“I had to take them,” he returned; “the sailors were disloyal to a man. I was naval attaché at the outbreak of the war in Washington and was forced to be satisfied with the men my government sent to me to man my ship.” “How many prisoners have you?” Phil questioned hurriedly. Captain Garcia’s face brightened. “I see your drift,” he cried. “I believe I can depend upon them. We have over a hundred.” “Put them at the guns, sir, and have your soldiers stand over them. I’ll make them shoot straight when I tell them it’s ‘Davy Jones’ locker’ if they don’t,” O’Neil urged. In a short time the hundred rebel sailors were liberated from the lower hold and put at the guns. The old crew, rifles in hand, were placed as sentries about the ship. “Me for the rigging if those chaps mutiny,” laughed O’Neil, pointing to the scores of riflemen, carelessly handling their pieces, guarding the captured sailors at the big guns. The loom of the land near Rio Grande was now dimly discernible on the starboard bow. The two cruisers slowly closed in toward the shore. The vibrations of the engines lessened. The war-ships were soon motionless in the water. The harbor entrance had been reached. Phil glanced apprehensively through the darkness. He could see dimly the smudges of forts, but he knew from them the “Aquadores” and her mate, although but a scant half mile distant, were quite invisible; their steel gray sides blended in with the dark sea and sky, showing an unbroken line. His companions were at their stations at the guns. Every gun was loaded and ready to be fired instantly. Phil from his station at the range finder above the battery deck peered down on the scene below him. He could make out the shadowy figures of the men at the guns; he saw the men at the sight telescopes and the anxious loaders behind the breech of each gun, with the shell and powder ready. O’Neil stood almost directly under him; he seemed to be the unconscious man-of-war’s man surrounded by perils. “Put down those firing keys,” he cautioned. His voice was low, but it sounded distinct and commanding over the silent deck. “You’ll be getting nervous and shooting off before we clap eyes on her.” The “Barcelo” steamed by; she had received her orders from Captain Garcia to search the neighborhood of the wreck for the enemy. They watched her slowly dissolve in the night. Phil’s pulses beat fast. The moment was fraught with grave perils. The unseen torpedo-boat might be even then aiming a deadly blow at the motionless cruiser. The crew were all watching intently; keyed to the highest pitch of nervous excitement; their eyes set fixedly, staring into the total gloom about them; alert for the first sound of the approaching enemy.