“Boys,” remarked No. 7 of our crew—­“Morrie,” we called him—­“this sight is worth all the coaling and standing watches and poor food we have had to put up with.  I would experience it all over again just to see this bombardment.”

And we heartily agreed with him.

After a time it seemed as if the admiral was determined to plump shells into the vicinity of Santiago until there was nothing left to fire at.  There had been a continuous outpouring of projectiles from the guns of the fleet for over an hour, yet that grim line of gray steel fortresses still passed and repassed in front of the forts.

It was really growing monotonous, when something occurred at the gun to which I was attached that served to give us an exciting minute or two.  “Hay” had just fired a shot which caught one of the new batteries directly in the centre.  The shell was extracted, and another inserted, but when the second captain pressed the electric firing lanyard, there was no report.  The shell had missed fire.

“Long Tommy” reached forward to open the breech, but was stopped by a sharp order from the divisional officer.

“Don’t open that breech till I give the word,” he said.

The electrical connections were examined and the contacts scraped bright.

“Stand by,” said “Hay” finally; “let’s try her again.”

The great gun moved slowly on its pivot while “Hay” worked the elevating gear.  The orders came sharp and clear through the roar of the cannon and the shriek of the shells.

As we watched our young gun captain, we saw his set face grow even more determined, and we knew that he had got his sight to suit him and that he was about to fire the gun.

With a gesture of disgust he threw down the firing lanyard.

“It’s no go,” he said, “that cartridge will have to come out.”

We looked at one another; it was a serious moment.  The bombardment was now at its height, and the thunderous roaring of the guns was increasing with every passing second.  Above and around us the vicious reports of the “Yankee’s” five-inch rapid-firers seemed like one continuous volley.  A hoarse cheer came from a nearby ship, proclaiming the landing of some favored shot.

“Hurry, fellows,” shouted “Hay” in an ecstasy of impatience.  “Lively there; we’re missing all the sport.”

CHAPTER XI.

A perilous moment.

The scene on the gun deck of the “Yankee” at that moment would have made an eloquent subject for the brush of a Meissonier.  It was the deck of a warship in battle, and the spectacle enacted was accompanied, by an orchestra of the mighty guns of a fleet in action.

Imagine a compartment of steel, a compartment filled with smoke that surged and eddied as the ship lunged forward or rolled upon a heavy swell.

Imagine scattered about in this pungent vapor many groups of men, men half-naked, perspiring; their glistening bodies smeared and stained with the grime of conflict.