“They are going to try a broadside!” exclaimed Captain Gomez, signaling “astern,” and swinging his vessel till her bow pointed at the other’s beam. It was an effective position, and gave the destroyer the advantage for the moment. Stanley, with his bow guns, took full advantage of it. He opened fire with his two rapid-fire weapons forward and succeeded in opening up several holes in the _Bolivar’s_ bow. But the insurgent vessel retaliated fearfully. Her steel projectiles ripped and tore the forward structure of the little _Barrill_, putting Stanley’s two bow-chasers out of commission, killing two of his men and, of course, driving them all from that part of the vessel. Fortunately, however, not one of all the rapidly fired missiles struck the _Barrill_ below the water line, or in any vital spot. The screech and hiss of projectiles were now incessant on both sides. About the _Barrill_ the water shot upward in a hundred geysers as the steel rain roared about her. As fast as their gunners were killed or wounded, Herc and Stanley replaced them by men rescued from the sunken _Calvo_. The revolvers both Americans carried proved wonderful persuaders in driving them to the guns. “Where are their torpedoes?” asked Ned anxiously, as, after ten minutes of this hot work, no sign of one of those deadly messengers of death had appeared. There was no time for the silent, anxious figure beside him to reply. A sudden puff of white smoke showed low down on the _Bolivar’s_ bow. The sunlight glinted for a breath on white metal, and then came a splash. Ned grew pale and clutched the rail desperately as he realized that five hundred pounds of high explosive had been launched at the destroyer. He wanted to shout out, but his lips refused obedience. All he could do was to keep his wide-opened, staring eyes fixed on the line of white air bubbles which marked the path of the approaching torpedo. But while Ned stood paralyzed, the _Barrill’s_ commander had acted. He did the only thing possible to do. Skillfully he manœuvered his vessel till her sharp bow pointed toward the oncoming torpedo. But even as she swung, it seemed to the watchers of the approaching steel tube that the _Barrill_ must swing herself directly in the path of the messenger of death. By some subtle wireless telegraphy the news of the peril had already traversed the decks. White under their yellow skins, the frightened crew showed twitching faces and nervous, shaky hands. Even the revolvers of Stanley and Herc seemed powerless now to drive them to duty. In their fatalistic way they argued that death was upon them, and that it was no worse to be shot by a revolver than to be blown to atoms by a striking torpedo.