- dore. 'Sartinly I will, general. But I must fight
'em.' And ain't we a-fightin' of 'em? Well, I guess we are, matie!"
So being navy guns, they were being "fought" by the navy. From seven hundred yards their shot and shell were tearing right through the walls of the city. The astonished Mexicans were fighting back with three batteries, all aimed at the naval battery, to put it out.
The army was erecting another battery, nearby—Battery Number 4, of the heaviest army cannon, sixty-eight-pounders and twenty-four-pounders. Pretty soon these would join with the navy fire.
The work in the sick bay slackened, and Jerry stole up "forward" again. The din and the rush were as bad as ever. The sailors, bared to the waist, were black with powder grime and streaked with sweat, on faces, bodies and arms. The guns were alive and alert—they were monsters, belching, darting back, fuming, while they waited to be fed, then eagerly darting to belch once more.
After each shot the gun squads cheered, peering an instant through the fog.
"Another for the dons' lockers!"
"Hooray, lads! We've cut his bloomin' flag away."
"No, no! It's up again."
Yonder, across the heaving plain, the figure of a Mexican officer had leaped upon the parapet of a bastion fort set in the walls and was fastening the Mexican flag to its broken flagpole. It was a brave act. Cheers greeted him.
