At each corner of the fort there was a small bastion built out, to give flanking fire along the walls, and on top of the southwest bastion stood a little watchtower which carried the flagstaff. Bush and Hornblower stood on the tower, the broad Atlantic behind them and before them the long gulf of the bay of Samaná. Over their heads waved two flags: the White Ensign above, the red and gold of Spain below. Out in the Renown they might not be able to make out the colours, but they would certainly see the two flags. And when having heard the three signal guns boom out they trained their telescopes on the fort they must have seen the flags slowly flutter down and rise again, dip and rise again. Three guns; two flags twice dipped. That was the signal that the fort was in English hands, and the Renown had seen it, for she had braced up her mizzen topsail and begun the long beat back along the coast of the peninsula.
Bush and Hornblower had with them the one telescope which a hasty search through the fort had brought to light; when one of them had it to his eye the other could hardly restrain his twitching fingers from snatching at it. At the moment Bush was looking through it, training it on the farther shore of the bay, and Hornblower was stabbing with an index finger at what he had been looking at a moment before.
“You see, sir?” he asked. “Farther up the bay than the bakery. There’s the town—Savana, it’s called. And beyond that there’s the shipping. They’ll up anchor any minute now.”
“I see ‘em,” said Bush, the glass still at his eye. “Four small craft. No sail hoisted—hard to tell what they are.”
“Easy enough to guess, though, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Bush.
There would be no need for big men of war here, immediately adjacent to the Mona Passage. Half the Caribbean trade came up through here, passing within thirty miles of the bay of Samaná. Fast, handy craft, with a couple of long guns each and a large crew, could dash out and snap up prizes and retire to the protection of the bay, where the crossed fire of the batteries could be relied on to keep out enemies, as the events of yesterday had proved. The raiders would hardly have to spend a night at sea.
“They’ll know by now we’ve got this fort,” said Hornblower. “They’ll guess that Renown will be coming round after ‘em. They can sweep, and tow, and kedge. They’ll be out of the bay before you can say Jack Robinson. And from Engano Point it’s a fair wind for Martinique.”
“Very likely,” agreed Bush.
With a simultaneous thought they turned to look at the Renown. With her stern to them, her sails braced sharp on the starboard tack, she was making her way out to sea; it would be a long beat before she could go about in the certainty of being able to weather Cape Samaná. She looked lovely enough out there, with her white sails against the rich blue, but it would be hours before she could work round to stop the bolt hole. Bush turned back and considered the sheltered waters of the bay.
“Better man the guns and make ready for ‘em,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Hornblower. He hesitated. “We won’t have ‘em under fire for long. They’ll be shallow draught. They can hug the point over there closer than Renown could.”
“But it won’t take much to sink ‘em, either,” said Bush. “Oh, I see what you’re after.”
“Redhot shot might make all the difference, sir,” said Hornblower.
“Repay ‘em in their own coin,” said Bush, with a grin of satisfaction. Yesterday the Renown had endured the hellish fire of redhot shot. To Bush the thought of roasting a few Dagoes was quite charming.
“That’s right, sir,” said Hornblower.
He was not grinning like Bush. There was a frown on his face; he was oppressed with the thought that the privateers might escape to continue their depredations elsewhere, and any means to reduce their chances should be used.
“But can you do it?” asked Bush suddenly. “D’ye know how to heat shot?”
“I’ll find out, sir.”
“I’ll wager no man of ours knows how.”
Shot could only be heated in a battery on land; a seagoing ship, constructed of inflammable material, could not run the risk of going into action with a flaming furnace inside her. The French, in the early days of the Revolutionary War, had made some disastrous experiments in the hope of finding a means of countering England’s naval superiority, but after a few ships had set themselves on fire they had given up the attempt. Seagoing men now left the use of the heated weapon to shorebased garrison artillery.
“I’ll try and find out for myself, sir,” said Hornblower. “There’s the furnace down there and all the gear.”
Hornblower stood in the sunshine, already far too hot to be comfortable. His face was pale, dirty and bearded, and in his expression eagerness and weariness were oddly at war.
“Have you had any breakfast yet?” asked Bush.
“No, sir.” Hornblower looked straight at him. “Neither have you, sir.”
“No,” grinned Bush.
He had not been able to spare a moment for anything like that, with the whole defence of the fort to be organised. But he could bear fatigue and hunger and thirst, and he doubted if Hornblower could.
