The gunboat sped swiftly toward the cañon. Through glasses the jagged rocks at the top could be seen covered with a curious crowd of natives. Several sharp reports came muffled to his ears. The soft coo of the alarm concha vibrated above the stillness. He called his three gun-pointers up on the bridge and cautioned them with painstaking care of their important duty. “Shoot at the middle and the left; Captain Perry is on that mountain and I hope at this end. All three will fire together and I will control from here.”
The men listened gravely and returned to their guns.
“Load,” Sydney ordered harshly. The breech-blocks clicked shut and the crew stood expectantly alert. The soldiers, unaccustomed to artillery, unconsciously edged away from the three bow guns.
“Set your sights at 1,500 yards,” Sydney directed, at the same time giving a signal to the helmsman to hold the ship steady on her course.
“Fire when you’re on, aim at the edge of the rock,” he said in a tense voice.
The three guns roared almost in unison and three black dots winged swiftly out toward the frowning cliffs ahead of the gunboat. Three dull brown splashes suddenly appeared just under the edge of the cliff and the reverberations died out slowly to an unearthly wail.
“Seventeen hundred,” the lad cried out sharply, for the shots had fallen short of the mark.
The sight-setters corrected their sights by a swift movement of the wheel under their hand and the air was again rent by the discharges.
“Fine shots,” the general exclaimed excitedly as he leveled his glass at the top of the mountain where the three shells had exploded, scattering the rock and dirt in all directions and causing the inquisitive insurgents to hurriedly seek shelter.
“Rapid fire,” Sydney ordered calmly and his voice had scarcely died away when a puff of white smoke belched from the stronghold.