The ships of our fleet also made better targets than did the batteries ash.o.r.e. It was certainly easy to distinguish the position of each vessel, but as the Spanish batteries were nearly all situated a short distance back from the crest of the ridge with a background little different in color from that of the battery, we found it difficult to locate them at times. Our elevation had to be perfect, as with an inch or two below or above, the projectile would either vanish in the distance or take effect on the cliffs below the batteries.

We of Number Eight gun, when the "Yankee" was steaming with the starboard broadside bearing, managed to slip across the deck and watch the firing from the ports and deadlights. It was really beautiful to see the landing of the great sh.e.l.ls upon the forts and surrounding earth.

Some battered into the soft spots on the cliffs, sending huge ma.s.ses of dirt and debris high into the air; then when the explosion came, there would follow a great cloud of dust resembling the wavering smoke over a city fire.

Others struck the harder portions of the cliff, bursting into a shower of fragments, each kicking up its own pother of dirt and shattered rock.

At times a sh.e.l.l would land in a crack in the face of the hill, and immediately following would come an upheaval of stones. These boulders, many of them of immense size, would roll down the slope and splash in the water at the base, creating a series of fountain-like cascades.

Accompanying the display was a continuous roar of explosion and detonation that echoed and reechoed across the water like the pealing of tropical thunder. In fact, it was these noises, mingled with the fierce reports of our guns, which impressed us the most. Taking it all in all, the scene was spectacular in the extreme.

"Boys," remarked No. 7 of our crew--"Morrie," we called him--"this sight is worth all the coaling and standing watches and poor food we have had to put up with. I would experience it all over again just to see this bombardment."

And we heartily agreed with him.

After a time it seemed as if the admiral was determined to plump sh.e.l.ls into the vicinity of Santiago until there was nothing left to fire at.

There had been a continuous outpouring of projectiles from the guns of the fleet for over an hour, yet that grim line of gray steel fortresses still pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed in front of the forts.

It was really growing monotonous, when something occurred at the gun to which I was attached that served to give us an exciting minute or two.

"Hay" had just fired a shot which caught one of the new batteries directly in the centre. The sh.e.l.l was extracted, and another inserted, but when the second captain pressed the electric firing lanyard, there was no report. The sh.e.l.l had missed fire.

"Long Tommy" reached forward to open the breech, but was stopped by a sharp order from the divisional officer.

"Don't open that breech till I give the word," he said.

The electrical connections were examined and the contacts sc.r.a.ped bright.

"Stand by," said "Hay" finally; "let's try her again."

The great gun moved slowly on its pivot while "Hay" worked the elevating gear. The orders came sharp and clear through the roar of the cannon and the shriek of the sh.e.l.ls.

As we watched our young gun captain, we saw his set face grow even more determined, and we knew that he had got his sight to suit him and that he was about to fire the gun.

With a gesture of disgust he threw down the firing lanyard.

"It's no go," he said, "that cartridge will have to come out."

We looked at one another; it was a serious moment. The bombardment was now at its height, and the thunderous roaring of the guns was increasing with every pa.s.sing second. Above and around us the vicious reports of the "Yankee's" five-inch rapid-firers seemed like one continuous volley.

A hoa.r.s.e cheer came from a nearby ship, proclaiming the landing of some favored shot.

"Hurry, fellows," shouted "Hay" in an ecstasy of impatience. "Lively there; we're missing all the sport."

CHAPTER XI.

A PERILOUS MOMENT.

The scene on the gun deck of the "Yankee" at that moment would have made an eloquent subject for the brush of a Meissonier. It was the deck of a warship in battle, and the spectacle enacted was accompanied, by an orchestra of the mighty guns of a fleet in action.

Imagine a compartment of steel, a compartment filled with smoke that surged and eddied as the ship lunged forward or rolled upon a heavy swell.