“I’ll get a drink of water at the well, sir,” said Hornblower.
As he said the words, and the full import came to him, a change in his expression was quite obvious. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips; Bush could see that the lips were cracked and parched and that the tongue could do nothing to relieve them. The man had drunk nothing since he had landed twelve hours ago—twelve hours of desperate exertion in a tropical climate.
“See that you do, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush. “That’s an order.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush found the telescope leaving his hand and passing into Hornblower’s.
“May I have another look, sir, before I go down? By George, I thought as much. That twomaster’s warping out, sir. Less than an hour before she’s within range. I’ll get the guns manned, sir. Take a look for yourself, sir.”
He went darting down the stone stairs of the tower, having given back the telescope, but half way down he paused.
“Don’t forget your breakfast, sir,” he said, his face upturned to Bush. “You’ve plenty of time for that.”
Bush’s glance through the telescope confirmed what Hornblower had said. At least one of the vessels up the bay was beginning to move. He turned and swept the rest of the land and water with a precautionary glance before handing the telescope to Abbott, who during all this conversation had been standing by, silent in the presence of his betters.
“Keep a sharp lookout,” said Bush.
Down in the body of the fort Hornblower was already issuing rapid orders, and the men, roused to activity, were on the move. On the gun platform they were casting loose the remaining guns, and as Bush descended from the platform he saw Hornblower organising other working parties, snapping out orders with quick gestures. At the sight of Bush he turned guiltily and walked over to the well. A marine was winding up the bucket, and Hornblower seized it. He raised the bucket to his lips, leaning back to balance the weight; and he drank and drank, water slopping in quantities over his chest as he drank, water pouring over his face, until the bucket was empty, and then he put it down with a grin at Bush, his face still dripping water. The very sight of him was enough to make Bush, who had already had one drink from the well, feel consumed with thirst all over again.
By the time Bush had drunk there was the usual group of people clamouring for his attention, for orders and information, and by the time he had dealt with them there was smoke rising from the furnace in the corner of the courtyard, and a loud crackling from inside it. Bush walked over. A seaman, kneeling, was plying a pair of bellows; two other men were bringing wood from the pile against the ramparts. When the furnace door was opened the blast of heat that rose into Bush’s face was enough to make him step back. Hornblower turned up with his hurried pace.
“How’s the shot, Saddler?” he asked.
The petty officer picked up some rags, and, with them to shield his hands, laid hold of two long handles that projected from the far side of the furnace, balancing two projecting from the nearest side. When he drew them out it became apparent that all four handles were part of a large iron grating, the centre of which rested inside the furnace above the blazing fuel. Lying on the grating were rows of shot, still black in the sunshine. Saddler shifted his quid, gathered his saliva, and spat expertly on the nearest one. The spittle boiled off, but not with violence.
“Not very hot yet, sir,” said Saddler.
“Us’ll fry they devils,” said the man with the bellows, unexpectedly; he looked up, as he crouched on his knees, with ecstasy in his face at the thought of burning his enemies alive.
Hornblower paid him no attention.
“Here, you bearer men,” he said, “let’s see what you can do.”
Hornblower had been followed by a file of men, every pair carrying a piece of apparatus formed of two iron bars joined with iron crosspieces. The first pair approached. Saddler took a pair of tongs and gingerly worked a hot shot on to the bearer.
“Move on, you two,” ordered Hornblower. “Next!”
When a shot lay on every bearer Hornblower led his men away.
“Now let’s see you roll those into the guns,” he said.
Bush followed, consumed with curiosity. The procession moved up the ramp to the gun platform, where now crews had been told off to every gun; the guns were run back with the muzzles well clear of the embrasures. Tubs of water stood by each pair of guns.
“Now, you rammers,” said Hornblower, “are your dry wads in? Then in with your wet wads.”
From the tubs the seamen brought out round flat discs of fibre, dripping with water.
“Two to a gun,” said Hornblower.
The wet wads were thrust into the muzzles of the guns and then were forced down the bores with the clubended ramrods.
“Ram ‘em home,” said Hornblower. “Now, bearers.”
It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearingstretchers at the muzzles of the guns and then to tilt so as to induce the hot shot to roll down into the bore.
“The Don must’ve exercised with these guns better than we’d give ‘em credit for,” said Hornblower to Bush, “judging by the practice they made yesterday. Rammers!”
