_Flying
Fish_, winged their way towards Dover.

The aerial section of the squadron made straight for the harbour. The
submarine section made south-westward to cut off the half dozen "lame
ducks" which were still struggling towards it. With these, unhappily,
was the _Scotland_, the huge flagship of the North Sea Squadron, which
still full of fight, was towing the battleship _Commonwealth_, whose
rudder and propellers had been disabled by a torpedo from a French
submarine.

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 sai