She was, of course, the first victim selected. Two _Flying Fishes_ dived, one under her bows and one under her stern, and each discharged two torpedoes. No fabric made by human hands could have withstood the shock of the four explosions which burst out simultaneously. The sore-stricken leviathan stopped, shuddered and reeled, smitten to death. For a few moments she floundered and wallowed in the vast masses of foaming water that rose up round her--and when they sank she took a mighty sideward reel and followed them. The rest met their inevitable fate in quick succession, and went down with their ensigns and pennants flying--to death, but not to defeat or disgrace. The ten British submarines which were left from the fight had already put out to try conclusions with the _Flying Fishes_; but a porpoise might as well have tried to hunt down a northern diver. As soon as each _Flying Fish_ had finished its work of destruction it spread its wings and leapt into the air--and woe betide the submarine whose periscope showed for a moment above the water, for in that moment a torpedo fell on or close to it, and that submarine dived for the last time. Meanwhile the horrors of the past afternoon and evening were being repeated in the crowded harbour, and on shore, until a frightful catastrophe befell the remains of the British Fleet. John Castellan, with two other craft, was examining the forts from a height of four thousand feet, and dropping a few torpedoes into any which did not appear to be completely wrecked. The captain of another was amusing himself by dispersing, in more senses than one, the helpless, terror-stricken crowds on the cliffs whence they had lately cheered the last of Britain's naval victories, and the rest were circling over the harbour at a height of three thousand feet, letting go torpedoes whenever a fair mark presented itself. Of course the fight, if fight it could be called, was hopeless from the first; but your British sailor is not the man to take even a hopeless fight lying down, and so certain gallant but desperate spirits on board the _England_, which was lying under what was left of the Admiralty Pier, got permission to dismount six 3-pounders and remount them as a battery for high-angle fire. The intention, of course, was, as the originator of the idea put it: "To bring down a few of those flying devils before they could go inland and do more damage there." The intention was as good as it was unselfish, for the ingenious officer in charge of the battery knew as well as his admiral that the fleet was doomed to destruction in detail--but the first volley that battery fired was the last.