The ramrods thrust the shot home against the charges; there was a sharp sizzling noise as each hot shot rested against the wet wads.
“Run up!”
The guns’ crews seized the tackles and heaved, and the ponderous guns rolled slowly forward to point their muzzles out through the embrasures.
“Aim for the point over there and fire!”
With handspikes under the rear axles the guns were traversed at the orders of the captains; the priming tubes were already in the touchholes and each gun was fired as it bore. The sound of the explosions was very different here on the stone platform from when guns were fired in the confined spaces of a wooden ship. The slight wind blew the smoke sideways.
“Pretty fair!” said Hornblower, shading his eyes to watch the fall of the shot; and, turning to Bush, “That’ll puzzle those gentlemen over there. They’ll wonder what in the world we’re firing at.
“How long,” asked Bush, who had watched the whole process with a fascinated yet horrified interest, “before a hot shot burns through those wads and sets off the gun itself?”
“That is one of the things I do not know, sir,” answered Hornblower with a grin. “It would not surprise me if we found out during the course of today.”
“I dare say,” said Bush; but Hornblower had swung round and was confronting a seaman who had come running up to the platform.
“What d’ye think you’re doing?”
“Bringing a fresh charge, sir,” said the man, surprised, indicating with a gesture the cartridgecontainer he carried.
“Then get back and wait for the order. Get back, all of you.”
The ammunition carriers shrank back before his evident anger.
“Swab out!” ordered Hornblower to the guns’ crews, and as the wetted sponges were thrust into the muzzles he turned to Bush again. “We can’t be too careful, sir. We don’t want any chance of live charges and redhot shot coming together on this platform.”
“Certainly not,” agreed Bush.
He was both pleased and irritated that Hornblower should have dealt so efficiently with the organization of the battery.
“Fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower, and the ammunition carriers he had previously sent back came trotting up the ramp again. “These are English cartridges, sir, I’ll wager.”
“Why do you say that?”
“WestCountry serge, stitched and choked exactly like ours, sir. Out of English prizes, I fancy.”
It was most probable; the Spanish forces which held this end of the island against the insurgents most likely depended on renewing their stores from English ships captured in the Mona Passage. Well, with good fortune they would take no more prizes—the implication, forcing itself on Bush’s mind despite his many preoccupations, made him stir uneasily as he stood by the guns with his hands clasped behind him and the sun beating down on his face. The Dons would be in a bad way with their source of supplies cut off. They would not be able to hold out long against the rebellious blacks that hemmed them in here in the eastern end of Santo Domingo.
“Ram those wads handsomely, there, Cray,” said Hornblower. “No powder in that bore, or we’ll have ‘Cray D.D.’ in the ship’s books.”
There was a laugh at that—‘D.D.’ in the ship’s books means ‘discharged, dead’—but Bush was not paying attention. He had scrambled up the parapet and was staring out at the bay.
“They’re standing down by the bay,” he said. “Stand by, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush strained his sight to look at the four vessels creeping down the fairway. As he watched he saw the first one hoisting sail on both masts. Apparently she was taking advantage of a flaw of wind, blowing flukily in the confined and heated waters, to gain some of the desperately necessary distance towards the sea and safety.
“Mr. Abbott, bring down that glass!” shouted Hornblower.
As Abbott descended the steps Hornblower addressed a further comment to Bush.
“If they’re making a bolt for it the moment they know we’ve got the fort it means they’re not feeling too secure over there, sir.”
“I suppose not.”
“You might have expected ‘em to try and recapture the fort one way or another. They could land a force up the peninsula and come down to attack us. I wonder why they’re not trying that, sir? Why do they just unstick and run?”
“They’re only Dagoes,” said Bush. He refused to speculate further about the enemy’s motives while action was imminent, and he grabbed the glass from Abbott’s hands.
Through the telescope details were far plainer. Two large schooners with several guns aside; a big lugger, and a vessel whose rig they still could not determine, as she was the farthest away and, with no sail set, was towing behind her boats out from the anchorage.
“It’ll be long range, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush.
“Yes, sir. But they hit us with these same guns yesterday.”
