As if some subtle dissolvent chemical had been suddenly applied to them, the stern works of the _Bolivar_ appeared to melt away as the torpedo struck her. For an instant she floated on the surface--half a ship--steam and smoke pouring from her as the water rushed into her engine rooms. Then, with a wallowing motion, like a stricken bull sinking to its knees, she staggered and heeled partially over, exposing her keel. Then, with the utmost deliberation--as if she were making up her mind to it, in fact--the _Bolivar_ righted herself and began to crawl, like a stricken animal, toward the shore. “They’ve closed her watertight bulkhead, sir!” called up the smoke-begrimed, half-naked Stanley. “They’re making for the shore to beach her. Shall I fire and finish her, sir?” The captain’s eyes were filled with tears. Now that the strain of the fight against such odds was over, his emotional nature asserted itself. Ned saw that it was with great difficulty that he framed his words when he finally spoke. “No, let them go,” he said, in a voice he strove in vain to render steady. “My unfortunate countrymen! how many of you have gone to your last accounting to-day?” Ned could not help but respect Captain Gomez’s grief. It was the sorrowing of a brave man over a fallen enemy. He was glad that no order to complete the annihilation of the _Bolivar_ had come. If the insurgents could beach her, they--those who were left alive--would have a chance to gain the shore. Ned felt sure that the ends of the republic had been met when they inflicted such a crushing blow on the mutinous vessels. The first thing the Americans hastened to do, after cheering their victory in ringing tones, was to hasten below and see how the injured were faring. They found that Midshipman Stark, with a bandage about his head, was practically as well as ever, and bitterly disappointed over missing the “cream of the shindy,” as he expressed it. The other wounded were all doing well. Their dead numbered twenty--not a heavy loss, considering the sharp work they had been engaged in. But the poor _Barrill_ was a melancholy sight. Her jury funnel was, of course, gone, and lay, a shapeless mass, on the decks. Her other stacks were riddled through and through with shells till they almost wobbled. Her conning tower was sadly battered and punctured, and her superstructure forward showed a great, gaping wound, received when Stanley’s two bow-chasers had fired their last shot. While her officers stood amidships, soberly regarding the havoc, the chief engineer emerged from below, hastened up to the captain and drew him aside. In a low voice he imparted what was evidently grave news. What this information was the Dreadnought Boys soon learned. One of his aides had that moment reported to him that the condenser of the vessel had been so badly damaged by a shell that it was doubtful if she could proceed much farther. He could tinker it up for a few hours, he thought.