The Happy Return. C. S. Forester

The Natividad was suddenly engulfed in smoke, and some seconds later the air and the water around the Lydia and the ship herself, were torn by the hurtling broadside.

“Not more than two hits,” said Bush, gleefully.

“Just what I said,” said Crystal. “That captain of theirs ought to go round and train every gun himself.”

“How do you know he did not?” argued Bush.

As punctuation the nine pounder forward banged out its defiance. Hornblower fancied that his straining eyes saw splinters fly amidships of the Natividad, unlikely though it was at that distance.

“Well aimed, Mr Marsh!” he called. “You hit him squarely.”

Another broadside came from the Natividad, and another followed it, and another after that. Time after time the Lydia’s decks were swept from end to end with shot. There were dead men laid out again on the deck, and the groaning wounded were dragged below.

“It is obvious to anyone of a mathematical turn of mind,” said Crystal, “that those guns are all laid by different hands. The shots are too scattered for it to be otherwise.”

“Nonsense!” maintained Bush sturdily. “See how long it is between broadsides. Time enough for one man to train each gun. What would they be doing in that time otherwise?”

“A Dago crew —,” began Crystal, but a sudden shriek of cannon balls over his head silenced him for a moment.

“Mr Galbraith!” shouted Bush. “Have that main t’gallant stay spliced directly.” Then he turned triumphantly on Crystal. “Did you notice,” he asked, “how every shot from that broadside went high? How does the mathematical mind explain that?”

“They fired on the upward roll, Mr Bush. Really, Mr Bush, I think that after Trafalgar —”

Hornblower longed to order them to cease the argument which was lacerating his nerves, but he could not be such a tyrant as that.

In the still air the smoke from the Natividad’s firing had banked up around about her so that she showed ghostly through the cloud, her solitary mizzen topmast protruding above it into the clear air.

“Mr Bush,” he asked, “at what distance do you think she is now?”

Bush gauged the distance carefully.

“Three parts of a mile, I should say, sir.”

“Two-thirds, more likely, sir,” said Crystal.

“Your opinion was not asked, Mr Crystal,” snapped Hornblower.

At three-quarters of a mile, even at two-thirds, the Lydia’s carronades would be ineffective. She must continue running the gauntlet. Bush was evidently of the same opinion, to judge by his next orders.

“Time for the men at the oars to be relieved,” he said, and went forward to attend it. Hornblower heard him bustling the new crews down into the boats, anxious that the pulling should be resumed before the Lydia had time to lose what little way she carried.

It was terribly hot under the blazing sun, even though it was now long past noon. The smell of the blood which had been spilt on the decks mingled with the smell of the hot deck seams and of the powder smoke from the nine pounder with which Marsh was still steadily bombarding the enemy. Hornblower felt sick — so sick that he began to fear lest he should disgrace himself eternally by vomiting in full view of his men. When fatigue and anxiety had weakened him thus he was far more conscious of the pitching and rolling of the ship under his feet. The men at the guns were silent now, he noticed — for long they had laughed and joked at their posts, but now they were beginning to sulk under the punishment. That was a bad sign.

“Pass the word for Sullivan and his fiddle,” he ordered.

The red-haired Irish madman came aft, and knuckled his forehead, his fiddle and bow under his arm.

“Give us a tune, Sullivan,” he ordered. “Hey there, men, who is there among you who dances the best hornpipe?”

There was a difference of opinion about that, apparently.

“Benskin, sir,” said some voices.

“Hall, sir,” said others.

“No, MacEvoy, sir.”

“Then we’ll have a tournament,” said Hornblower. “Here, Benskin, Hall, MacEvoy. A hornpipe from each of you, and guinea for the man who does it best.”

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