“They’re firing very deliberately, sir,” said Bush.
Hornblower’s attention was directed to the Loire in time to see the next brief puff of smoke from her side; they saw nothing of the ball. Then came the next puff.
“I expect they have some marksman on board moving along from gun to gun,” said Hornblower.
If that were the case the marksman must wait each time for the right conditions of roll — a slow rate of firing, but, allowing for the length of time to reload and run up, not impossibly slower than firing broadsides.
“You can hear the guns now, sir. The sound’s carried by the water.”
It was an ugly, flat, brief clap, following just after each puff of smoke
“Mr Bush,” said Hornblower speaking slowly as he felt the excitement of the approaching crisis boiling up within him. “You know your watch — and quarter‑bills off by heart, I’m sure.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bush, simply.
“I want —” Hornblower checked the position of Loire again. “I want sufficient hands at the braces and bowlines to handle the ship properly. But I want crews sufficient for the guns of one side too.”
“Not very easy, sir.”
“Impossible?”
“Nearly, sir. I can do it, though.”
“Then I want you to arrange it. Station crews at the port‑side guns, if you please.”
“Aye aye, sir. Port side.”
The repetition was in the usual navy style to ensure against misunderstanding; there was only the faintest questioning note in Bush’s voice, for the port side was that turned away from the enemy.
“I want —” went on Hornblower, still slowly. “I want the portside guns run out when we go about, Mr Bush. I’ll give the order. Then I want them run in again like lightning and the ports closed. I’ll give the order for that, too.”
“Aye aye, sir. Run ’em in again.”
“Then they’re to cross to the starboard side and run those guns out ready to open fire. You understand, Mr Bush?”
“Y‑yes, sir.”
Hornblower looked round at the Loire and at Ushant again.
“Very well, Mr Bush. Mr Cargill will need four hands for a special duty, but you can start stationing the rest.”
Now he was committed. If his calculations were incorrect he would appear a fool in the eyes of the whole ship’s company. He would also be dead or a prisoner. But now he was keyed up, the fighting spirit boiling within him as it had done once when he boarded Renown to effect her recapture. There was a sudden shriek overhead, so startling that even Bush stopped short as he was moving forward. A line mysteriously parted in mid‑air, the upper end blowing out horizontal in the wind, the lower end flying out to trail overside. A luckier shot than any so far had passed over the Hotspur twenty feet above her deck.
“Mr Wise!” yelled Hornblower into the speaking‑trumpet. “Get that halliard re‑rove.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The spirit of mischief asserted itself in Hornblower’s mind along with his excitement, and he raised the trumpet again.
“And Mr Wise! If you think proper you can tell the hands we’re at war!”
That raised the laugh that Hornblower anticipated, all over the ship, but there was no more time for frivolity.
“Pass the word for Mr Cargill.”
Cargill presented himself with a faint look of anxiety on his round face.
“You’re not in trouble, Mr Cargill. I’ve selected you for a responsible duty.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Arrange with Mr Bush to give you four steady hands and take your station on the fo’c’sle at the jib halliard and jib sheets. I shall be going about very shortly, and then I shall change my mind and come back on my original tack. So now you can see what you have to do. The moment you get my signal run the jib up the stay and then flat it out to port. I want to be quite sure you understand?”
Several seconds went by while Cargill digested the plan before he answered “Yes, sir.”
“I’m relying on you to keep us from being laid flat a‑back, Mr Cargill. You’ll have to use your own judgement after that. The moment the ship’s turning and under command again run the jib down. You can do that?”