The lock strings were jerked viciously. Such a thunderous blast tore the air to shreds that Jerry's ear drums felt driven right into his head, and the suction of the air, following the report, dragged him upon his nose.
The smoke gushed wider and higher. He could see the officers standing and peering through their spy-glasses, at the city; they shouted—he could not hear a word, but the smoking guns had recoiled inward until checked by ropes and chocks; the rammers swabbed with the swab ends of their long ramrods; other sailors thumbed the vent holes; the swabbers reversed their tools; sailors rapidly inserted a flannel bag of powder into each muzzle; in it went, forced home by the ramrods; shells for some guns, shot for others, had been handed up—were rammed down—out rolled the guns, to the haul on block and tackle—
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Fire!"
"Boom-m-m!"
The sailors appeared to be cheering as they toiled. The guns thundered and smoked—recoiled as if alive and eager, were sponged and loaded and run out again; every man was on the jump, but they all moved like clockwork. Cowering there, back of the magazine, and glued to the side of the trench, Jerry stared roundly. Nobody paid any attention to him. All were too busy to take heed of a ragged boy.
"Bang!" A return shot had arrived. It was a shell, and had burst so near that the fragments and the dirt rained down.
"Bang!" Another. The naval battery had been discovered, and Jerry was under fire.
