The two for'ard turrets swung a few degrees to the left. The long lean guns rose slowly, as if roused from slumber.
Again the distant rumble. This time Peter could see the massive hostile projectiles approaching. The air seemed stiff with them,... and they were coming his way. Instinctively he ducked behind the thin steel plating of the fore-top—a protection hardly more serviceable than brown paper. The beastly shells seemed in no great hurry.... He could see the bright copper rifling bands on the dark grey bodies of the projectiles.
"Train twenty-five green," came the clear level tones again.
The Rebound had starboarded helm, and the enemy, instead of being on her port, were now well on her starboard bow.
With an infernal screech, the salvo trundled past the flagship's foremast, falling within a radius of fifty yards, a good three cables' lengths astern.
"Straddled, by Jove!" ejaculated a midshipman with Peter in the fore-top. "Why the——?"
His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the edge of the steel breastwork.
Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the youngster who, but a short while before, was gloating over the prospect of being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the tan. He laughed—it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity about it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a gallant effort to get it back into its right place.
Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the distant target. The terrific concussion was the simultaneous discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to fall—and they did.
Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had done their work—just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of a Rioguayan battleship—no more. But the next instant the scene had changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid flashes leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of her lofty hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then crashed across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured through a dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man, the Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind the ship next astern.