“It sounded to me like a six-inch shell,” exclaimed O’Neil. “I ain’t heard one so close since Santiago, but I recognize the tune.”
Explosion after explosion followed in rapid succession.
“The streets are deserted,” shouted O’Neil above the roar of crashing buildings and exploding shells. “It’s a bombardment. There’s a ship or two pumping shell into the town from the sea.”
The sailor slid down from his position of vantage and pointed to the door.
“Our guards have run for it. We must break down that door.”
The three Americans, simultaneously, flung themselves against the stout oak, but it held firmly despite their united efforts. They stood in the middle of their cell, the perspiration pouring from their exhausted bodies.
A crash louder and sharper rang in their ears. Then an explosion that threw them violently to the floor. The suffocating fumes of the exploded shell filled their nostrils.
But yet another and more sinister smell reached them, which froze the hot blood in their veins; it was the smoke of a burning building.
Their prison was afire. If the door held they would all be burned alive.