In the mean time the iron-clads had been preparing for the fight.  The magazines were opened and lighted; the casemates covered with a coat of grease, to glance the shot which might strike them; the men were at their stations, and when all was ready, they steamed down toward the fort, the Ticonderoga leading the way.

Frank, by attention to his duties, had rapidly learned the gun-drill, and had been promoted to the command of one of the guns in the turret.  He thought he had become quite accustomed to the noise of bullets, but he could not endure the silence that then reigned in the ship.  The men, stripped to the waist, stood at their guns as motionless as so many statues; and, although Frank tried hard to exhibit the same indifference that they did, his mind was exceedingly busy, and it seemed to him that he thought of every thing he had done during his life.  Oh, how he longed to hear the order passed to commence firing!  Any thing was preferable to that awful stillness.

At length, the captain came into the turret, where he always took his station in action, and glanced hastily at the countenance of each of the officers and men.  He seemed satisfied with his examination, for he immediately took his stand where he could see all that was going on, and gave orders to the pilot to head the vessel directly toward the fort; and then every thing relapsed into that horrible silence again.  But this did not continue long; for, the moment they came within range, the fort opened on them, and a solid shot struck the casemate directly over Frank’s gun, with a force that seemed to shake the entire vessel.  Frank glanced at the captain, and saw him standing with his elbow on the starboard gun, and his head resting on his hand, watching the fort as coolly as though they had been engaged only in target practice.

The shells from the fort continued to fall around them, but the captain neither changed his position nor gave the order to fire.  The port-holes in the turret were all closed, with the exception of the one at which the captain stood, and, of course, no one could see what was going on.  Frank began to grow impatient.  He did not like the idea of being shot at in that manner without returning the fire.  At length the captain inquired: 

“What have you in your gun, Mr. Nelson?”

“A five-second shell, sir,” answered Frank, promptly.

“Very well.  Run out your gun and give them a shot.”

The men sprang to their stations in an instant; the ports flew open with a crash, and the heavy gun was ran out as easily as though it had been a twelve-pounder.  The first captain seized the lock string; there was a deafening report, and an eleven-inch shell went booming into the fort.  The force of the discharge ran the gun back into the turret again, and the ports closed as if by magic.  They did not close entirely, however, for there was a space of about four inches left between them, to allow for the action of the rammer in loading.  The gun was sponged, the cartridge driven home, and the gunner’s mate stood at the muzzle of the gun, removing the cap from a shell, when a percussion shell from the fort struck in the space between the shutters and exploded.  The discharge set fire to the shell which the gunner’s mate was holding in his hand, and the unfortunate man was blown almost to atoms.