With a cheer the sailors holding the rope tackle hauled hard and the enormous cannon darted silently forward, so that their muzzles were thrust beyond the parapet.
A sailor behind each breech drew his cord taut. It was attached at the other end to a large lever, like a trigger, connected with an upraised hammer.
A gunner sighted—screwed down, screwed up, sprang aside—
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” announced the other squinting gunners, one to each piece.
“Fire!” shouted the battery officer, with dash of sword.
The lock strings were jerked viciously. Such a thunderous blast tore the air to shreds that Jerry’s ear drums felt driven right into his head, and the suction of the air, following the report, dragged him upon his nose.
The smoke gushed wider and higher. He could see the officers standing and peering through their spy-glasses, at the city; they shouted—he could not hear a word, but the smoking guns had recoiled inward until checked by ropes and chocks; the rammers swabbed with the swab ends of their long ramrods; other sailors thumbed the vent holes; the swabbers reversed their tools; sailors rapidly inserted a flannel bag of powder into each muzzle; in it went, forced home by the ramrods; shells for some guns, shot for others, had been handed up—were rammed down—out rolled the guns, to the haul on block and tackle—
“Aye, aye, sir!”