The cavalry at the head of the main column were opposite them. The second regiment twinkled and sparkled in the flaming sunlight like a river of fire.

“Those are the cuirassiers!” said Villena, gesticulating wildly at Hornblower’s elbow. “Why do you not fire, Captain?”

Hornblower realised that Villena had probably been gabbling Spanish to him for the last quarter of an hour, and he had not heard a word he had said. He was not going to waste his surprise attack on cavalry who could gallop away out of range. This opening broadside must be reserved for slow-moving infantry.

“Send the men to the guns, Mr. Bush,” he said, forgetting all about Villena again in a flash, and to the man at the wheel “Starboard a point.”

“And a half nine,” called the leadsman.

The Sutherland headed closer into shore.

“Mr. Gerard!” hailed Hornblower. “Train the guns on the road, and only fire when I give you the signal.”

A horse artillery battery had followed the cavalry—popgun six-pounders whose jolting and lurching showed well how bad was the surface of the road, one of the great highways of Spain. Then men perched on the limbers waved their hands in friendly fashion to the beautiful ship close in upon them.

“By the mark six!” from the leadsman.

He dared not stand closer in.

“Port a point. Steady!”

The ship crept on through the water; not a sound from the crew, standing tense at their guns—only the faint sweet music of the breeze in the rigging, and the lapping of the water overside. Now they were level with the infantry column, a long dense mass of blue-coated and white-breeched soldiers, stepping out manfully, a little unreal in the haze of dust. Above the blue coats could be seen the white lines of their faces—every face was turned towards the pretty white-sailed ship creeping over the blue-enamel water. It was a welcome diversion in a weary march, during a war when every day demanded its march. Gerard was giving no orders for change of elevation at the moment—here the road ran level for half a mile, fifty feet above the sea. Hornblower put his silver whistle to his lips. Gerard had seen the gesture. Before Hornblower could blow, the centre maindeck gun had exploded, and a moment later the whole broadside followed with a hideous crash. The Sutherland heeled to the recoil, and the white, bitter-tasting smoke came billowing up.

“God, look at that!” exclaimed Bush.

The forty-one balls from the Sutherland’s broadside and carronades had swept the road from side to side. Fifty yards of the column had been cut to fragments. Whole files had been swept away; the survivors stood dazed and stupid. The guntrucks roared as the guns were run out again, and the Sutherland lurched once more at the second broadside. There was another gap in the column now, just behind the first.

“Give it ‘em again, boys!” yelled Gerard.

The whole column was standing stock still and silly to receive the third broadside; the smoke from the firing had drifted to the shore now, and was scattering over the rocks in thin wreaths.

“Quarter less nine!” called the leadsman.

In the deepening water Hornblower could close nearer in. The next section of the column, seeing the terrible ship moving down upon them implacably, about to blast them into death, was seized with panic and bolted wildly down the road.

“Grape, Mr. Gerard!” shouted Hornblower. “Starboard a point!”

Farther down the road the column had not fled. Those who stood firm and those who ran jammed the road with a struggling mass of men, and the Sutherland, under the orders of her captain, closed in upon them pitilessly, like a machine, steadied again, brought her guns to bear upon the crowd, and then swept the road clear with her tempest of grapeshot as though with a broom.

“God blast me!” raved Bush. “That’ll show ‘em.”

Villena was snapping his fingers and dancing about the deck like a clown, dolman flying, plume nodding, spurs jangling.

“By the deep seven!” chanted the leadsman. But Hornblower’s eye had caught sight of the little point jutting out from the shore close ahead, and its hint of jagged rock at its foot.

“Stand by to go about!” he rasped.

His mind was working at a feverish pace—there was water enough here, but that point indicated a reef—a ridge of harder rock which had not been ground away like the rest of the shore, and remained as a trap below the surface on which the Sutherland might run without warning between two casts of the lead. The Sutherland came up to the wind, and stood out from the shore. Looking aft, they could see the stretch of road which she had swept with her fire. There were dead and wounded in heaps along it. One or two men stood among the wreck; a few were bending over the wounded, but most of the survivors were on the hillside above the road, scattered on the steep slopes, their white breeches silhouetted against the grey background.

Hornblower scanned the shore. Beyond the little point there would be deep water close in again, as there had been on the other side of it.

“We will wear ship again, Mr. Bush,” he said.

At the sight of the Sutherland heading for them the infantry on the road scattered wildly upon the hillside, but the battery of artillery beyond had no such means of escape open to it. Hornblower saw drivers and gunners sitting helplessly for an instant; then saw the officer in command, his plume tossing, gallop along the line, calling the men to action with urgent gesticulations. The drivers wheeled their horses on the road, swinging their guns across it, the gunners leaning down from the limbers, unhooking the gun trails, and bending over their guns as they worked frantically to bring them into action. Could a battery of nine-pounder field pieces effect anything against the Sutherland’s broadside?

“Reserve your fire for the battery, Mr. Gerard,” shouted Hornblower.

Gerard waved his hat in acknowledgment. The Sutherland swung slowly and ponderously round. One gun went off prematurely—Hornblower was glad to see Gerard noting the fact so as to punish the gun’s crew later—and then the whole broadside was delivered with a crash, at the moment when the Italian artillerymen were still at work with the rammers loading the guns. The rush of smoke obscured the view from the quarterdeck; it did not clear until already one or two well-served guns were rumbling up into firing position again. By that time the wind had rolled it away in a solid bank, and they could see the hard hit battery. One gun had had a wheel smashed, and was leaning drunkenly over to one side; another, apparently hit full on the muzzle, had been flung back from its carriage and was pointing up to the sky. There were dead men lying around the guns, and the living were standing dazed by the torrent of shot which had delayed them. The mounted officer had just flung himself from his saddle and let his horse go free while he ran to the nearest gun. Hornblower could see him calling the men about him, determined on firing one shot at least in defiance of the thundering tormentor.

“Give ‘em another, men!” shouted Gerard, and the Sutherland heeled once more to the broadside.

By the time the smoke cleared away the Sutherland had passed on, leaving the battery behind. Hornblower could see it wrecked and ruined, another of its guns dismounted, and not a soul visible on his feet near the guns. Now the Sutherland was opposite more infantry—the second division of the column, presumably—which shredded away in a panic up the hillside section by section as the Sutherland neared them. Hornblower saw them scattering. He knew that it was as damaging to an army to be scattered and broken up like this as for it to be decimated by fire; he would as soon not kill the poor devils, except that his own men would be more delighted at casualties among the enemy than at a mere demoralisation whose importance they could not appreciate.