“Make sure of your aim. They won’t be long under fire.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The vessels were not coming down together. If they had done so they might stand a better chance, as the fort would only be able to fire on one at a time. But the panic feeling or every man for himself must have started them off as soon as each one separately could get under way—and perhaps the deep channel was too narrow for vessels in company. Now the leading schooner had taken in her sail again; the wind here, what there was of it, was foul for her when she turned to port along the channel. She had two boats out quickly enough to tow her; Bush’s telescope could reveal every detail.
“Some time yet before she’s in range, sir,” said Hornblower. “I’ll take a look at the furnace, with your permission.”
“I’ll come too,” said Bush.
At the furnace the bellows were still being worked and the heat was tremendous—but it was far hotter when Saddler drew out the grating that carried the heated shot. Even in the sunshine they could see the glow of the spheres; as the heat rose from them the atmosphere above them wavered so that everything below was vague and distorted. It could be a scene in Hell. Saddler spat on the nearest cannon ball and the saliva leaped with an instant hiss from the smooth surface of the sphere, falling from it without contact to dance and leap on the grating under it until with a final hiss it vanished entirely. A second attempt by Saddler brought the same result.
“Hot enough, sir?” asked Saddler.
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
Bush had often enough as a midshipman taken a smoothing-iron forward to the galley to heat it when there had been particular need to iron a shirt or a neckcloth; he remembered how he had made the same test of the temperature of the iron. It was a proof that the iron was dangerously hot to use when the spittle refused to make contact with it, but the shot was far hotter than that, infinitely hotter.
Saddler thrust the grating back into the furnace and wiped his steaming face with the rags that had shielded his hands.
“Stand by, you bearer men,” said Hornblower. “You’ll be busy enough soon.”
With a glance at Bush for permission he was off again, back to the battery, hurrying with awkward galvanic strides. Bush followed more slowly; he was weary with all his exertions, and it crossed his mind as he watched Hornblower hurrying up the ramp that Hornblower had probably been more active than he and was not blessed with nearly as powerful a physique. By the time he came up to him Hornblower was watching the leading schooner again.
“Her scantling’ll be weak,” said Hornblower. “These twentyfourpounders’ll go clean through her most of the time, even at long range.”
“Plunging shot,” said Bush. “Maybe they’ll go through her bottom.”
“Maybe so,” said Hornblower, and then added “sir.”
Even after all his years of service he was liable to forget that important monosyllable when he was thinking deeply.
“She’s setting sail again!” said Bush. “They’ve got her head round.”
“And the tows have cast off,” added Hornblower. “Not long now.”
He looked down the line of guns, all charged and primed, the quoins withdrawn so that they were at their highest elevation, the muzzles pointing upward as though awaiting the shot to be rolled into them. The schooner was moving perceptibly down the channel towards them. Hornblower turned and walked down the row; behind his back one hand was twisting impatiently within the other; he came back and turned again, walking jerkily down the row—he seemed incapable of standing still, but when he caught Bush’s eye on him he halted guiltily, forcing himself, with an obvious effort, to stand still like his superior officer. The schooner crept on, a full half-mile ahead of the next vessel.
“You might try a ranging shot,” said Bush at length.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower with instant agreement, like a river bursting through a broken dam. It seemed as if he had been compelling himself to wait until Bush should speak.
“Furnace there!” hailed Hornblower. “Saddler! send up one shot.”
The bearers came plodding up the ramp, carrying carefully between them the glowing cannon ball. The bright redness of it was quite obvious—even the heat that it gave off was distinctly perceptible. The wet wads were rammed down the bore of the nearest gun, the shot bearer was hoisted up level with its muzzle, and coaxed into motion with wadhook and rammer, the fiery shot was rolled in. There was an instant hissing and spluttering of steam as the ball came into contact with the wet wads; Bush wondered again how long it would be before the wads were burned through and the charge set off; the recoil would make it decidedly uncomfortable for anyone who happened to be aiming the gun at that moment.
“Run up!” Hornblower was giving the orders. The gun’s crew heaved at the tackles and the gun rumbled forward.
Hornblower took his place behind the gun and, squatting down, he squinted along it.
“Trail right!” Tackles and handspikes heaved the gun around. “A touch more! Steady! No, a touch left. Steady!”
Somewhat to Bush’s relief Hornblower straightened himself and came from behind the gun. He leaped on to the parapet with his usual uncontrollable vigour and shaded his eyes; Bush at one side kept his telescope trained on the schooner.
“Fire!” said Hornblower.
