“Better man the guns and make ready for ‘em,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Hornblower. He hesitated. “We won’t have ‘em under fire for long. They’ll be shallow draught. They can hug the point over there closer than Renown could.”

“But it won’t take much to sink ‘em, either,” said Bush. “Oh, I see what you’re after.”

“Redhot shot might make all the difference, sir,” said Hornblower.

“Repay ‘em in their own coin,” said Bush, with a grin of satisfaction. Yesterday the Renown had endured the hellish fire of redhot shot. To Bush the thought of roasting a few Dagoes was quite charming.

“That’s right, sir,” said Hornblower.

He was not grinning like Bush. There was a frown on his face; he was oppressed with the thought that the privateers might escape to continue their depredations elsewhere, and any means to reduce their chances should be used.

“But can you do it?” asked Bush suddenly. “D’ye know how to heat shot?”

“I’ll find out, sir.”

“I’ll wager no man of ours knows how.”

Shot could only be heated in a battery on land; a seagoing ship, constructed of inflammable material, could not run the risk of going into action with a flaming furnace inside her. The French, in the early days of the Revolutionary War, had made some disastrous experiments in the hope of finding a means of countering England’s naval superiority, but after a few ships had set themselves on fire they had given up the attempt. Seagoing men now left the use of the heated weapon to shorebased garrison artillery.

“I’ll try and find out for myself, sir,” said Hornblower. “There’s the furnace down there and all the gear.”

Hornblower stood in the sunshine, already far too hot to be comfortable. His face was pale, dirty and bearded, and in his expression eagerness and weariness were oddly at war.

“Have you had any breakfast yet?” asked Bush.

“No, sir.” Hornblower looked straight at him. “Neither have you, sir.”

“No,” grinned Bush.

He had not been able to spare a moment for anything like that, with the whole defence of the fort to be organised. But he could bear fatigue and hunger and thirst, and he doubted if Hornblower could.

“I’ll get a drink of water at the well, sir,” said Hornblower.

As he said the words, and the full import came to him, a change in his expression was quite obvious. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips; Bush could see that the lips were cracked and parched and that the tongue could do nothing to relieve them. The man had drunk nothing since he had landed twelve hours ago—twelve hours of desperate exertion in a tropical climate.

“See that you do, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush. “That’s an order.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Bush found the telescope leaving his hand and passing into Hornblower’s.

“May I have another look, sir, before I go down? By George, I thought as much. That twomaster’s warping out, sir. Less than an hour before she’s within range. I’ll get the guns manned, sir. Take a look for yourself, sir.”

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 organising 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 nearest 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 on to 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 dry wads in? 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 clubended ramrods.

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

It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearingstretchers 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.