“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 wadhook 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 on to 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 fired 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 lefthand 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 lefthand 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 redhot shot were brought up. The guns were fired again before Hornblower came back to Bush’s side.

“You’re hitting, I think,” said Bush. He turned back to look again through his glass. “I think—by God, yes! Smoke! Smoke!”

A faint black cloud was just visible between the schooner’s masts. It thinned again, and Bush could not be perfectly sure. The nearest gun bellowed out, and a chance flaw of wind blew the powder smoke about them as they stood together, blotting out their view of the schooner.

“Confound it all!” said Bush, moving about restlessly in search of a better viewpoint.

The other guns went off almost simultaneously and added to the smoke.

“Bring up fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower, with the smoke eddying round him. “See that you swab those guns out properly.”

The smoke eddied away, revealing the schooner, apparently unharmed, still creeping along the bay, and Bush cursed in his disappointment.

“The range is shortening and the guns are hot now,” said Hornblower; and then, louder, “Gun captains! Get your quoins in!”

He hurried off to supervise the adjustment of the guns’ elevation, and it was some seconds before he hailed again for hot shot to be brought up. In that time Bush noticed that the schooner’s boats, which had been pulling in company with the schooner, were turning to run alongside her. That could mean that the schooner’s captain was now sure that the flaws of wind would be sufficient to carry her round the point and safely to the mouth of the bay. The guns went off again in an irregular salvo, and Bush saw a trio of splashes rise from the water’s surface close to the near side of the schooner.

“Fresh charges!” yelled Hornblower.

And then Bush saw the schooner swing round, presenting her stern to the battery and heading straight for the shallows of the farther shore.

“What in hell—” said Bush to himself.

Then he saw a sudden fountain of black smoke appear spouting from the schooner’s deck, and while this sight was rejoicing him he saw the schooner’s booms swing over as she took the ground. She was afire and had been deliberately run ashore. The smoke was dense about her hull, and while he held her in his telescope he saw her big white mainsail above the smoke suddenly disintegrate and disappear—the flames had caught it and whisked it away into nothing. He took the telescope from his eye and looked round for Hornblower, who was standing on the parapet again. Powder and smoke had grimed his face, already dark with the growth of his beard, and his teeth showed strangely white as he grinned. The gunners were cheering, and the cheering was being echoed by the rest of the landing party in the fort.

Hornblower was gesticulating to make the gunners cease their noise so that he could be heard down in the fort as he countermanded his call for more shot.

“Belay that order, Saddler! Take those shot back, bearer men!”

He jumped down and approached Bush.