“Good!” cried Frank. “Maybe I’ll have a chance at the guns, if I did have to give up fighting on land.”
“I’m afraid you won’t—not with that leg. And they’re going to bombard soon,” was the answer.
The party taking off the wounded men, of whom there were several besides Frank, waited until the battleship had dropped her anchor in the new location. Then they went aboard, and soon afterward there began a bombardment of the hill section where the rebels had again set up their camp.
The shells from the big guns, as well as those from the smaller ones, flew screeching over the town, and burst in the neighborhood of the two hills, at one of which Frank had fired. The destruction was terrific, but the loss of life small, as most of the rebels were down in the city fighting. Much to his chagrin Frank was not allowed to serve “his” gun, as he called the forward fifteen-inch gun.
But as I have said, the second effort of the rebels did not amount to much. They were soon put to flight, and the effect of the ship’s bombardment, added to the hot fire from the blue-jackets on shore, soon brought the revolution once more to an end. It was most effectually broken this time.
“And that’s not the best of it!” cried Ned, when he came on board with his mates, dirty and powder-stained. “That’s not the best of it, Frank, old man!”
“It isn’t? what is?”
“How’s your leg?”
“Oh, never mind my leg! It’s all right—not so bad. Tell me the news!”
“They captured Bernardo and his gang!”