A thick fog rose from the sea, as we stole away in the darkness with the torpedo boat. We had no distinguishing lights and every sound was muffled. Even the funnels were protected against the tell-tale sparks of soft coal. The spume of the sea fell over our forward deck in flecks, and the waves splashed at our bow. The harbor lights of Panama shone in a glow of sickly yellow.

An officer stood by the hooded binnacle, watching our course by the faint glow of a tiny lamp. The bulldog engines, which I was working, were speeding us at 17 knots an hour and we were headed for Mollendo. We had no armament. That was sent to the Peruvian government by other means and our only defense against the Chilean cruiser was a clean pair of heels.

Suddenly, the eye of a search-light opened, and sent a long gleam of yellow into the fog. It swung around and rested for a moment on the column of smoke trailing from our funnels and changed its color from a black to a fiery red. It rested there a moment, then closed and all was darkness. The tumult was deafening. The hissing rush of projectiles, as they struck the water and exploded by impact, or shrieked in ricochet overhead.

The brave officer at the binnacle fell to the deck, his mangled body a quivering mass. One funnel was struck midway and cut in twain as though by a sharpened blade. Fire darted up from the half funnel, and showed the cruiser’s gunners the correctness of their aim. It lit our deck with its glare and showed the bodies of two others on the forward deck bathed in blood. Another officer coolly took his place at the binnacle and directed a change in the course of the boat.

The spurting jets of fire from our broken funnel gleamed in the fog, like a beacon 168 light to those on board the gaunt black monster of the seas, in pursuit of his prey. A hunted thing on the black waves, we crowded on every ounce of steam throughout the watches of the night.

With the morning came the blaze of the tropic sun. It drove the fog off the sea and showed us the hull of the cruiser, looming up out of the purple mist. Steadily, we held our course, with steam up to the danger line. By noon we had gained a little, and again, with the approach of night, the fog began to rise and soon enveloped us in its grey cloak. But that beacon light from our funnel shone hateful as its spurting jets flashed signals to the enemy in pursuit.

Another night passed, and, when the fog lifted again, there was the vampire even nearer than before.

The nervous strain was telling on our crew. The day before we joked and laughed––we would outrun him yet in the night. We would have; but for the glare from that funnel. We might have stolen into some 169 cove and let him pass us in the dark, but for that. He did not waste shot anymore, we were going his way. He could afford to wait. The third day the crew was worn and silent. They had the look of desperation in their faces, as they threw furtive glances back at the spectre, the Ship of Death––The Black Coffin––we called him now.

At high noon, we met an American warship. His crew crowded to his decks and gave cheer after cheer in sympathy for our desperate plight. The big greyhound of the sea was chasing the rabbit he had bitten and maimed, and the sympathy was with the weak. By night the nervous strain had become almost a frenzy. Then to add to our peril, the coal in the bunkers was running low. Something must happen in our favor soon. Our signal still flashed from the half funnel––our signal of distress––and by midnight we called it our funeral candle. The sky was clear now and the stars were shining. We could see lights flash now and then through the haze 170 of the sea. When morning came there he was big, black, hideous––still in our wake.

Coal for eight more hours only. Surely something would happen; help must come, out of the sea, out of the sky, out of somewhere, only it must come. The sea was smooth; not a ship could be seen on the horizon. All on board were in restless anxiety. Only coal for three more hours.

We were now off Ecuador. The officer in command called the crew.

“We shall have to surrender the boat,” he said.

The assistant engineer, two stokers and myself, all of us British, shouted “Never! We are not here to lay in a Chilean prison and perhaps be shot! We beach the boat!” Our emphasis was our drawn revolvers.

Without a word, the officer headed the boat for the shore. We gathered up a few edibles and when we grounded the boat, swam to the beach. The officer lingered for some time after all were ashore, then hurried over her sides and made his escape. The Chilean cruiser launched her 171 boat, eight sailors to each side of rowlocks, an ensign and a party of marines. They rowed rapidly to the torpedo boat and half of them climbed on board, when her sides parted and a terrific flame shot upward, bearing the bodies of a dozen men. The officer had lit the fuse that did the work.

Ten days afterwards the two stokers, assistant engineer and myself, footsore and ragged, went on board the British mail steamer at GuayÁquil and presented ourselves to the gruff old captain.

“Get below in the stoke-hole and black up,” he said, “the Chilean government offers five thousand dollars reward for each of you. If we are searched you are stokers.”

Meanwhile, on board another ship far to the north were aching hearts. Hattie’s aged mother fell ill when two days out from Panama and the next day she passed away. Rules required that the body be buried at sea. It was a solemn group that assembled at the ship’s gangway, while all that 172 was mortal of the aged mother rested on a plank, one end of which was held by a sailor. Slowly the chaplain read the beautiful service. The ship was stopped. Not a sound was heard and the midnight moon was hidden by clouds. “Therefore we commit this body to the deep,” was pronounced. The plank was raised and the body was swallowed up in the cavernous depths of the ocean.

Hattie leaned upon the arm of Mr. Robinson, who tenderly escorted her to the cabin when the rites were over. To her the world was gloomy and desolate, her sister but recently buried in far away Arequipa and the mother now in the sea. With a fortitude beyond her years the Christian girl bore bravely her deep sorrows, trusting in Him “who doeth all things well.” When the ship reached the open roadstead of Port Harford, and she again landed on the shores of her native California, she went to her former home––a vine-clad cottage in San Louis Obispo.

It was here I found her some weeks after 173 I assumed the role of stoker on the British mail steamer. Mr. Robinson had gone to his former home in Missouri, but Hattie was protected by relatives. We talked of our coming marriage. It was not possible at that time. I had lost so much money by exchange from the paper currency of Peru to the gold of California, that I needed time to replenish my almost depleted purse. We decided that we would wait one year, meanwhile I would go to Arizona and run an engine on the railroad east of Tuscon.

It made my heart glad to be in a country once more where my own language was spoken and among people whose customs were like unto that of my native land. There was no prejudice toward me on account of my foreign birth, such as I had often encountered in Peru. The hand of fellowship was extended in this broad free land of the United States, where the greatness of men is measured almost by merit alone.

What surprised me at first was the absence of soldiers until I came to understand the peace-loving disposition of the people, and learned that in the hour of the country’s need, all men became her defenders.

It was one of those balmy afternoons, so characteristic of southern California, when Hattie and I were seated in a park overlooking the beautiful Los Ossis valley. Our plans were made for the future, and I was to leave that night for Arizona. It was the tender parting of man and woman whose lives had been seared by the hot irons of adversity, and each felt that the other was the one and all upon this planet.

Here Buchan’s narrative was broken short. He was writing the last chapter on a pair of ladies’ dainty cuffs, when he stopped and listened. He arose to his feet. “Do you know,” he said, “I thought a moment ago I heard something––her voice.”