Harper's Round Table, September 29, 1896

THE ATTACK OF TORPEDO-BOAT NO. 5.

BY LIEUTENANT YATES STIRLING, JUN., U. S. N.

The night is dark and cloudy, and a heavy mist hovers over the entrance to the highly fortified port of ----. Like gigantic aquatic ghosts a fleet of American men-of-war is cautiously and silently approaching this strong-hold of the enemy. Every light on board the vessels is masked, and the lookouts are vigilantly peering into the darkness, for fear that one of the swift and unmerciful torpedo-boats of the enemy steal unseen and unheard upon their ship and launch its deadly charge of destruction.

The American squadron, six huge battle-ships and four fast cruisers, accompanied by ten sea-going torpedo-boats, have been detailed by the commander-in-chief to attack and capture this important naval station. Within safe distance from the forts on the harbor's entrance the squadron's mighty engines are stopped, and the ships soon cease to forge ahead in the quiet sea. One of the swift little crafts, then another and another, noiselessly runs alongside the Admiral's ship, and an officer from each climbs the precipitous side of the battle-ship. They make their way at once to the cabin of the Admiral.

"I have dangerous work for you and your little vessels, gentlemen," is their commander's quiet explanation, as the lieutenants remove their caps, and group themselves in respectful attention around their gray-haired superior. "Your small flotilla is to make an attack on the enemy's fleet in the harbor yonder; the entrance is narrow, and too early a discovery means failure to the expedition if not annihilation to yourselves. No. 5 will lead the column, for her commanding officer is familiar with the harbor, and will be a valuable guide on this dark night. The plan is to make a simultaneous attack on the fleet, and unless they are very much on the alert and ready with their guns, you should render a good account of the night's work. After your purpose has been accomplished, or you have been driven off, join me at the entrance to the bay. I will move to the attack as soon as you are discovered. The army is co-operating with us, and even now we should hear the distant roar of their guns."

Many an eye is dim and voice husky with emotion as the officers grasp the Admiral's hand in parting, and listen to his kind and encouraging words. When the torpedo lieutenants reach the deck, their small commands are lying alongside the flag-ship, steam pouring from their miniature escape-pipes, a dumb protest to be off.

As the Lieutenant of No. 5 reaches the conning-tower of his little boat, the flotilla is going at full speed, nearly twenty-five knots an hour, in column, his vessel in the lead. They are heading for the sombre outline of the distant land where he knows is the entrance to the harbor.

By his side stands a young ensign, his assistant, looking fixedly out into the night. Not a word is spoken. Each knows his life is to be staked at awful odds for his country.

Death has always seemed of little consequence to these young lives. They have in the few years of their lives barely given it a thought, but now in the little tomb of the conning-tower they are almost face to face with the grewsome intangible hereafter. They think of the time when as children they have whispered their prayers at their mothers' knees--prayers almost forgotten; but they come back to them now with startling clearness, and are mentally repeated, coming like a soothing draught of water to a thirsty mortal. On flies the little craft, while behind her noiselessly follow her nine sisters. The big battle-ships have long since been swallowed up in the black night.

The ever-watchful officers, as they stand in the confined space of the wheel-house, protected by three inches of steel from the cool breeze that the speed of the boat makes as she rushes madly along, are gazing through the small apertures in the metal, straining their eyes to see the first obstacle that dare be in their way. They see naught but darkness. They have been into the harbor before, to a great naval review given in commemoration of some important event in history. How different were the circumstances! Then the holders of the naval station were friends, and held out a cheerful welcome. Lights were upon the rugged and dangerous coast to show the mariner the many hidden dangers, and to navigate him clear of the many treacherous shoals and rocks. But now a difference had arisen between the two nations that could not be arbitrated, so they had resorted to cruel war to settle their difficulties. No lights are visible save now and then a small flicker from a fisherman's hut, and it is doubtful whether the small visitors will reach the harbor, even though they escape the steel from the guns that are surely soon to play upon them. The Lieutenant is the first to break the silence.

"We have tough work ahead, Church. Heaven only knows whether we will ever come out of this death-trap alive."

The younger man shakes his head in concurrence with his comrade's views of the situation, but dares not venture a word, for fear he may betray his nervousness in his voice. He knows exactly what is expected of him, and will sacrifice his life without an outward qualm in this his first real duty to his flag.

