High before her she bore the gold and blood-red flag of Spain,
and, like a fugitive leaping from behind his prison-walls, she raced
forward for her freedom, to give battle, to meet her death.
A shell from the Iowa shrieked its warning in a shrill crescendo, a
flutter of flags painted their message against the sky. "The enemy's
ships are coming out," they signalled, and the ranks of white-clad
figures which the moment before stood motionless on the decks, broke
into thousands of separate beings who flung themselves, panting, down
the hatchways, or sprang, cheering, to the fighting-tops.
Heavily, but swiftly, as islands slip into the water when a volcano
shakes the ocean-bed, the great battle-ships buried their bows in the
sea, their sides ripped apart with flame and smoke, the thunder of
their guns roared and beat against the mountains, and, from the
shore, the Spanish forts roared back at them, until the air between
was split and riven. The Spanish war-ships were already scudding
clouds of smoke, pierced with flashes of red flame, and as they fled,
fighting, their batteries rattled with unceasing, feverish fury. But
the guns of the American ships, straining in pursuit, answered
steadily, carefully, with relentless accuracy, with cruel
persistence.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203