s from the fort,
where the men stacked arms, and stretched themselves out in the shade of
the trees.

In the mean time the iron-clads had been preparing for the fight. The
magazines were opened and lighted; the casemates covered with a coat of
grease, to glance the shot which might strike them; the men were at their
stations, and when all was ready, they steamed down toward the fort, the
Ticonderoga leading the way.

Frank, by attention to his duties, had rapidly learned the gun-drill, and
had been promoted to the command of one of the guns in the turret. He
thought he had become quite accustomed to the noise of bullets, but he
could not endure the silence that then reigned in the ship. The men,
stripped to the waist, stood at their guns as motionless as so many
statues; and, although Frank tried hard to exhibit the same indifference
that they did, his mind was exceedingly busy, and it seemed to him that he
thought of every thing he had done during his life. Oh, how he longed to
hear the order passed to commence firing! Any thing was preferable to that
awful stillness.

At length, the captain came into the turret, where he always took his
station in action, and glanced hastily at the countenance of each of the
officers and men. He seemed satisfied with his examination, for he
immediately took his stand where he could see all that was going on, and
gave orders to the pilot to head the vessel directly toward the fort; and
then every thing relapsed into that horrible silence again. But this did
not continue long; for, the moment they came within range, the fort opened
on them, and a solid shot struck the casemate directly over Frank's gun,
with a force that seemed to shake the entire vessel. Frank glanced at the
captain, and saw him standing with his elbow on the starboard gun, and his
head resting on his hand, watching the fort as coolly as though they had
been engaged only in target practice.

The shells from the fort continued to fall around them, but the captain
neither changed his position nor gave the order to fire. The port-holes in
the turret were all closed, with the exception of the one at which the
captain stood, and, of course, no one could see what was going on. Frank
began to grow impatient. He did not like the idea of being shot at in that
manner without returning the fire. At length the captain inquired:

"What have you in your gun, Mr. Nelson?"

"A five-second shell, sir," answered Frank, promptly.