The first broadside did terrible execution; a ball one hundred and twenty
pounds in weight, fired by the chief bombardier, Francisco d'Arba in
person, burst in the prow of a galley so effectually that all her people
flew aft to the poop to prevent the water rushing in; but the vessel was
practically split in twain, and sank in a few moments. All around were dead
and dying men, disabled galleys, floating wreckage; the _Galleon of Venice_
had taken a terrible toll of the Osmanli; the order to retreat out of range
was given, and never was order obeyed with greater alacrity.
With accuracy and precision the galleon played upon such vessels as
remained within range, doing great execution. But she was now to be
subjected to an even severer test than the first headlong attack. She had
demonstrated to the Moslem leaders that here was no vessel to be carried by
mere reckless valour; a disciplined and ordered offensive was the only plan
which promised success; the Osmanli must use their brain as well as their
courage if that tattered flag, rescued from the water, and nailed to the
stump of the mast of the galleon, was ever to be torn down. There was
something daunting in the very aspect of the solid bulk of the huge
Venetian, something weird in the manner in which her crew never showed,
save only the steadfast figure of her captain immovable as a statue of
bronze, where he stood on her shot-torn poop.
This Homeric conflict was a triumph of discipline and gunnery on the part
of the Venetians; alert, accurate, and cool, the gunners of the galleon
threw away none of their ammunition: inspired by the heroic spirit of their
captain, great was the honour which they did on this stricken field to the
noble traditions of their forbears and the service to which they belonged.
Pages:
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224