The Young Hornblower Omnibus

  He went darting down the stone stairs of the tower, having given back the telescope, but half-way down he paused.

  “Don’t forget your breakfast, sir,” he said, his face upturned to Bush. “You’ve plenty of time for that.”

  Bush’s glance through the telescope confirmed what Hornblower had said. At least one of the vessels up the bay was beginning to move. He turned and swept the rest of the land and water with a precautionary glance before handing the telescope to Abbott, who during all this conversation had been standing by, silent in the presence of his betters.

  “Keep a sharp lookout,” said Bush.

  Down in the body of the fort Hornblower was already issuing rapid orders, and the men, roused to activity, were on the move. On the gun platform they were casting loose the remaining guns, and as Bush descended from the platform he saw Hornblower organizing other working parties, snapping out orders with quick gestures. At the sight of Bush he turned guiltily and walked over to the well. A marine was winding up the bucket, and Hornblower seized it. He raised the bucket to his lips, leaning back to balance the weight; and he drank and drank, water slopping in quantities over his chest as he drank, water pouring over his face, until the bucket was empty, and then he put it down with a grin at Bush, his face still dripping water. The very sight of him was enough to make Bush, who had already had one drink from the well, feel consumed with thirst all over again.

  By the time Bush had drunk there was the usual group of people clamouring for his attention, for orders and information, and by the time he had dealt with them there was smoke rising from the furnace in the corner of the courtyard, and a loud crackling from inside it. Bush walked over. A seaman, kneeling, was plying a pair of bellows; two other men were bringing wood from the pile against the ramparts. When the furnace door was opened the blast of heat that rose into Bush’s face was enough to make him step back. Hornblower turned up with his hurried pace.

  “How’s the shot, Saddler?” he asked.

  The petty officer picked up some rags, and, with them to shield his hands, laid hold of two long handles that projected from the far side of the furnace, balancing two projecting from the near side. When he drew them out it became apparent that all four handles were part of a large iron grating, the centre of which rested inside the furnace above the blazing fuel. Lying on the grating were rows of shot, still black in the sunshine. Saddler shifted his quid, gathered his saliva, and spat expertly on the nearest one. The spittle boiled off, but not with violence.

  “Not very hot yet, sir,” said Saddler.

  “Us’ll fry they devils,” said the man with the bellows, unexpectedly; he looked up, as he crouched on his knees, with ecstasy in his face at the thought of burning his enemies alive.

  Hornblower paid him no attention.

  “Here, you bearer men,” he said, “let’s see what you can do.”

  Hornblower had been followed by a file of men, every pair carrying a piece of apparatus formed of two iron bars joined with iron crosspieces. The first pair approached. Saddler took a pair of tongs and gingerly worked a hot shot onto the bearer.

  “Move on, you two,” ordered Hornblower. “Next!”

  When a shot lay on every bearer Hornblower led his men away.

  “Now let’s see you roll those into the guns,” he said.

  Bush followed, consumed with curiosity. The procession moved up the ramp to the gun platform, where now crews had been told off to every gun; the guns were run back with the muzzles well clear of the embrasures. Tubs of water stood by each pair of guns.

  “Now, you rammers,” said Hornblower, “are your drywadsin? Then in with your wet wads.”

  From the tubs the seamen brought out round flat discs of fibre, dripping with water.

  “Two to a gun,” said Hornblower.

  The wet wads were thrust into the muzzles of the guns and then were forced down the bores with the club-ended ramrods.

  “Ram ’em home,” said Hornblower. “Now, bearers.”

  It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearing-stretchers at the muzzles of the guns and then to tilt so as to induce the hot shot to roll down into the bore.

  “The Don must’ve exercised with these guns better than we’d give ’em credit for,” said Hornblower to Bush, “judging by the practice they made yesterday. Rammers!”

  The ramrods thrust the shot home against the charges; there was a sharp sizzling noise as each hot shot rested against the wet wads.

  “Run up!”

  The guns’ crews seized the tackles and heaved, and the ponderous guns rolled slowly forward to point their muzzles out through the embrasures.

