In later years it was a tale told and retold, how the Lydia was towed into action with hornpipes being danced on her maindeck. It was quoted as an example of Hornblower’s cool courage, and only Hornblower knew how little truth there was in the attribution. It kept the men happy, which was why he did it. No one guessed how nearly he came to vomiting when a shot came in through a forward gun-port and spattered Hall with a seaman’s brains without causing him to miss a step.
Then later in that dreadful afternoon there came a crash from forward, followed by a chorus of shouts and screams overside.
“Launch sunk, sir!” hailed Galbraith from the forecastle, but Hornblower was there as soon as he had uttered the words.
A round shot had dashed the launch practically into its component planks, and the men were scrambling in the water, leaping up for the bobstay or struggling to climb into the cutter, all of them who survived wild with fear of sharks.
“The Dagoes have saved us the trouble of hoisting her in,” he said, loudly. “We’re close enough now for them to feel our teeth.”
The men who heard him cheered.
“Mr Hooker!” he called to the midshipman in the cutter. “When you have picked up those men, kindly starboard your helm. We are going to open fire.”
He came aft to the quarterdeck again.
“Hard a-starboard,” he growled at the quartermaster. “Mr Gerard, you may open first when your guns bear.”
Very slowly the Lydia swung round. Another broadside from the Natividad came crashing into her before she had completed the turn, but Hornblower actually did not notice it. The period of inaction was now over. He had brought his ship within four hundred yards of the enemy, and all his duty now was to walk the deck as an example to his men. There were no more decisions to make.
“Cock your locks!” shouted Gerard in the waist.
“Easy, Mr Hooker. Way enough!” roared Hornblower.
The Lydia turned inch by inch, with Gerard squinting along one of the starboard guns to judge of the moment when it would first bear.
“Take your aim!” he yelled, and stood back, timing the roll of the ship in the heavy swell. “Fire!”
The smoke billowed out amid the thunder of the discharge, and the Lydia heaved to the recoil of the guns.
“Give him another, lads!” shouted Hornblower through the din. Now that action was joined he found himself exalted and happy, the dreadful fears of mutilation forgotten. In thirty seconds the guns were reloaded, run out, and fired. Again and again and again, with Gerard watching the roll of the ship and giving the word. Counting back in his mind, Hornblower reckoned five broadsides from the Lydia, and he could only remember two from the Natividad in that time. At that rate of firing the Natividad’s superiority in numbers of guns and weight of metal would be more than counterbalanced. At the sixth broadside a gun went off prematurely, a second before Gerard gave the word. Hornblower sprang forward to detect the guilty crew — it was easy enough from their furtive look and suspicious appearance of busyness. He shook his finger at them.
“Steady, there!” he shouted. “I’ll flog the next man who fires out of turn.”
It was very necessary to keep the men in hand while the range was as long as at present, because in the heat and excitement of the action the gun captains could not be trusted to judge the motion of the ship while preoccupied with loading and laying.
“Good old Horny!” piped up some unknown voice forward, and there was a burst of laughing and cheering, cut short by Gerard’s next order to fire.
The smoke was banked thick about the ship already — as thick as a London fog so that from the quarterdeck it was impossible to see individuals on the forecastle, and in the unnatural darkness which it brought with it one could see the long orange flashes of the guns despite the vivid sunshine outside. Of the Natividad all that could be seen was her high smoke cloud and the single topmast jutting out from it. The thick smoke, trailing about the ship in greasy wreaths, made the eyes smart and irritated the lungs, and affected the skin like thundery weather until it pricked uncomfortably.