A FIGHT IN THE FOG.

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

"All hands to muster!" rang out from the harsh throats of the boatswain's mates of the U.S.S. Kearsarge, and the crew came tumbling aft to the quarter-deck. They were as fine-looking a set of bluejackets as one would care to see, the cream of the navy and the naval reserve.

The new Kearsarge was cruising off the coast of Great Britain for the purpose of intercepting one of the enemy's finest cruisers, which was known to have recently left England, and was on the way to join her sister ships in her own country.

Every one aboard the American ship was wild to meet the enemy, and the Kearsarge's crew had not a fear that the fight would result differently from the one fought by her namesake forty-five years before.

The lookout had just reported smoke to the eastward, from which direction the enemy was expected. When all hands were "up and aft," the Captain addressed his men upon the impending conflict.

"Men," he said, "we are here to fight the most formidable of our enemy's cruisers. She is equal in every respect to the mighty ship upon which we stand. There are no chances in our favor. The battle will depend upon your coolness and courage.

"Men of the main battery, upon you depends the result of the action. Your target is the armored sides and turrets.

"Men of the secondary battery, your nerve and endurance are to be put to the crucial test. Your guns must be directed at the unarmored gun parts and torpedo tubes.

"Remember, all of you, a lucky shot may turn the tide of battle.

"Officers and men, upon you depends whether the new Kearsarge shall win a name as lasting and illustrious as did the noble ship from which that name was inherited.

"The eyes of the world are upon you."

A few minutes later the Captain and the executive officers are upon the forward bridge, discussing the minor details of the plan of action, and casting apprehensive glances at the low line of black smoke on the eastern horizon.

The former is a fine-looking young officer, who has been rapidly advanced to commanding rank through his zeal and untiring labors to perfect the navy of his country.

Many an article from his pen on how a ship should be fought has been published in the scientific papers of America; but now he must put his theories to the test—to learn by experience, bitter or sweet, whether he merited the commendation which his numerous articles on naval science have won for him.

The Kearsarge, which was launched in 1900, is an armored cruiser of 9000 tons displacement, 420 feet in length, and 64 feet in breadth. The main battery consists of four 10-inch breech-loading rifles, firing projectiles weighing 500 pounds; two mounted in a 10-inch armored turret forward on midship line, and two in a similarly placed turret aft, and four 8-inch breech-loading rifles, firing projectiles weighing 250 pounds, mounted two each in a 6-inch armored turret on either beam.

The secondary battery consists of twelve 5-inch rapid-fire guns and eight 6-pounders mounted in armored sponsons on a covered gun-deck. On her superstructure rail, about 15 feet above the spar-deck, she carries twelve 37-millimeter revolver cannon and four long 1-pounders. With this tremendous battery she can hurl two tons of steel from one broadside of her main battery every minute, and 362 pounds of steel from her secondary broadside every five seconds. The velocity of this metal on striking within battle-range would be about twenty-five miles a minute. The heavy shells, if striking within the biting angle, can penetrate the armor of any war-vessel afloat.

On her berth-deck she carries five torpedo-tubes with two automobile Whitehead torpedoes for each tube. The charge used is sufficient to sink any cruiser afloat if exploded within ten yards of her bottom plating. The armor on her sides is 5 inches of steel, and her protective-deck is 3 inches in thickness.

Among the inventions which her Captain has given to his navy is a sound-detector, by means of which a sound can be magnified to a very great degree, and its direction accurately ascertained.

The Kearsarge had been fitted with one of these detectors before leaving the United States, for the Captain knew that many dense fogs would be met with off the English coast.

She has been cruising about in wait for her prey for over a week. The crew have been given incessant drill and sub-calibre target practice. The plan of attack has been discussed so often that it is known by all the officers.

The ship is "cleared for action." Every stanchion and boat-davit has been lashed to the deck. Every movable object on the deck below has been sent to the protective-deck to avoid, as far as possible, the danger from flying splinters.

