“Listen!” Hannibal cried.
He had sharp ears. The beat of drums and the shrill of fifes could be
faintly heard, sounding from the rear.
“That means us. It’s the Eighth Infantry march, as a warning signal.
Expect I’m wanted. Golly, hope I haven’t missed musicians’ call. Old
Peters――he’s drum major――will be mad as a hornet. A drummer never gets
any rest, anyhow. Good-by. See you again. You look me up.”
Away ran Hannibal, and most of the soldiers followed.
“More trench work,” they grumbled.
The place seemed very empty. Jerry hesitated, and wandered after.
Before he got to the camp he met a double file marching out to tap
of drum, their muskets on their shoulders. Hannibal and a fifer led,
behind a sergeant. Hannibal wore his drum, suspended from a pair of
whitened cross-belts that almost covered his chest. He gave Jerry a
wink, as he passed, sturdily shuttling his drumsticks.
Jerry fell in behind, at a respectful distance; soon he lost the file
and the sound of the drum, but he kept on, guided by wheel tracks. Next
he had arrived among the Volunteers again, where they were laughing and
lounging as before, except that these were a different batch, at this
particular spot――grimy as if they had just come out of the trenches,
themselves. Decidedly it was easy to tell a Volunteer from a Regular,
by the clothes and the untrimmed hair and the free off-hand manners.
The sun was high and hot; a perfect day had succeeded to the stormy
night. Jerry continued, until he struck the big trench scored by the
broad tracks. He was heading back for the naval battery; and presently
there he was, once more, his farther way blocked by the great guns and
a mass of sailors.
Nobody noticed him. The cross-trench for the battery was ringing with
orders and with the crash of shells from the castle and city. The
magazine was open――a squad of sailors stood beside each gun――the cannon
were being loaded――the charges were rammed home by two sailors to each
rammer――there was a quick order, repeated by the bo’s’ns, who blew
their whistles; and as if by magic all the brush fringing the cannon
muzzles was swept away with cutlasses and brawny arms.
With a cheer the sailors holding the rope tackle hauled hard and the
enormous cannon darted silently forward, so that their muzzles were
thrust beyond the parapet.
A sailor behind each breech drew his cord taut. It was attached at the
other end to a large lever, like a trigger, connected with an upraised
hammer.