The momentary hiss of the priming was drowned in the instant bellow of the gun. Bush saw the black line of the shot’s path across the blue of the sky, reaching upward during the time it might take to draw a breath, sinking downward again; a strange sort of line, an inch long if he had to say its length, constantly renewing itself in front and constantly disappearing at its back end, and pointing straight at the schooner. It was still pointing at her, just above her—to that extent did the speed of the shot outpace the recording of retina and brain—when Bush saw the splash, right in line with the schooner’s bows. He took his eye from the telescope as the splash disappeared, to find Hornblower looking at him.
“A cable’s length short,” he said, and Hornblower nodded agreement.
“We can open fire, then, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“Yes, carry on, Mr. Hornblower.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hornblower was hailing again.
“Furnace, there! Five more shot!”
It took Bush a moment or two to see the point of that order. But clearly it was inadvisable to have hot shot and powder charges brought up on the platform at the same time; the gun that had been fired would have to remain unloaded until the other five had fired as well. Hornblower came down and stood at Bush’s side again.
“I couldn’t understand yesterday why they always fired salvos at us, sir,” he said, “that reduced the rate of fire to the speed of the slowest gun. But I see now.”
“So do I,” said Bush.
“All your wet wads in?” demanded Hornblower of the guns’ crews. “Certain? Carry on, then.”
The shot were coaxed into the muzzles of the guns; they hissed and spluttered against the wads.
“Run up. Now take your aim. Make sure of it, captains.”
The hissing and spluttering continued as the guns were trained.
“Fire when your gun bears!”
Hornblower was up on the parapet again; Bush could see perfectly well through the embrasure of the idle gun. The five guns all fired within a second or two of each other; through Bush’s telescope the sky was streaked by the passage of their shot.
“Sponge out!” said Hornblower; and then, louder, “Six charges!”
He came down to Bush.
“One splash pretty close,” said Bush.
“Two very short,” said Hornblower, “and one far out on the right. I know who fired that one and I’ll deal with him.”
“One splash I didn’t see,” said Bush.
“Nor did I, sir. Clean over, perhaps. But possibly a hit.”
The men with the charges came running up to the platform, and the eager crews seized them and rammed them home and the dry wads on top of the charges.
“Six shot!” shouted Hornblower to Saddler; and then, to the gun captains, “Prime. Put in your wet wads.”
“She’s altered course,” said Bush. “The range can’t have changed much.”
“No, sir. Load and run up! Excuse me, sir.”
He went hurrying off to take his stand by the lefthand gun, which presumably was the one which had been incorrectly laid previously.
“Take your aim carefully,” he called from his new position. “Fire when you’re sure.”
Bush saw him squat behind the lefthand gun, but he himself applied his attention to observing the results of the shooting.
The cycle repeated itself; the guns roared, the men came running with fresh charges, the redhot shot were brought up. The guns were fired again before Hornblower came back to Bush’s side.
“You’re hitting, I think,” said Bush. He turned back to look again through his glass. “I think—by God, yes! Smoke! Smoke!”
A faint black cloud was just visible between the schooner’s masts. It thinned again, and Bush could not be perfectly sure. The nearest gun bellowed out, and a chance flaw of wind blew the powder smoke about them as they stood together, blotting out their view of the schooner.
“Confound it all!” said Bush, moving about restlessly in search of a better viewpoint.
The other guns went off almost simultaneously and added to the smoke.
“Bring up fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower, with the smoke eddying round him. “See that you swab those guns out properly.”
The smoke eddied away, revealing the schooner, apparently unharmed, still creeping along the bay, and Bush cursed in his disappointment.
“The range is shortening and the guns are hot now,” said Hornblower; and then, louder, “Gun captains! Get your quoins in!”
He hurried off to supervise the adjustment of the guns’ elevation, and it was some seconds before he hailed again for hot shot to be brought up. In that time Bush noticed that the schooner’s boats, which had been pulling in company with the schooner, were turning to run alongside her. That could mean that the schooner’s captain was now sure that the flaws of wind would be sufficient to carry her round the point and safely to the mouth of the bay. The guns went off again in an irregular salvo, and Bush saw a trio of splashes rise from the water’s surface close to the near side of the schooner.
“Fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower.
And then Bush saw the schooner swing round, presenting her stern to the battery and heading straight for the shallows of the farther shore.