Suddenly on the port bow a small light springs up from out the darkness. It is on one of the patrol torpedo-boats of the enemy. If it discovers the invaders all is useless: the alarm will be given, and the forts cannot be passed. It would be foolhardiness to attempt it. Once beyond them, undiscovered, the mission will be easily accomplished. On go the insidious weapons of war on their errand of destruction. They are now between the forts on the harbor's entrance. The many guns there are pointed in their direction, but are dumb. Their crews are asleep, and are peacefully ignorant of the angels of death stealing past their vigil. The night is so dark that the outline of the land so close aboard has melted into the all-pervading blackness. No sound can the officers in the leading boat hear save the slight whir of the little engines making hundreds of revolutions a minute, the swash of the water cut like a knife by the sharp bow of the little craft, and the beating of their own hearts. The last seems so loud that each thinks the other surely must hear.

The minutes drag slowly by; they seem like hours to the anxious men on the torpedo-boats. The forts are passed in safety. The discovery must come soon. Farther and farther the destroyers penetrate into the bay. If there are ships here they must soon discover these unwelcome visitors. Hark! From out of the darkness to port is heard the report of a rifle-shot, quickly followed by a number of others in rapid succession. The officers in No. 5 suppress a cry of relief. The suspense has been telling. Hot work is better than uncertainty.

In a very short time lights are shown on the forts astern of the attacking party; they are the unfocussed rays of the powerful search-lights, and soon will make the torpedo-boats as conspicuous on the surface of the bay as the picture in a magic-lantern slide is on the sheet. The tunnels of light sweep quickly, nervously, about the bay, endeavoring to concentrate upon the swiftly moving enemy. On, on goes the flotilla in its mighty effort to reach its goal. Every torpedo is in its tube, and to launch it on its errand will be the work of a second. The long shafts of light are now rapidly focussing on one after another of the long line of small hulls, stretching nearly across the bay, ready to sink anything that may lie in their path.

The stillness of the night is disturbed by the thunder of heavy artillery and the fitful report of rapid-fire and machine guns. Shells go screeching about them, throwing columns of water high in the air as they strike it with a baffled hiss.

Search-light after search-light flashes up from the men-of-war in the inner harbor, and are sweeping the bay with their blinding light.

Closer, closer draw the attacking boats to their huge enemies.

An exclamation of terror escapes from the officers in No. 5 as they see what resembles a bunch of enormous sky-rockets shoot high above the bay almost directly over them. But they know it is from a group of 16-inch rifled mortars on the shore only a short mile away. With a sickening whir the mighty bolts of steel swoop down and blot out of existence three of the small crafts. Church has left his Lieutenant's side, and with a nervousness hard to suppress stands at the breech of the bow torpedo-tube, ready to launch its 300 pounds of guncotton at the owner of the search-light ahead of them, if they escape the rain of metal long enough to get within the limited range of the weapon.

Right ahead, nearly within the coveted distance, a dark hull looms up; her search-light is boring through the inky darkness, but as yet has not discovered the whereabouts of the fast-approaching danger. All at once Church, from his position in the bow, sees the small conning-tower lighted up through the peep-holes by the dazzling light, and hears simultaneously the quick reports of her machine-guns.

All about the bay is a scene of firing; but for this the men in No. 5 have no eyes; the deadly peril of their boat from the countless guns on the black hull ahead is their only concern. No thought of personal safety now enters their minds; such feeling has long since been forgotten; their only idea is to reach the enemy in front of them. Church, lockstring in hand, sees the moment has nearly arrived. In the next they may all be blown to pieces by a well-aimed shot. His hand is nervously clutching the lanyard, while his eyes are fixed on the face of his superior. He sees his face, pale as death, in the terrible glare of the search-light. He sees his lips move, yet he can hear no sound above the roar of the firing. He knows the word they frame. Fire! A sharp report fills the small compartment, and the next second he is thrown heavily against the vessel's side, as, in answer to her helm, she swiftly swerves to starboard, and is soon speeding away from the column of water thrown up by the explosion of her torpedo against the steel hull of the sinking ship. For the shot has done its work, and the great mass of steel and cannon will soon lie at the bottom of the bay. The commands of her unfortunate officers to "Abandon ship!" can be distinctly heard in the lull after the explosion.

In the excitement of the attack the operations of the fleet at the entrance to the harbor have escaped the notice of the crew of No. 5. Now they see flash after flash from the forts answered by tongues of fire from the invading fleet, the search-lights of both throwing a lurid light over the awe-inspiring spectacle. From astern of them they also hear the sounds of a mighty struggle, the rumble of heavy ordnance and the rattle of musketry tell them that the army has moved to the attack.

With all speed the remnants of the flotilla are leaving the scene of their triumph, leaving half their number as a sacrifice on the altar of their country.