“Run up!” Hornblower was giving the orders. The gun’s crew heaved at the tackles and the gun rumbled forward.
Hornblower took his place behind the gun and, squatting down, he squinted along it.
“Trail right!” Tackles and handspikes heaved the gun around. “A touch more! Steady! No, a touch left. Steady!”
Somewhat to Bush’s relief Hornblower straightened himself and came from behind the gun. He leaped on to the parapet with his usual uncontrollable vigour and shaded his eyes; Bush at one side kept his telescope trained on the schooner.
“Fire!” said Hornblower.
The momentary hiss of the priming was drowned in the instant bellow of the gun. Bush saw the black line of the shot’s path across the blue of the sky, reaching upward during the time it might take to draw a breath, sinking downward again; a strange sort of line, an inch long if he had to say its length, constantly renewing itself in front and constantly disappearing at its back end, and pointing straight at the schooner. It was still pointing at her, just above her — to that extent did the speed of the shot outpace the recording of retina and brain — when Bush saw the splash, right in line with the schooner’s bows. He took his eye from the telescope as the splash disappeared, to find Hornblower looking at him.
“A cable’s length short,” he said, and Hornblower nodded agreement.
“We can open fire, then, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“Yes, carry on, Mr Hornblower.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hornblower was hailing again.
“Furnace, there! Five more shot!”
It took Bush a moment or two to see the point of that order. But clearly it was inadvisable to have hot shot and powder charges brought up on the platform at the same time; the gun that had been fired would have to remain unloaded until the other five had fired as well. Hornblower came down and stood at Bush’s side again.
“I couldn’t understand yesterday why they always fired salvos at us, sir,” he said, “that reduced the rate of fire to the speed of the slowest gun. But I see now.”
“So do I,” said Bush.
“All your wet wads in?” demanded Hornblower of the guns’ crews. “Certain? Carry on, then.”
The shot were coaxed into the muzzles of the guns; they hissed and spluttered against the wads.
“Run up. Now take your aim. Make sure of it, captains.”
The hissing and spluttering continued as the guns were trained.
“Fire when your gun bears!”
Hornblower was up on the parapet again; Bush could see perfectly well through the embrasure of the idle gun. The five guns all fired within a second or two of each other; through Bush’s telescope the sky was streaked by the passage of their shot.
“Sponge out!” said Hornblower; and then, louder, “Six charges!”
He came down to Bush.
“One splash pretty close,” said Bush.
“Two very short,” said Hornblower, “and one far out on the right. I know who fired that one and I’ll deal with him.”
“One splash I didn’t see,” said Bush
“Nor did I, sir. Clean over, perhaps. But possibly a hit.”
The men with the charges came running up to the platform, and the eager crews seized them and rammed them home and the dry wads on top of the charges.
“Six shot!” shouted Hornblower to Saddler; and then, to the gun captains, “Prime. Put in your wet wads.”
“She’s altered course,” said Bush. “The range can’t have changed much.”
“No, sir. Load and run up! Excuse me, sir.”
He went hurrying off to take his stand by the left‑hand gun, which presumably was the one which had been incorrectly laid previously.
“Take your aim carefully,” he called from his new position. “Fire when you’re sure.”
Bush saw him squat behind the left‑hand gun, but he himself applied his attention to observing the results of the shooting.
The cycle repeated itself; the guns roared, the men came running with fresh charges, the red‑hot shot were brought up. The guns were fired again before Hornblower came back to Bush’s side.
“You’re hitting, I think,” said Bush. He turned back to look again through his glass. “I think — by God, yes! Smoke! Smoke!”