Boom again! The don gave another shot from his brass gun, and this time an angry shout arose from our own vessels in the roadstead, for the ball had crossed the forefoot of a Newcastle collier.
"Ramble, this will never do," said Slingsby; "that Spanish craft is too near by half—much nearer than our standing orders permit."
"Now, gunner, is that 24-pounder ready?" said I.
"All ready, sir."
"Then bang at her."
We all watched the shot with breathless interest, for to us, the whole affair was merely a race, a game of hazard, like any other. The sullen roar of the 24-pounder shook the solid parapet of the New Mole Fort, and pealed in repeated echoes round all the shore to the extremity of Rosia Bay; and as the cloud of light smoke curled away from before us, we saw the shot whipping the water far astern of the guarda costa, and a flush of annoyance spread over the honest face of the artilleryman; for, as all our eyes were bent upon his performance, he had been most anxious to excel, and this very anxiety had probably defeated its object.
A muttered exclamation of impatience escaped him.
"Run back the gun," said he to the guard.
Back went the carronade, and home went the sponge, as he set his teeth, and, with hasty determination, proceeded to reload.
"Quick, quick," said I; "for if she hauls her wind, gunner, there will barely be time to give another shot."