“That’s done it,” said the lamer.

“The first one, anyway.”

A great jet of smoke came from the burning wreck, reaching up and up from between her masts; the mainmast fell as they watched, and as it fell the report of the explosion came to their ears across the water; the fire had reached the schooner’s powder store, and when the smoke cleared a little they could see that she now lay on the shore in two halves, blown asunder in the middle. The foremast still stood for a moment on the forward half, but it fell as they watched it; bows and stern were blazing fiercely, while the boats with the crew rowed away across the shallows.

“A nasty sight,” said Hornblower.

But Bush could see nothing unpleasant about the sight of an enemy burning. He was exulting. “With half his men in the boats he didn’t have enough hands to spare to fight the fires when we hit him,” he said.

“Maybe a shot went through her deck and lodged in her hold,” said Hornblower.

The tone of his voice made Bush look quickly at him, for he was speaking thickly and harshly like a drunken man; but he could not be drunk, although the dirty hairy face and bloodshot eyes might well have suggested it. The man was fatigued. Then the dull expression of Hornblower’s face was replaced once more by a look of animation, and when he spoke his voice was natural again.

“Here comes the next,” he said. “She must be nearly in range.”

The second schooner, also with her boats in attendance, was coming down the channel, her sails set. Hornblower turned back to the guns.

“D’you see the next ship to aim at?” he called; and received a fierce roar of agreement, before he turned round to hail Saddler. “Bring up those shot, bearer men.”

The procession of bearers with the glowing shot came up the ramp again—frightfully hot shot; the heat as each one went by—twentyfour pounds of whitehot iron—was like the passage of a wave. The routine of rolling the fiendish things into the gun muzzles proceeded. There were some loud remarks from the men at the guns, and one of the shot fell with a thump on the stone floor of the battery, and lay there glowing. Two other guns were still not loaded.

“What’s wrong there?” demanded Hornblower.

“Please, sir—”

Hornblower was already striding over to see for himself. From the muzzle of one of the three loaded guns there was a curl of steam; in all three there was a wild hissing as the hot shot rested on the wet wads.

“Run up, train, and fire,” ordered Hornblower. “Now what’s the matter with you others? Roll that thing out of the way.”

“Shot won’t fit, sir,” said more than one voice as someone with a wadhook awkwardly rolled the fallen shot up against the parapet. The bearers of the other two stood by, sweating. Anything Hornblower could say in reply was drowned for the moment by the roar of one of the guns—the men were still at the tackles, and the gun had gone off on its own volition as they ran it up. A man sat crying out with pain, for the carriage had recoiled over his foot and blood was already pouring from it on to the stone floor. The captains of the other two loaded guns made no pretence at training and aiming. The moment their guns were run up they shouted “Stand clear!” and fired.

“Carry him down to Mr. Pierce,” said Hornblower, indicating the injured man. “Now let’s see about these shot.”

Hornblower returned to Bush with a rueful look on his face, embarrassed and selfconscious.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Bush.

“These shot are too hot,” explained Hornblower. “Damn it, I didn’t think of that. They’re half melted in the furnace and gone out of shape so that they won’t fit the bore. What a fool I was not to think of that.”

As his superior officer, Bush did not admit that he had not thought of it either. He said nothing.

“And the ones that hadn’t gone out of shape were too hot anyway,” went on Hornblower. “I’m the damnedest fool God ever made. Mad as a hatter. Did you see how that gun went off? The men’ll be scared now and won’t lay their guns properly—too anxious to fire it off before the recoil catches them. God, I’m a careless son of a swab.”

“Easy, easy,” said Bush, a prey to conflicting emotions.

Hornblower pounding his left hand with his right fist as he upbraided himself was a comic sight; Bush could not help laughing at him. And Bush knew perfectly well that Hornblower had done excellently so far, really excellently, to have mastered at a moment’s notice so much of the technique of using redhot shot. Moreover, it must be confessed that Bush had experienced, during this expedition, more than one moment of pique at Hornblower’s invariable bold assumption of responsibility; and the pique may even have been roused by a stronger motive, jealousy at Hornblower’s good management—an unworthy motive, which Bush would disclaim with shocked surprise if he became aware of it. Yet it made the sight of Hornblower’s present discomfiture all the more amusing at the moment.

“Don’t take on so,” said Bush with a grin.

“But it makes me wild to be such a—”

Hornblower cut the sentence off short. Bush could actually see him calling up his selfcontrol and mastering himself, could see his annoyance at having been selfrevelatory, could see the mask of the stoical and experienced fighting man put back into place to conceal the furious passions within.

“Would you take charge here, sir?” he said; it might be another person speaking. “I’ll go and take a look at the furnace, if I may. They’ll have to go easy with those bellows.”

“Very good, Mr. Hornblower. Send the ammunition up and I’ll direct the fire on the schooner.”

“Aye aye, sir. I’ll send up the last shot to go into the furnace. They won’t be too hot yet, sir.”

Hornblower went darting down the ramp while Bush moved behind the guns to direct the fire. The fresh charges came up and were rammed home, the wet wads went in on top of the dry wads, and then the bearers began to arrive with the shot.

“Steady, all of you,” said Bush. “These won’t be as hot as the last batch. Take your aim carefully.”

But when Bush climbed on to the parapet and trained his telescope on the second schooner he could see that the schooner was changing her mind. She had brailed up her foresail and taken in her jibs; her boats were lying at an angle to her course, and were struggling, beetlelike, off her bows. They were pulling her round—she was going back up the bay and deciding not to run the gauntlet of the redhot shot. There was the smouldering wreck of her consort to frighten her.

“She’s turning tail!” said Bush loudly. “Hit her while you can, you men.”

He saw the shot curving in the air, he saw the splashes in the water; he remembered how yesterday he had seen a ricochet shot from these very guns rebound from the water and strike the Renown’s massive side—one of the splashes was dead true for line, and might well indicate a hit.

“Fresh charges!” he bellowed, turning to make himself heard down at the magazine. “Sponge out!”

But by the time the charges were in the guns the schooner had got her head right round, had reset her foresail, and was creeping back up the bay. Judging by the splashes of the last salvo she would be out of range before the next could be fired.

“Mr. Hornblower!”

“Sir!”

“’Vast sending any shot.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

When Hornblower came up again to the battery Bush pointed to the retreating schooner.

“He thought better of it, did he?” commented Hornblower. “Yes, and those other two have anchored, I should say.”

His fingers were twitching for the one telescope again, and Bush handed it over.

“The other two aren’t moving either,” said Hornblower, and then he swung round and trained the telescope down the bay towards the sea. “Renown’s gone about. She’s caught the wind. Six miles? Seven miles? She’ll be rounding the point in an hour.”