Beyond it there was another cannon, already in place, its muzzle pointing out through sandbags, its squatty solid iron frame resting upon little wheels which fitted a pair of iron rails bolted to a plank turn-table upon a platform. Beyond that was still another great gun. And to the rear there was the sand-bagged roof of a low hut, sunk deeply almost on the level with the surface of the ground. This was a battery, then; and that probably was the powder house—the magazine. And all had been dug out, and erected, here, between the dunes and Vera Cruz, in point-blank range of the walls!
By the hurry and bustle something was going to happen very soon. A smart naval officer in blue and gold, with sword drawn, was overseeing the work of setting the first gun into position. A boatswain, his shirt open upon his hairy chest and a whistle dangling at the end of a cord, was bossing. Everybody was a sailor, so it must be the naval battery.
The boatswain saw Jerry staring; and he stared likewise.
“Hi! What you doin’ here, young ’un?”
“Just watching,” said Jerry.
“Where you from?”
“Vera Cruz. But I’m an American.”
“Shiver my tops’ls!” uttered the boatswain; and the other sailors briefly paused to wipe their brows and grin. “A bloomin’ American from Very Cruz.” He saluted the officer. “Recruit for the navy, sir. What shall I do with him?”
“Send him to the rear. This is no place for boys,” rapped the officer. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Jerry Cameron.”