His question was interrupted by a deafening crash that shook the tripod mast like a bamboo in a hurricane. The steel platform seemed to jump bodily. A whiff of acrid-smelling cordite flicked over the edge of the steel breastwork. Peter gave a sidelong glance at the midshipman. It was the youngster who, but a short while before, was gloating over the prospect of being in action. The boy's face was pale underneath the tan. He laughed--it was a forced laugh without any ring of sincerity about it. His heart was doubtless in his boots, but he was making a gallant effort to get it back into its right place. Retrieving his binoculars, Corbold brought them to bear upon the distant target. The terrific concussion was the simultaneous discharge of the four 15-inch guns of A and B turrets. Already the salvo was on its way towards a target unseen by the fifty odd men cooped up within the two turrets. Eight miles away those shells, by the latest workings of the science of gunnery, were calculated to fall--and they did. Through his glasses, Peter watched the receding flight of the huge missiles, each weighing more than a ton. The impact came. At first there was little to indicate to the observer's eye that they had done their work--just a few dark splashes on the light grey hull of a Rioguayan battleship--no more. But the next instant the scene had changed considerably. The projectiles had burst, not on impact, but after they had eaten into the vitals of the enemy ship. Lurid flashes leapt from her superstructure and from different parts of her lofty hull. One of her funnels sagged, hung irresolute, and then crashed across her port battery. Then flame-tinged smoke poured through a dozen unauthorized outlets. Reeling like a drunken man, the Rioguayan battleship hauled out of line and disappeared behind the ship next astern. By this time the firing had become general. The four British battleships were letting rip as fast as the loading-trays could deliver shells and ammunition into the rapacious breeches of the enormous weapons. The din was terrific, while the vibration was so intense that the fore-top was shaking and rattling like a high-pressure engine on a faulty bed. "Goodness only knows what we're here for," thought Peter, wiping the cordite dust from his eyes and shaking the beads of salt spray from the peak of his cap. "Can't see a blessed thing." He continued to peer out automatically. There was little to be seen, save when an occasional lifting of the pall of spray and smoke enabled him to see the flashes of the guns of the _Royal Oak_ and her consorts. His senses were benumbed by the continuous crashes. He was no longer afraid. A sort of stolid indifference seemed to take possession of the fragments of thought left in his brain. The whole business seemed a ghastly, bewildering nightmare.