On they came, however, up the hill, silent and straight, hundreds of
them, right into the open below the trench from behind which the Moros
delivered a withering fire and gasped at the folly of the Americans.
Up and up they came, the lower lantacas blasting them off the face of
the earth, but still they rushed on and upward against the frowning
walls.
The mountain guns howled and roared over them, the walls grew troubled
and shaky, falling in and falling out, dimly seen between the curtain of
smoke and sheet of flame whirling about the leaping stones.
But steady eyes were gleaming where they could through the sheets of
fire, and steady fingers were pulling triggers rapidly and incessantly.
The crash came unbroken and clearly heard from the midst of the uproar
thundering up at the trench, as if the shells were bursting with a
million rattling fragments, and down the slope were tumbling the
blue-shirted figures, one under that tree, two over there by the big
boulder, another here and a dozen more down there, and during the next
two hours there was the most magnificent display of true courage and
grit ever heard of or seen.
The Artillery roared in anger and anguish, but apparently of no avail,
for the long streams of fire continued to pour from the fort with
regular intervals, and more blue-shirted figures went tumbling down the
hill.
But this did not continue very long, for the Artillery turned loose all
its little dogs of war and they barked fiercely and hurled death
projectiles into the fort and trenches with renewed vigor.
Think how you would feel if a person should hurl a stone at you with a
tremendous shout.
Multiply the stone and shout by twenty millions, add fire and smoke and
nauseous vapors, and imagine the earth trembling beneath your feet, with
the air filled with screaming projectiles, even then you cannot imagine
the terror of that Artillery assault.