The result was a dull click but no explosion.

The corporal stepped back from his place in vexation.  He had succeeded in getting a fine “bead” just as the cartridge failed.

“Blast the English ammunition!” he exclaimed.  “It’s no good.”

The other men at the gun nodded approval.  Their experience bore out the corporal’s assertion.  They also knew that the cordite cartridges were not adapted to American guns, and should not have been used.  But they were marines and they were accustomed to obey orders without comment.

Captain Brownson had noticed the incident and he sent word to delay opening the breechblock until all danger of explosion had passed.  After waiting some time, Corporal Murray proceeded to extract the shell.  He took his place at the breech, while No. 2 unlocked the plug and swung it open.

“Now we’ll see what is the matter,” he began.  “I guess it is another case of—­”

He never finished the sentence.  With a frightful roar the defective cartridge exploded, sending fragments of shell and parts of the breech-block into the corporal’s face and chest.  He was hurled with terrific force to the deck, where he lay motionless, mortally wounded.

Numbers 2 and 3 of the unfortunate gun’s crew did not escape, the former being struck down with the hand lever, which penetrated his arm.  The injured men received prompt attention from the surgeon and his assistants, but Corporal Murray was beyond mortal aid.  He died ten minutes after the accident.

He was a good soldier, jolly and light-hearted, and a great favorite with the crew.  The peculiar feeling of antagonism which is supposed to exist between the sailors and marines did not obtain in his case.

In the navy the hammock which serves the living as a bed by night is also their coffin and their shroud.  It so served Corporal Murray.

[Illustration:  “With A frightful roar the defective cartridge exploded”]

Shortly after four bells (six o’clock) on the evening of the day on which the accident occurred, the boatswain’s mate sent the shrill piping of his whistle echoing through the ship, following it with the words, doleful and long drawn out: 

“All hands shift-ft-ft into clean-n-n blue and stand by to bury the dead-d-d!”

When the crew assembled on the gun deck in obedience to the call, the sun was just disappearing beyond the edge of the distant horizon.  Its last rays entered the open port, showing to us the dead man’s figure outlined under an American flag.  The body had been placed upon a grating in front of an open port, and several men were stationed close by in readiness to launch it into the sea.

The ceaseless swaying of the ship in the trough of the sea, the engines having been stopped, set the lines of blue uniformed men swinging and nodding, and, as the surgeon, Dr. McGowan, read the Episcopal service, it seemed in the half light as if every man were keeping time with the cadence.