The smoke on the horizon has approached, until now it is seen from the top to come from two smoke-pipes framed by something that looks suspiciously like two military fighting-masts.

The crew are gathered on the forecastle. The enemy is now in sight, and the Captain's glass is upon her. A careful scrutiny shows her to be a war-vessel similar in appearance to his own. At a sign from him the drummer beats to "quarters." This sound calls every man to some station. The Captain goes to the conning-tower, a small heavily armored turret beneath the bridge. An aid enters with him to steer the ship by his direction from the wheel within. A small opening near the top gives the occupants a view around the horizon, and numerous speaking-tubes and telephones put them in communication with all the vital parts of the ship. Crews of twelve men each enter the turrets in charge of an officer. Steam is turned on the turret-engines. The guns on the deck below are divided between two divisions of men, each division in charge of a lieutenant, who has an ensign and midshipman as assistants.

The men are stripped to the waist, and their guns are ready for battle; division tubs are filled with water, and the decks are covered with sand. On the berth-deck hatches and scuttles are opened, tackles are hooked, and the cooks are hoisting powder and shell for the battery.

The torpedo clews are charging their deadly weapons with compressed air. Below the protective-deck are half-naked men in the magazines and shell rooms, handling the missiles that are soon to speed towards the approaching enemy.

Down in the depths of the steel hull the firemen feed the mighty furnaces to a white heat. It is all the same to them now as when the monsters are engaged in a death-struggle. The sounds of the discharges, of the explosion of shells, and the cries of the wounded will be too distant and muffled to give them an idea of what is going on in the world above them. The first news will come when the terrible torpedo explodes against their ship's side, dooming them to a watery grave, or the merciless ram sinks into its very bowels, or when a heavy shell penetrates one of the huge boilers, dooming all hands in the terrific explosion that will follow.

The stranger has altered her course and is steaming in the direction of the Kearsarge. There are her two military masts, but no flag as yet to show her nationality. Suddenly something flutters from her mast-head. It is the flag of England! There is no time now to consider what must be done. The ships are but five miles apart, steaming for each other at twenty-knots speed. One minute more and the cruisers will be within battle-range.

The Captain is a man of quick judgment, and his mind is made up in an instant.

From his point of vantage on the bridge he takes a careful look at the stranger and then at the drawing he has of her, furnished by the Navy Department. It is the same vessel; yet why would she be cleared for action if a British cruiser?

Starboard!

The mighty ship swings around in answer to her helm, and is heading perpendicularly to the course of the stranger.

Two midshipmen stationed at the range-finders in the tops are pointing the delicate instruments towards the approaching ship. Dials at each gun automatically show that the distance is rapidly diminishing. The marines have taken their rifles to the superstructure-deck, and are crouching behind a breastwork constructed of closely lashed hammocks. The doctors have removed their medicines and instruments to the ward-room, and the long mess-tables are in readiness to receive the dead and wounded. The chief quartermaster stands ready aft with a spare ensign to hoist over the ship should his country's flag be shot away.

When the range-finder registers three and a half miles the Captain orders the forward turret to fire at the stranger. The air is rent immediately by the blast of the discharge.

The crew wait breathlessly while the shells reach the height of their trajectories. One strikes the sea short, while the other strikes the stranger and explodes.

The irrevocable step is taken. England's flag has been fired upon.

All hands wait to see what the stranger will do. Three miles told the range-finder.

A brown mist shoots from the stranger's forward turret; at the same time the British flag is hauled down, and the flag of the enemy floats defiance in its stead. Two 10-inch shells fall but a few yards short of the Kearsarge, and a moment later the sound of the discharge reaches the ears of her crew.

Two miles and a half registers the range-finder, and all the officers are directed to open fire. Shot after shot belches forth from the Kearsarge's broadside and speeds towards the enemy, exploding against her armor and topsides.

