“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 cartridgecontainer 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 redhot 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?”

“WestCountry 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 means ‘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 by 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 and 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 aside; 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 or 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 steaming 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 twentyfourpounders’ll go clean through her most of the time, even at long range.”

“Plunging shot,” said Bush. “Maybe they’ll go 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.