  “Aim for the point over there and fire!”

  With handspikes under the rear axles the guns were traversed at the orders of the captains; the priming tubes were already in the touchholes and each gun was fired as it bore. The sound of the explosions was very different here on the stone platform from when guns were fired in the confined spaces of a wooden ship. The slight wind blew the smoke sideways.

  “Pretty fair!” said Hornblower, shading his eyes to watch the fall of the shot; and, turning to Bush, “That’ll puzzle those gentlemen over there. They’ll wonder what in the world we’re firing at.”

  “How long,” asked Bush, who had watched the whole process with a fascinated yet horrified interest, “before a hot shot burns through those wads and sets off the gun itself?”

  “That is one of the things I do not know, sir,” answered Hornblower with a grin. “It would not surprise me if we found out during the course of today.”

  “I dare say,” said Bush; but Hornblower had swung round and was confronting a seaman who had come running up to the platform.

  “What d’ye think you’re doing?”

  “Bringing a fresh charge, sir,” said the man, surprised, indicating with a gesture the cartridge-container he carried.

  “Then get back and wait for the order. Get back, all of you.”

  The ammunition carriers shrank back before his evident anger.

  “Swab out!” ordered Hornblower to the guns’ crews, and as the wetted sponges were thrust into the muzzles he turned to Bush again. “We can’t be too careful, sir. We don’t want any chance of live charges and red-hot shot coming together on this platform.”

  “Certainly not,” agreed Bush.

  He was both pleased and irritated that Hornblower should have dealt so efficiently with the organization of the battery.

  “Fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower, and the ammunition carriers he had previously sent back came trotting up the ramp again. “These are English cartridges, sir, I’ll wager.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “West-Country serge, stitched and choked exactly like ours, sir. Out of English prizes, I fancy.”

  It was most probable; the Spanish forces which held this end of the island against the insurgents most likely depended on renewing their stores from English ships captured in the Mona Passage. Well, with good fortune they would take no more prizes—the implication, forcing itself on Bush’s mind despite his many preoccupations, made him stir uneasily as he stood by the guns with his hands clasped behind him and the sun beating down on his face. The Dons would be in a bad way with their source of supplies cut off. They would not be able to hold out long against the rebellious blacks that hemmed them in here in the eastern end of Santo Domingo.

  “Ram those wads handsomely, there, Cray,” said Hornblower. “No powder in that bore, or we’ll have ‘Cray D.D.’ in the ship’s books.”

  There was a laugh at that—“D.D.” in the ship’s books meant “discharged, dead”—but Bush was not paying attention. He had scrambled up the parapet and was staring out at the bay.

  “They’re standing down the bay,” he said. “Stand by, Mr. Hornblower.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Bush strained his sight to look at the four vessels creeping down the fairway. As he watched he saw the first one hoisting sail on both
masts. Apparently she was taking advantage of a flaw of wind, blowing flukily in the confined and heated waters, to gain some of the desperately necessary distance towards the sea and safety.

  “Mr. Abbott, bring down that glass!” shouted Hornblower.

  As Abbott descended the steps Hornblower addressed a further comment to Bush.

  “If they’re making a bolt for it the moment they know we’ve got the fort it means they’re not feeling too secure over there, sir.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You might have expected ’em to try to recapture the fort one way or another. They could land a force up the peninsula and come down to attack us. I wonder why they’re not trying that, sir? Why do they just unstick and run?”

  “They’re only Dagoes,” said Bush. He refused to speculate further about the enemy’s motives while action was imminent, and he grabbed the glass from Abbott’s hands.

  Through the telescope details were far plainer. Two large schooners with several guns a-side; a big lugger, and a vessel whose rig they still could not determine, as she was the farthest away and, with no sail set, was towing behind her boats out from the anchorage.

  “It’ll be long range, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush.

  “Yes, sir. But they hit us with these same guns yesterday.”

