The dead and the wounded had been dragged away and the men were at the capstan bars again.
“Heave!” shouted Booth. Clank — clank — clank. Slowly and more slowly still turned the capstan. Then it came to a dead stop while the bitts groaned under the strain.
“Heave! Heave!”
Clank! Then reluctantly, and after a long interval, clank! Then no more. The merciless sun beat down upon the men’s straining backs; their horny feet sought for a grip against the cleats on the deck as they shoved and thrust against the bars. Bush went below again, leaving them straining away; he could, and did, send plenty of men up from the lower gundeck to treble‑bank the capstan bars. There were men still hard at work in the smoky twilight hauling the last possible gun aft, but Hornblower was back among his guns supervising the pointing. Bush set his foot on the cable. It was not like a rope, but like a wooden spar, as rigid and unyielding. Then through the sole of his shoe Bush felt the slightest tremor, the very slightest; the men at the capstan were putting their reinforced strength against the bars. The clank of one more pawl gained reverberated along the ship’s timbers; the cable shuddered a trifle more violently and then stiffened into total rigidity again. It did not creep over an eighth of an inch under Bush’s foot, although he knew that at the capstan a hundred and fifty men were straining their hearts out at the bars. One of Hornblower’s guns went off; Bush felt the jar of the recoil through the cable. Faintly down the hatchways came the shouts of encouragement from Smith and Booth at the capstan, but not an inch of gain could be noted at the cable. Hornblower came and touched his hat to Bush.
“D’you notice any movement when I fire a gun, sir?” As he asked the question he turned and waved to the captain of a midship gun which was loaded and run out. The gun captain brought the linstock down on the touchhole, and the gun roared out and came recoiling back through the smoke. Bush’s foot on the cable recorded the effect.
“Only the jar — no — yes.” Inspiration came to Bush. To the question he asked, Bush already knew the answer Hornblower would give. “What are you thinking of?”
“I could fire all my guns at once. That might break the suction, sir.”
So it might, indeed. The Renown was lying on mud, which was clutching her in a firm grip. If she could be severely shaken while the hawser was maintained at full tension the grip might be broken.
“I think it’s worth trying, by God,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir. I’ll have my guns loaded and ready in three minutes, sir.” Hornblower turned to his battery and funnelled his hands round his mouth. “Cease fire! Cease fire, all!”
“I’ll tell ’em at the capstan,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir.” Hornblower went on giving his orders. “Load and double‑shot your guns. Prime and run out.”
That was the last that Bush heard for the moment as he went up on the maindeck and made his suggestion to Smith, who nodded in instant agreement.
“‘Vast heaving!” shouted Smith, and the sweating men at the bars eased their weary backs.
An explanation was necessary to Buckland on the quarterdeck, he saw the force of the argument. The unfortunate man, who was watching the failure of his first venture in independent command, and whose ship was in such deadly peril, was gripping at the rail and wringing it with his two hands as if he would twist it like a corkscrew. In the midst of all this there was a piece of desperately important news that Smith had to give.
“Roberts is dead,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
“No!”
“He’s dead. A shot cut him in two in the launch.”
“Good God!”
It was to Bush’s credit that he felt sorrow at the death of Roberts before his mind recorded the fact that he was now first lieutenant of a ship of the line. But there was no time now to think of either sorrow or rejoicing, not with the Renown aground and under fire. Bush hailed down the hatchway.