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 club‑ended ramrods.
“Ram ’em home,” said Hornblower. “Now, bearers.”
It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearing‑stretchers 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?”