The army was erecting another battery, nearby—Battery Number 4, of the heaviest army cannon, sixty-eight-pounders and twenty-four-pounders. Pretty soon these would join with the navy fire.
The work in the sick bay slackened, and Jerry stole up “forward” again. The din and the rush were as bad as ever. The sailors, bared to the waist, were black with powder grime and streaked with sweat, on faces, bodies and arms. The guns were alive and alert—they were monsters, belching, darting back, fuming, while they waited to be fed, then eagerly darting to belch once more.
After each shot the gun squads cheered, peering an instant through the fog.
“Another for the dons’ lockers!”
“Hooray, lads! We’ve cut his bloomin’ flag away.”
“No, no! It’s up again.”
Yonder, across the heaving plain, the figure of a Mexican officer had leaped upon the parapet of a bastion fort set in the walls and was fastening the Mexican flag to its broken flagpole. It was a brave act. Cheers greeted him.
The crew in front of Jerry reloaded at top speed. The great gun spoke.
“They’re serving those pieces like rifles,” said somebody, in Jerry’s ear. “By thunder, they’re planting shot and shell exactly where they please.” That was the surgeon, who had come forward for a view. “But the enemy’s making mighty good practice, too. He has German artillery officers.”