“The _Miantonoma_ was a twin-turreted monitor, carrying two of Parrot’s 480 pounder smooth-bore. Her spar-deck, which was flush fore and aft, was about two and a half to three feet above the surface of the water in harbour. What we would call the gun-deck was below the water-line some eight feet, and here at sea during any sort of rough weather, the men were compelled to live. Air was supplied (faugh! what an atmosphere it was, even in harbour!) by means of pipes which ran up to a scaffolding—I can find no better name for the structure—elevated above the spar-deck fifteen feet. Here were the wheel-house and a place for the look-out. But as it was apprehended that the first respectable gale would take charge of the flimsy structure and sweep it all away, a ‘preventer’ steering apparatus worked below, and knowledge was gained of what was going on in the upper world by means of reflectors. Two things struck the eye of an observant stranger on gaining the side. The first was the formidable appearance of the turrets—the latter, _mirabile dictu_, the number of spittoons! At once it became evident that such a craft as that which, if you please, we are now aboard of, could never be taken by boarding. Given the flush deck filled with an armed host; one of these terrible turrets would slowly turn round, the shield protecting the embrasure would fly back, a gaping volcano would belch forth, a whirlwind of flame and smoke only—no need, indeed, would there be for iron orbs at such quarters—and, ere its shield had once more covered grinning death, the armed host would have been swept away. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A TURRET SHIP.] “It is Her Majesty’s birthday, and the _Miantonoma_ steams away with those who have been invited on board to witness the firing of the big guns. The salute cannot be fired in the little harbour, else surely every pane of glass from the block-house to Riverhead will pay the penalty. So Freshwater Bay is to have the honour of hearing man’s thunder reverberating along its hill-girded shores. “Bang, bang—pop, pop, bang. You hear the Armstrongs and old field-pieces go off from Her Majesty’s men-of-war in harbour, and Her Majesty’s Fort William and water batteries. Then you descend to utter silence. You ascend again through a trapdoor, and find yourself in a circular room, some twelve feet in diameter, padded from top to bottom like the interior of a carriage. By your side is a huge mass of iron. You are inside the turret. A glimmering lamp sheds its feeble light on the moving forms around you, and from below comes the faint whispering of the men, until the trap is shut and you are again in utter silence.