but Old Man Finnegan, with a bottle tightly clinched in one outstretched hand, a frightened, sleepy, just-awakened expression on his face, and a yell of protest coming from his throat which the water cut short as he dived. A chorus of laughter and encouraging yells responded, and a hundred shipmates went overboard to his rescue.
"That was it!" hysterically gurgled the torpedo lieutenant, a little later. "The bottle was the obstruction in the tube, and he hid himself where he'd first hidden the bottle."
"And the Russians," said the practical Mr. Clarkson, gravely, "thought the tube was loaded, closed it, primed it, and fired him at us. But the captain was right, after all. Finnegan is an instrument of Providence."