As yet the Kearsarge has not been hit, but now the vapor from the enemy's smokeless powder shoots from the muzzles of a score of guns not two thousand yards away, and two tons of steel are launched on their deadly flight.

The havoc aboard the Kearsarge will never be forgotten. The armor is pierced, the topsides are riddled. The carnage among the unprotected men on the gun-deck and superstructure is awful. But worst of all, many men not wounded by shot and shell are laid insensible by some unseen power.

Skulonite is the word that passes from lip to lip. The poisonous gas is the aftermath of the explosion of shells loaded with this deadly compound.

The men are carried from the compartments filled with the vapor, and the air-tight doors are closed to prevent the spreading of the noxious fumes to the magazines and engine-rooms.

The cruisers are now but fifteen hundred yards apart, steaming in opposite directions. As they circle about one another like mighty birds of prey they are fast approaching within range at which a new weapon will be launched against the other's steel hull, the silent but relentless torpedo. Then the ram will soon crash through one of the cruisers. Which will it be?

The Kearsarge's fire is becoming more desultory as the crew of one gun after another succumbs to the terrible influence of the skulonite.

Suddenly a steel fishlike weapon is seen shooting from the enemy's side. The Captain of the Kearsarge watches with breathless anxiety the line of bubbles on the water's surface, as the torpedo approaches his ship at a terrific speed. It suddenly swerves, and goes but a few yards clear of her stern.

The Kearsarge's breast torpedo is launched at the enemy. With a splash it leaps from her side and speeds on its errand of destruction. The bubbles in its wake show the aim is good. It must strike. But no, it has gone under the enemy's ram.

What is that hazy line to windward, but half a mile distant? It is a most welcome sight to the brave man in the conning-tower, and he heads his crippled ship for the oncoming mist. Soon she is swallowed up in the dense fog-bank, and shut out from her enemy's view.

The enemy gives chase, as the American commander had expected. He turns the trumpet of his sound-detector in the direction of the pursuing vessel, and from its dial ascertains her course.

The enemy is still firing, but the guns of the Kearsarge have ceased to roar, and "silence fore and aft" is commanded of the crew. The fleeing ship goes on until her Captain is sure that his foe has entered the fog, then the helm is put hard over, and the ship swings around until the instrument indicates that the other is dead ahead.

Again the Captain is hopeful of success, as he realizes that the enshrouding mist and the instrument before him place the advantage in his favor. His eye is fixed on the pointer of the dial, ever responsive to the electric current set up by the sound waves beating upon the sensitive diaphragm in the trumpet. The ship leaps forward until he hears through the ear-piece the throb of the enemy's engines. His heart beats fast, but he knows that he must be self-controlled.

The ships are coming together bows on. The American commander causes his ship to swing to starboard a little so as to point her bow away from the approaching enemy.

The instant for action has come. He starboards his helm in order to lay his ship across the course of the enemy. "Prepare to ram" is telephoned by the aid at his side. The ship swings around. The pointer swerves from the direction of her starboard bow to dead ahead. Has he been too late? Will he pass across her wake, or will he cross her path in time to receive her ram prow in his own broadside? The needle points ahead when the huge side of the enemy looms up through the fog.

In a moment, with a terrific shock, the ram bow of the victorious Kearsarge enters the side of the enemy, cleaving armor and deck-plating as though it were wood.

Slowly the victor backs off from her sinking enemy.

The rammed ship commences to deliver death-dealing shots; but she is fast sinking.

She can no longer elevate her guns enough to strike the Kearsarge. She has heeled too far. The firing eases.

All the Kearsarge's boats that are not disabled are manned and ready to render assistance to the vanquished.

Not a moment too soon. The ill-fated ship heels to starboard, her stern rising high in the air, her screws thrashing the fog in their upward flight, the flag under which her brave defenders had so well fought still waving at her trucks, and slowly sinks beneath the waves, sending up columns of water from her hatchways, and engulfing her crew in the mighty suction.

But few survivors were saved of the few hundred that had had victory so nearly in their grasp.