Around the gun it was suffocating, and every hand was ready to drop. Indeed, fainting fits were frequent, but the most that could be done for a sufferer was to either throw some water over his head or yell out to the surgeons' helpers to carry the men to the ward room for treatment. As the _Brooklyn_ was struck here and there, splinters began to fly, and a number were injured, although no one seriously. The _Texas_ had done wonderful work on the _Maria Teresa_ and the _Oquendo_, and now did her best to keep to the front of the chase. But the speed was too great for her, and gradually she dropped behind, although still continuing to throw shot and shell after the _Vizcaya_ that had dropped some distance behind the _Colon_. It was now apparent to all that if any vessel was going to get away it was to be the _Colon_, for her speed was greater than the _Vizcaya_ and as yet she had hardly been touched. "The _Vizcaya_, boys, the _Vizcaya_!" came the cry from the quarterdeck. "Don't let her screen the _Colon_!" "We'll pound 'em both!" was the answer. "Remember the _Maine_! Remember Manila Bay!" And then the mighty guns of the _Brooklyn_ and _Oregon_ roared out swifter than ever, and the _Vizcaya_, doing her best to sink one or the other of the American warships, was raked as if passing through a blizzard of fire, until her men were forced again and again from their posts, and at last the guns were abandoned. Then fire caught the craft in its awful embrace, and rolling from side to side, she, too, sought for a harbor of refuge, but found none. Down came her colors, and at the same instant she struck with a crash on the rocks. The fight had started at quarter to ten. Now it was but quarter past eleven,--just an hour and a half,--and all the Spanish ships but one had been destroyed. Such is the appalling swiftness of modern naval warfare. Where in olden days jack tars had fought for hours, they now fought for minutes. But the destruction of the _Vizcaya_ had taken time, and the _Colon_ was forging onward, panting and throbbing like a thing of life trying to escape from unspeakable terrors. Down in the bowels of the warship the furnaces were at a white heat, and the engineers had long since pushed their engines far past the danger point. "Faster! faster!" came the cry from the deck and tower. "It will be better to blow up than to allow the Yankee pigs to sink us. We must save at least one ship!" And the engines pounded and quivered, threatening each instant to blow into a million pieces. For once Don Quixote was making the run of his life. Unable to stand the heat, Walter had obtained permission to lay off for a few minutes and get some fresh air. A look from the spar deck had showed him the _Colon_ dashing far ahead, enveloped in a thin line of smoke. Every few seconds a flash of fire would come from her stern guns, but the marksmanship was poor and no serious damage was done to the _Brooklyn_.