We kept fanning down upon the enemy, now little more than a mile
away, signalling the fleet to follow.

"My God! see there!" a gunner shouted.

The British line had turned into a reeling, whirling ridge of smoke
lifting over spurts of flame at the bottom. We knew what was
coming. Untried in the perils of shot and shell, some of my
gunners stooped to cover under the bulwarks.

"Pull 'em out o' there," I called, turning to D'ri, who stood
beside me.

The storm of iron hit us. A heavy ball crashed into the after
bulwarks, tearing them away and slamming over gun and carriage,
that slid a space, grinding the gunners under it. One end of a
bowline whipped over us; a jib dropped; a brace fell crawling over
my shoulders like a big snake; the foremast went into splinters a
few feet above the deck, its top falling over, its canvas sagging
in great folds. It was all the work of a second. That hasty
flight of iron, coming out of the air, thick as a flock of pigeons,
had gone through hull and rigging in a wink of the eye. And a fine
mess it had made.

Men lay scattered along the deck, bleeding, yelling, struggling.
There were two lying near us with blood spurting out of their
necks. One rose upon a knee, choking horribly, shaken with the
last throes of his flooded heart, and reeled over. The _Scorpion_
of our fleet had got her guns in action; the little _Ariel_ was