“What in hell—” said Bush to himself.
Then he saw a sudden fountain of black smoke appear spouting from the schooner’s deck, and while this sight was rejoicing him he saw the schooner’s booms swing over as she took the ground. She was afire and had been deliberately run ashore. The smoke was dense about her hull, and while he held her in his telescope he saw her big white mainsail above the smoke suddenly disintegrate and disappear—the flames had caught it and whisked it away into nothing. He took the telescope from his eye and looked round for Hornblower, who was standing on the parapet again. Powder and smoke had grimed his face, already dark with the growth of his beard, and his teeth showed strangely white as he grinned. The gunners were cheering, and the cheering was being echoed by the rest of the landing party in the fort.
Hornblower was gesticulating to make the gunners cease their noise so that he could be heard down in the fort as he countermanded his call for more shot.
“Belay that order, Saddler! Take those shot back, bearer men!”
He jumped down and approached Bush.
“That’s done it,” said the lamer.
“The first one, anyway.”
A great jet of smoke came from the burning wreck, reaching up and up from between her masts; the mainmast fell as they watched, and as it fell the report of the explosion came to their ears across the water; the fire had reached the schooner’s powder store, and when the smoke cleared a little they could see that she now lay on the shore in two halves, blown asunder in the middle. The foremast still stood for a moment on the forward half, but it fell as they watched it; bows and stern were blazing fiercely, while the boats with the crew rowed away across the shallows.
“A nasty sight,” said Hornblower.
But Bush could see nothing unpleasant about the sight of an enemy burning. He was exulting. “With half his men in the boats he didn’t have enough hands to spare to fight the fires when we hit him,” he said.
“Maybe a shot went through her deck and lodged in her hold,” said Hornblower.
The tone of his voice made Bush look quickly at him, for he was speaking thickly and harshly like a drunken man; but he could not be drunk, although the dirty hairy face and bloodshot eyes might well have suggested it. The man was fatigued. Then the dull expression of Hornblower’s face was replaced once more by a look of animation, and when he spoke his voice was natural again.
“Here comes the next,” he said. “She must be nearly in range.”
The second schooner, also with her boats in attendance, was coming down the channel, her sails set. Hornblower turned back to the guns.
“D’you see the next ship to aim at?” he called; and received a fierce roar of agreement, before he turned round to hail Saddler. “Bring up those shot, bearer men.”
The procession of bearers with the glowing shot came up the ramp again—frightfully hot shot; the heat as each one went by—twentyfour pounds of whitehot iron—was like the passage of a wave. The routine of rolling the fiendish things into the gun muzzles proceeded. There were some loud remarks from the men at the guns, and one of the shot fell with a thump on the stone floor of the battery, and lay there glowing. Two other guns were still not loaded.
“What’s wrong there?” demanded Hornblower.
“Please, sir—”
Hornblower was already striding over to see for himself. From the muzzle of one of the three loaded guns there was a curl of steam; in all three there was a wild hissing as the hot shot rested on the wet wads.
“Run up, train, and fire,” ordered Hornblower. “Now what’s the matter with you others? Roll that thing out of the way.”
“Shot won’t fit, sir,” said more than one voice as someone with a wadhook awkwardly rolled the fallen shot up against the parapet. The bearers of the other two stood by, sweating. Anything Hornblower could say in reply was drowned for the moment by the roar of one of the guns—the men were still at the tackles, and the gun had gone off on its own volition as they ran it up. A man sat crying out with pain, for the carriage had recoiled over his foot and blood was already pouring from it on to the stone floor. The captains of the other two loaded guns made no pretence at training and aiming. The moment their guns were run up they shouted “Stand clear!” and fired.
“Carry him down to Mr. Pierce,” said Hornblower, indicating the injured man. “Now let’s see about these shot.”
Hornblower returned to Bush with a rueful look on his face, embarrassed and selfconscious.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Bush.
“These shot are too hot,” explained Hornblower. “Damn it, I didn’t think of that. They’re half melted in the furnace and gone out of shape so that they won’t fit the bore. What a fool I was not to think of that.”
As his superior officer, Bush did not admit that he had not thought of it either. He said nothing.
“And the ones that hadn’t gone out of shape were too hot anyway,” went on Hornblower. “I’m the damnedest fool God ever made. Mad as a hatter. Did you see how that gun went off? The men’ll be scared now and won’t lay their guns properly—too anxious to fire it off before the recoil catches them. God, I’m a careless son of a swab.”
