They all made a wide detour to the south to avoid bullets. The ground was a marshy meadowland, knee-deep with ooze, and cut by the usual ditches, some of them breast deep. But nobody stopped for these. When they arrived at the church they were a slimy party. The rear door was locked. Lieutenant Grant rapped with the hilt of his sword. A priest opened, for barely a crack.
“You speak Spanish?” the lieutenant asked of Jerry.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! Tell the father that we wish to get inside.”
“He says that he’s sorry, but it’s impossible at this hour,” Jerry interpreted after the priest’s answer.
“Tell him that nothing is impossible to Americans. Tell him we regret to trouble him and we do not wish to damage property needlessly, but if he doesn’t open the door we’ll break it down and he may find himself a prisoner.”
The priest opened and stood aside. He did not look especially friendly as they trooped by him. Up into the belfry they climbed, led still by Lieutenant Grant. The men had hard work to hoist the pieces of the howitzer up the ladder, but they did it. They put the barrel upon the carriage and the carriage upon the wheels, and proceeded to pass up the powder cartridges and shells.
When the gun had been assembled and the gun squad was prepared, the belfry had little spare space in it.
The gun was loaded, pointed—Lieutenant Grant himself squinted over the barrel. He stood back.
“Give it to ’em!” he barked. “Fire!”