Imagine scattered about in this pungent vapor many groups of men, men half-naked, perspiring; their glistening bodies smeared and stained with the grime of conflict.

Imagine in the centre of one of these groups a wicked, menacing gun--a five-inch breechloader, its long, lean barrel raised shoulder-high upon the apex of a conical gun-mount, near the base of which are significant wooden cases, some empty and others filled with elongated, formidable cartridges; and pails of black, dirty water asc.u.m with powder; and other objects each significant of war.

Imagine these things, and then understand that this gun, made to be turned against an enemy, has now turned against its workers. In the bore, pent in by the polished breechblock, is a cartridge which has failed in its duty. It is apparently defective.

The tide of battle is surging on; other ships of the bombarding fleet are still pouring their shot and sh.e.l.l upon the grim array of forts ash.o.r.e; other guns of this ship are pursuing their duty with savage energy. But this gun is silent.

The men wax impatient. It is the height of the conflict. Many shots have been fired, and many more will yet be required to subdue the enemy. To be "out of action" will mean pa.s.siveness in the face of the enemy.

Anything but that.

There is a rivalry between the guns' crews. It is a rivalry as to which shall make the best shots and create the most damage. The members of Number Eight--the after gun on the port side--are proud of their record.

Their second captain--he whom they call "Hay"--has received the public commendation of the captain himself, sent down from the bridge in the midst of the battle. It is a mark of distinction not given freely, and Number Eight is eager for more honors.

But the men have not forgotten a similar case, occurring on the voyage down the coast, when another cartridge failed, and on being extracted from the breech chamber, exploded, killing a marine corporal and wounding others.

The men of Number Eight have not forgotten that tragedy, and that is why their gun is now to them a menacing creature of steel, whose breath may be the breath of death. They stand in groups, they eye it, they speculate, and they feel that a desperate and perilous duty is before them.

The risk must be taken. The cartridge must be extracted. It is a fortune of war which all who enlist must expect. But it is one thing to fall before an enemy's blow, and another to lose your life at the stroke of your own weapon.

The officer of the division steps forward.

"We will see if we can't take it out without much danger," he says, briefly. "Bring a rope."

One is hastily procured, and the first captain--a great, brawny, good-natured fellow, who has spent years at sea--deftly fastens the bight of the rope to the handle of the breechblock. He then retreats a short distance and signifies his readiness.

"When I give the word," calls out the officer, "pull handsomely.

Ready--pull away!"

From out the smoke-filled compartment men lean forward, eagerly--anxiously. They instinctively shrink back as the breech plug slowly moves. Then, when it finally opens, revealing the bra.s.s head of the cartridge inside the firing chamber, a sigh of relief comes from all.

But the danger is not yet over.

The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea. The second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain. This second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and pa.s.ses it to another man and myself. Carrying it between us--and carrying it gingerly--we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the hundred-pound projectile through the open port.

It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for one breathless second we think that it will strike. As the sh.e.l.l pa.s.ses from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators. "Hay"

pa.s.ses a grimy towel over his perspiring face.

"Whew! that was a ticklish moment," he said, solemnly. "I'd just as soon not handle any more defective sh.e.l.ls."

Which exactly represented our sentiments.

Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ash.o.r.e, and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the past.

The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour. As yet not one of the American vessels had been reached by a sh.e.l.l, nor had the forts suffered any perceptible damage. The fleet, roaring and thundering, was swinging back and forth through the great semicircle, the smoke from the guns was banking along the beach, and from Morro Castle and its attending batteries came sharp, defiant answers to the interminable volleys fired by our squadron.

"It's a good thing Uncle Sam's shot locker is pretty capacious,"

remarked Flagg, as we shoved another cartridge into the yawning breech of our five-inch gun. "If we haven't fired over three hundred rounds since seven o'clock I can't count."

"It'll be double that before we get through," grunted "Long Tommy," as we stepped back from the loaded gun. "Steady, there. Stand by!"