“Easy, easy,” said Bush, a prey to conflicting emotions.
Hornblower pounding his left hand with his right fist as he upbraided himself was a comic sight; Bush could not help laughing at him. And Bush knew perfectly well that Hornblower had done excellently so far, really excellently, to have mastered at a moment’s notice so much of the technique of using redhot shot. Moreover, it must be confessed that Bush had experienced, during this expedition, more than one moment of pique at Hornblower’s invariable bold assumption of responsibility; and the pique may even have been roused by a stronger motive, jealousy at Hornblower’s good management—an unworthy motive, which Bush would disclaim with shocked surprise if he became aware of it. Yet it made the sight of Hornblower’s present discomfiture all the more amusing at the moment.
“Don’t take on so,” said Bush with a grin.
“But it makes me wild to be such a—”
Hornblower cut the sentence off short. Bush could actually see him calling up his selfcontrol and mastering himself, could see his annoyance at having been selfrevelatory, could see the mask of the stoical and experienced fighting man put back into place to conceal the furious passions within.
“Would you take charge here, sir?” he said; it might be another person speaking. “I’ll go and take a look at the furnace, if I may. They’ll have to go easy with those bellows.”
“Very good, Mr. Hornblower. Send the ammunition up and I’ll direct the fire on the schooner.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll send up the last shot to go into the furnace. They won’t be too hot yet, sir.”
Hornblower went darting down the ramp while Bush moved behind the guns to direct the fire. The fresh charges came up and were rammed home, the wet wads went in on top of the dry wads, and then the bearers began to arrive with the shot.
“Steady, all of you,” said Bush. “These won’t be as hot as the last batch. Take your aim carefully.”
But when Bush climbed on to the parapet and trained his telescope on the second schooner he could see that the schooner was changing her mind. She had brailed up her foresail and taken in her jibs; her boats were lying at an angle to her course, and were struggling, beetlelike, off her bows. They were pulling her round—she was going back up the bay and deciding not to run the gauntlet of the redhot shot. There was the smouldering wreck of her consort to frighten her.
“She’s turning tail!” said Bush loudly. “Hit her while you can, you men.”
He saw the shot curving in the air, he saw the splashes in the water; he remembered how yesterday he had seen a ricochet shot from these very guns rebound from the water and strike the Renown ’s massive side—one of the splashes was dead true for line, and might well indicate a hit.
“Fresh charges!” he bellowed, turning to make himself heard down at the magazine. “Sponge out!”
But by the time the charges were in the guns the schooner had got her head right round, had reset her foresail, and was creeping back up the bay. Judging by the splashes of the last salvo she would be out of range before the next could be fired.
“Mr. Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“’Vast sending any shot.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
When Hornblower came up again to the battery Bush pointed to the retreating schooner.
“He thought better of it, did he?” commented Hornblower. “Yes, and those other two have anchored, I should say.”
His fingers were twitching for the one telescope again, and Bush handed it over.
“The other two aren’t moving either,” said Hornblower, and then he swung round and trained the telescope down the bay towards the sea. “ Renown ’s gone about. She’s caught the wind. Six miles? Seven miles? She’ll be rounding the point in an hour.”
It was Bush’s turn to grab for the telescope. There was no mistaking the trim of those topsails. From the Renown he transferred his attention to the opposite shore of the bay. There was the other battery with the Spanish flag above it—the flag was now drooping, now flapping lazily in the light wind prevailing over the shore. He could make out no sign of activity whatever, and there was some finality in his gesture as he closed the telescope and looked at his second in command.
“Everything’s quiet,” he said. “Nothing to be done until Renown comes down.”
“That is so,” agreed Hornblower.
It was interesting to watch Hornblower’s animation ebb away. Intense weariness was obvious in his face the moment he was off his guard.
“We can feed the men,” said Bush. “And I’d like to have a look at the wounded. Those damned prisoners have to be sorted out—Whiting’s got ‘em all herded in the casemate, men and women, captains and drum boys. God knows what provisions there are here. We’ve got to see about that. Then we can set a watch, dismiss the watch below, and some of us can get some rest.”
“So we can,” said Hornblower; reminded of the necessary activities that still remained, he resumed his stolid expression. “Shall I go down and start attending to it, sir?”