“Would you take charge here, sir?” he said; it might be another person speaking. “I’ll go and take a look at the furnace, if I may. They’ll have to go easy with those bellows.”
“Very good, Mr Hornblower. Send the ammunition up and I’ll direct the fire on the schooner.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll send up the last shot to go into the furnace. They won’t be too hot yet, sir.”
Hornblower went darting down the ramp while Bush moved behind the guns to direct the fire. The fresh charges came up and were rammed home, the wet wads went in on top of the dry wads, and then the bearers began to arrive with the shot.
“Steady, all of you,” said Bush. “These won’t be as hot as the last batch. Take your aim carefully.”
But when Bush climbed on to the parapet and trained his telescope on the second schooner he could see that the schooner was changing her mind. She had brailed up her foresail and taken in her jibs; her boats were lying at an angle to her course, and were struggling, beetle‑like, off her bows. They were pulling her round — she was going back up the bay and deciding not to run the gauntlet of the red‑hot shot. There was the smouldering wreck of her consort to frighten her.
“She’s turning tail!” said Bush loudly. “Hit her while you can, you men.”
He saw the shot curving in the air, he saw the splashes in the water; he remembered how yesterday he had seen a ricochet shot from these very guns rebound from the water and strike the Renown’s massive side — one of the splashes was dead true for line, and might well indicate a hit.
“Fresh charges!” he bellowed, turning to make himself heard down at the magazine. “Sponge out!”
But by the time the charges were in the guns the schooner had got her head right round, had reset her foresail, and was creeping back up the bay. Judging by the splashes of the last salvo she would be out of range before the next could be fired.
“Mr Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“‘Vast sending any shot.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
When Hornblower came up again to the battery Bush pointed to the retreating schooner.
“He thought better of it, did he?” commented Hornblower. “Yes, and those other two have anchored, I should say.”
His fingers were twitching for the one telescope again, and Bush handed it over.
“The other two aren’t moving either,” said Hornblower, and then he swung round and trained the telescope down the bay towards the sea. “Renown’s gone about. She’s caught the wind. Six miles? Seven miles? She’ll be rounding the point in an hour.”
It was Bush’s turn to grab for the telescope. There was no mistaking the trim of those topsails. From the Renown he transferred his attention to the opposite shore of the bay. There was the other battery with the Spanish flag above it — the flag was now drooping, now flapping lazily in the light wind prevailing over the shore. He could make out no sign of activity whatever, and there was some finality in his gesture as he closed the telescope and looked at his second in command.
“Everything’s quiet,” he said. “Nothing to be done until Renown comes down.”
“That is so,” agreed Hornblower.
It was interesting to watch Hornblower’s animation ebb away. Intense weariness was obvious in his face the moment he was off his guard.
“We can feed the men,” said Bush. “And I’d like to have a look at the wounded. Those damned prisoners have to be sorted out — Whiting’s got ’em all herded in the casemate, men and women, captains and drum boys. God knows what provisions there are here. We’ve got to see about that. Then we can set a watch, dismiss the watch below, and some of us can get some rest.”
“So we can,” said Hornblower; reminded of the necessary activities that still remained, he resumed his stolid expression. “Shall I go down and start attending to it, sir?”
Chapter XI
The sun at noontime was glaring down into the fort of Samaná. Within the walls the heat was pitilessly reflected inwards to a murderous concentration, so that even the corners which had shade were dreadfully hot. The sea breeze had not yet begun to blow, and from the flagstaff the White Ensign drooped spiritlessly, half covering the Spanish colours that drooped below it. Yet discipline still prevailed. On every bastion the lookouts stood in the blazing sun to guard against surprise. The marine sentries, with regular and measured step, were ‘walking their posts of duty in a smart and soldierly manner’ in accordance with regulations, muskets sloped, scarlet tunics buttoned to the neck, crossbelts exactly in position. When one of them reached the end of his beat he would halt with a click of his heels, bring down his musket to the ‘order’ position in three smart movements, and then, pushing his right hand forward and his left foot out, stand ‘at ease’ until the heat and the flies drove him into motion again, when his heels would come together, the musket rise to his shoulder, and he would walk his beat once more. In the battery the guns’ crew dozed on the unrelenting stone, the lucky men in the shade cast by the guns, the others in the narrow strip of shade at the foot of the parapet; but two men sat and kept themselves awake and every few minutes saw to it that the slow matches smouldering in the tubs were still alight, available to supply fire instantly if the guns had to be worked, whether to fire on ships in the bay or to beat off an attack by land. Out beyond Samaná Point HMS Renown lay awaiting the first puffs of the sea breeze to come up the bay and get into touch with her landing party.