  “Make sure of your aim. They won’t be long under fire.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The vessels were not coming down together. If they had done so they might stand a better chance, as the fort would only be able to fire on one at a time. But the panic feeling of every man for himself must have started them off as soon as each one separately could get under way—and perhaps the deep channel was too narrow for vessels in company. Now the leading schooner had taken in her sail again; the wind here, what there was of it, was foul for her when she turned to port along the channel. She had two boats out quickly enough to tow her; Bush’s telescope could reveal every detail.

  “Some time yet before she’s in range, sir,” said Hornblower. “I’ll take a look at the furnace, with your permission.”

  “I’ll come too,” said Bush.

  At the furnace the bellows were still being worked and the heat was tremendous—but it was far hotter when Saddler drew out the grating that carried the heated shot. Even in the sunshine they could see the glow of the spheres; as the heat rose from them the atmosphere above them wavered so that everything below was vague and distorted. It could be a scene in Hell. Saddler spat on the nearest cannon ball and the saliva leaped with an instant hiss from the smooth surface of the sphere, falling from it without contact to dance and leap on the grating under it until with a final hiss it vanished entirely. A second attempt by Saddler brought the same result.

  “Hot enough, sir?” asked Saddler.

  “Yes,” said Hornblower.

  Bush had often enough as a midshipman taken a smoothing-iron forward to the galley to heat it when there had been particular need to iron a shirt or a neckcloth; he remembered how he had made the same test of the temperature of the iron. It was a proof that the iron was dangerously hot to use when the spittle refused to make contact with it, but the shot was far hotter than that, infinitely hotter.

  Saddler thrust the grating back into the furnace and wiped his streaming face with the rags that had shielded his hands.

  “Stand by, you bearer men,” said Hornblower. “You’ll be busy enough soon.”

  With a glance at Bush for permission he was off again, back to the battery, hurrying with awkward galvanic strides. Bush followed more slowly; he was weary with all his exertions, and it crossed his mind as he watched Hornblower hurrying up the ramp that Hornblower had probably been more active than he and was not blessed with nearly as powerful a physique. By the time he came up to him Hornblower was watching the leading schooner again.

  “Her scantling’ll be weak,” said Hornblower. “These twenty-four-pounders’ll go clean through her most of the time, even at long range.”

  “Plunging shot,” said Bush. “Maybe they’ll go out through her bottom.”

  “Maybe so,” said Hornblower, and then added “sir.”

  Even after all his years of service he was liable to forget that important monosyllable when he was thinking deeply.

  “She’s setting sail again!” said Bush. “They’ve got her head round.”

  “And the tows have cast off,” added Hornblower. “Not long now.”

  He looked down the line of guns, all charged and primed, the quoins withdrawn so that they were at their highest elevation, the muzzles pointing upward as though awaiting the shot to be rolled into them. The schooner was moving perceptibly down the channel towards them. Hornblower turned and walked down the row; behind his back one hand was twisting impatiently within the other; he came back and turned again, walking jerkily down the row—he seemed incapable of standing still, but when he caught Bush’s eye on him he halted guiltily, forcing himself, with an obvious effort, to stand still like his superior officer. The schooner crept on, a full half-mile ahead of the next vessel.

  “You might try a ranging shot,” said Bush at length.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Hornblower with instant agreement, like a river bursting through a broken dam. It seemed as if he had been compelling himself to wait until Bush should speak.

  “Furnace, there!” hailed Hornblower. “Saddler! Send up one shot”

  The bearers came plodding up the ramp, carrying carefully between them the glowing cannon ball. The bright redness of it was quite obvious—even the heat that it gave off was distinctly perceptible. The wet wads were rammed down the bore of the nearest gun, the shot bearer was hoisted up level with its muzzle, and, coaxed into motion with wad-hook and rammer, the fiery shot was rolled in. There was an instant hissing and spluttering of steam as the ball came into contact with the wet wads; Bush wondered again how long it would be before the wads were burned through and the charge set off; the recoil would make it decidedly uncomfortable for anyone who happened to be aiming the gun at that moment.

  “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 onto 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 fir
ed 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.