A thousand yards to port the quarter boat was bobbing over the glittering sea. There was a splash, and then they could see the black dot of the cask she had thrown overboard before pulling hastily out of the line of fire.
“No. 1 gun!” bellowed Gerard. “Take your aim! Cock your locks! Fire — stop your vents!”
The foremost eighteen-pounder roared out briefly while a dozen glasses looked for the splash.
“Over and to the right!” announced Gerard. “No. 2 gun!”
The maindeck eighteen-pounders, the lower deck twenty-four-pounders, spoke each in turn. Even with experienced gun layers it would have been too much to expect to hit a cask at such a long range in thirty-seven shots; the cask still bobbed unharmed. Every gun of the port battery tried again, and still the cask survived.
“We’ll shorten the range. Mr Bush, have the helm put up and run the ship past the cask at a cable’s length away. Now, Mr Gerard.”
Two hundred yards was a short enough range even for carronades; the forecastle and quarterdeck carronades’ crews stood to their weapons as the Sutherland ran down to the cask. The guns went off nearly simultaneously as they bore, the ship trembling to the concussions, while the thick smoke eddied upwards round the naked men. The water boiled all round the cask, as half a ton of iron tore it up in fountains, and in the midst of the splashes the cask suddenly leaped clear of the water, dissolving into its constituent staves as it did so. All the guns’ crews cheered while Hornblower’s silver whistle split the din as a signal to cease fire, and the men clapped each other on the shoulder exultantly. They were heartily pleased with themselves. As Hornblower knew, the fun of knocking a cask to pieces was full compensation for two hours’ hard work at gun drill.
The quarter boat dropped another cask; the starboard side battery prepared to bombard it, while Hornblower stood blinking gratefully in the sunshine on the quarterdeck, feeling glad to be alive. He had as full a crew as any captain could hope for, and more trained top-men than he could ever have dared to expect. So far everyone was healthy; his landsmen were fast becoming seamen, and he would train them into gunners even quicker than that. This blessed midsummer sunshine, hot and dry, suited his health admirably. He had left off fretting over Lady Barbara, thanks to the intense pleasure which it gave him to see his crew settling down into a single efficient unit He was glad to be alive, with high spirits bubbling up within him.
“Good shot, there!” said Hornblower. An extraordinary lucky shot from one of the lower deck guns had smashed the second cask to fragments. “Mr Bush, see that every man of that gun’s crew gets a tot of rum tonight.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Sail ho!” came from the masthead. “Deck, there. Sail right to wind’ard, an’ coming down fast.”
“Mr Bush, have the quarter boat recalled. Heave the ship to on the starboard tack, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Even here, no more than fifty miles from France, and not more than twenty from a corner of Spain under French domination, there was very small chance of any sail being French, especially on the course this one was steering — any French vessel crept along the coast without venturing a mile to sea.
“Masthead! What do you make of the sail?”
“She’s a ship, sir, wi’ all sail set. I can see her royals an’ t’garn stuns’ls.”
“Belay!” roared the boatswain’s mate to the hands hoisting in the quarter boat.
The fact that the approaching vessel was a full-rigged ship made it more unlikely still that she was French — French commerce was confined to small craft, luggers and brigs and tartanes, now. Probably she was one of the ships the Sutherland had come to meet. A moment later the suspicion was confirmed from the masthead.
“Deck, there! Sail looks like Caligula to me, sir. I can see her torps’ls now, sir.”
So she was; Captain Bolton must have completed his task of escorting the storeships into Port Mahon. Within an hour the Caligula was within gunshot.