By careful measurement with his sextant of the subtended angles he was able to say with certainty at the end of an hour that the efforts of the boats’ crews had dragged the Lydia a little nearer to the Natividad, and Bush, who had taken the same measurements, was in agreement. The sun rose higher and the Lydia crept inch by inch towards the enemy.
“Natividad’s hoisting out a boat, sir,” hailed Knyvett from the foretop.
“How many oars?”
“Twelve, sir, I think. They’re taking the ship in tow.”
“And they’re welcome,” scoffed Bush. “Twelve oars won’t move that old tub of a Natividad very far.”
Hornblower glared at him and Bush retired to his own side of the quarterdeck again; he had forgotten his captain was in this unconversational mood. Hornblower was fretting himself into a fever. He stood in the glaring sun while the heat was reflected up into his face from the deck under his feet. His shirt chaffed him where he sweated. He felt caged, like a captive beast, within the limitations of practical details. The endless clanking of the pumps, the rolling of the ship, the rattle of the rigging, the noise of the oars in the rowlocks, were driving him mad, as though he could scream (or weep) at the slightest additional provocation.
At noon he changed the men at the oars and pumps, and sent the crew to dinner — he remembered bitterly that he had already made them breakfast in anticipation of immediate action. At two bells he began to wonder whether the Natividad might be within extreme long range, but the mere fact of wondering told him that it was not the case — he knew his own sanguine temperament too well, and he fought down the temptation to waste powder and shot. And then, as he looked for the thousandth time through his telescope, he suddenly saw a disk of white appear on the high stern of the Natividad. The disk spread and expanded into a thin cloud, and six seconds after its first appearance the dull thud of the shot reached his ears. The Natividad was evidently willing to try the range.
“Natividad carries two long eighteens aft on the quarterdeck,” said Gerard to Bush in Hornblower’s hearing. “Heavy metal for stern chasers.”
Hornblower knew it already. He would have to run the gauntlet of those two guns for an hour, possibly, before he could bring the brass nine pounder on his forecastle into action. Another puff of smoke from the Natividad, and this time Hornblower saw a spout of water rise from the breast of a wave half a mile ahead. But at that long range and on that tossing sea it did not mean that the Lydia was still half a mile beyond the Natividad’s reach. Hornblower heard the next shot arrive, and saw a brief fountain of water rise no more than fifty yards from the Lydia’s starboard quarter.
“Mr Gerard,” said Hornblower. “Send for Mr Marsh and see what he can do with the long nine forward.”
It would cheer the men up to have a gun banging away occasionally instead of being merely shot at without making any reply. Marsh came waddling up from the darkness of the magazine, and blinked in the blinding sunshine. He shook his head doubtfully as he eyed the distance between the ships, but he had the gun cleared away, and he loaded it with his own hands, lovingly. He measured out the powder charge on the fullest scale, and he spent several seconds selecting the roundest and truest shot from the locker. He trained the gun with care, and then stood aside, lanyard in hand, watching the heave of the ship and the send of the bows, while a dozen telescopes were trained on the Natividad and every eye watched for the fall of the shot. Suddenly he jerked the lanyard and the cannon roared out, its report sounding flat in the heated motionless air.
“Two cables’ lengths astern of her!” yelled Knyvett from the fore-top. Hornblower had missed the splash — another proof, to his mind, of his own incompetence, but he concealed the fact under a mask of imperturbability.