The clanking ceased and the Renown rode free in the muddy, churned‑up waters of the bay. To retreat she would have to turn tail, reverse herself in that confined space, and work her way out to sea. Fortunately the means were immediately available: by heaving in on the bow cable which had so far lain idle between hawsehole and anchor the ship could be brought short round.
“Cast off the stern cable messenger!”
The orders came quickly and easily; it was a routine piece of seamanship, even though it had to be carried out under the fire of a red‑hot shot. There were the boats still manned and afloat to drag the battered vessel out of harm’s way if the precarious breeze should die away. Round came the Renown’s bows under the pull of the bow cable as the capstan set to work upon it. Even though the wind was dying away to a sweltering calm, movement was obvious — but the shock of defeat and the contemplation of that accursed artillery! While the capstan was dragging the ship up to her anchor the necessity for keeping the ship on the move occurred to Bush. He touched his hat to Buckland again.
“Shall I warp her down the bay, sir?”
Buckland had been standing by the binnacle staring vacantly at the fort. It was not a question of physical cowardice — that was obvious — but the shock of defeat and the contemplation of the future had made the man temporarily incapable of logical thought. But Bush’s question prodded him back into dealing with the current situation.
“Yes,” said Buckland, and Bush turned away, happy to have something useful to do which he well knew how to do.
Another anchor had to be cockbilled at the port bow, another cable roused out. A hail to James, in command of the boats since Roberts’ death, told him of the new evolution and called him under the bows for the anchor to be lowered down to the launch — the trickiest part of the whole business. Then the launch’s crew bent to their oars and towed ahead, their boat crank with the ponderous weight that it bore dangling aft and with the cable paying out astern of it. Yard by yard, to the monotonous turning of the capstan, the Renown crept up to her first anchor, and when that cable was straight up and down the flutter of a signal warned James, now far ahead in the launch, to drop the anchor his boat carried and return for the stream anchor which was about to be hauled up. The stern cable, now of no more use, had to be unhitched and got in, the effort of the capstan transferred from one cable to the other, while the two cutters were given lines by which they could contribute their tiny effort to the general result, towing the ponderous ship and giving her the smallest conceivable amount of motion which yet was valuable when it was a matter of such urgency to withdraw the ship out of range.
Down below Hornblower was at work dragging forward the guns he had previously dragged aft; the rumble and squeal of the trucks over the planking was audible through the ship over the monotonous clanking of the capstan. Overhead blazed the pitiless sun, softening the pitch in the seams, while yard after painful yard, cable’s length after cable’s length, the ship crept on down the bay out of range of the red‑hot shot, over the glittering still water; down the bay of Samaná until at last they were out of range and could pause while the men drank a niggardly half‑pint of warm odorous water before turning back to their labours. To bury the dead, to repair the damages, and to digest the realization of defeat. Maybe to wonder if the captain’s malign influence still persisted, mad and helpless though he was.
Chapter VIII
When the tropic night closed down upon the battered Renown, as she stood off the land under easy sail, just enough to stiffen her to ride easily over the Atlantic rollers that the trade wind, reinforced by the sea breeze, sent hurrying under her bows, Buckland sat anxiously discussing the situation with his new first lieutenant. Despite the breeze, the little cabin was like an oven; the two lanterns which hung from the deck beams to illuminate the chart on the table seemed to heat the room unbearably. Bush felt the perspiration prickling under his uniform, and his stock constricted his thick neck so that every now and again he put two fingers into it and tugged, without relief. It would have been the simplest matter in the world to take off his heavy uniform coat and unhook his stock, but it never crossed his mind that he should do so. Bodily discomfort was something that one bore without complaint in a hard world; habit and pride both helped.