Teddy and Bill Jones stood on the port side of the Texas, all unconscious that they were exposed to any chance shot the Spaniard might send aboard, and realising nothing save the fever of battle. The odour of burning powder was in their nostrils, and life or death, danger or safety were alike the same.
The Texas literally reeled under their feet as her big guns were discharged full at the Vizcaya, which ship was hurling shot and shell with reckless rapidity and inaccuracy of aim.
The roar of the pieces was like the crashing of thunder; the vibrations of the air smote one like veritable blows, and enormous smoke clouds rolled here and there, now shutting off all view, and again lifting to reveal the enemy in his desperate but ill-directed flight.
"Can we sink her?" Teddy asked once, when the two comrades were so closely enveloped by the pungent vapour that it was impossible to distinguish objects five feet away, and the little sailor cried, in a delirium of excitement:
"Sink her, lad? That's what we're bound to do!"
"She is workin' her guns for all they are worth, an' I've heard it said that even a ship like this would go down if a big shell struck fairly."
"Ay, lad, an' so she would, I reckon; but we'll have yonder Spaniard under the water before her gunners can get the range. Every shot of ours is hittin' its mark, an' they're not comin' within half a mile of us! Sink her! We'll—"
Even as Bill Jones spoke, the 12-inch gun in the Texas's forward turret was discharged. The smoke rolled aside at the same instant, and the two watchers saw a huge shell dart forth, speeding directly toward the ship that had so lately been a friendly visitor in the harbour of New York.
It struck its mark fairly, crashed through the iron plating as if through paper, and then Teddy saw the mighty vessel reel under her death-stroke when the shell exploded.