“I have it to size now, sir,” said Berry at last.

“Then fit it, damn you,” said Bush. “You gun’s crew, wake up, there! Rise and shine! Wake up, there!”

While Bush kicked the snoring men awake Berry had produced a length of twine from his pocket. With a slowness that Bush found maddening he proceeded to tie one end into a loop and then drop the loop in through the touchhole. Then he took the wadhook, and, walking round to the muzzle of the gun and squatting down, he proceeded to push the hook up the eightfoot length of the bore and try to catch the loop on it. Over and over again he twisted the hook and withdrew it a little with no corresponding reaction on the part of the twine hanging from the touchhole, but at last he made his catch. As he brought the hook out the twine slid down into the hole, and when the wadhook was withdrawn from the muzzle the loop was hanging on it. Still with intense deliberation Berry calmly proceeded to undo the loop and pass the end of the twine through the hole in the ventfitting, and then secure the end to a little toggle which he also took from his pocket. He dropped the ventfitting into the muzzle and walked round to the breech again, and pulled in on the twine, the ventfitting rattling down the bore until it leaped up to its position under the touchhole with a sharp tap that every ear heard. Even so it was only after some minutes of fumbling and adjustment that Berry had the ventfitting placed to his satisfaction with its small end in the hole, and he gestured to the gun captain to hold it steady with the twine. Now he took the rammer and thrust it with infinite care up the muzzle, feeling sensitively with it and pressing down upon the handle when he had it exactly placed. Another gesture from Berry, and a seaman brought a hammer and struck down upon the handle which Berry held firm. At each blow the ventfitting showed more clearly down in the touchhole, rising an eighth of an inch at a time until it was firmly jammed.

“Ready?” asked Bush as Berry waved the seaman away.

“Not quite, sir.”

Berry withdrew the rammer and walked slowly round to the breech again. He looked down at the ventfitting with his head first on one side and then on the other, like a terrier at a rathole. He seemed to be satisfied, and yet he walked back again to the muzzle and took up the wadhook. Bush glared round the horizon to ease his impatience; over towards where the fort lay a tiny figure was visible coming towards them. Bush clapped a telescope to his eye. It was a whitetrousered individual, now running, now walking, and apparently waving his arm as though to attract attention. It might be Wellard; Bush was nearly sure it was. Meanwhile Berry had caught the twine again with the wadhook and drawn it out again. He cut the toggle free from the twine with a stroke of his sheath knife and dropped it in his pocket, and then, once more as if he had all the time in the world, he returned to the breech and wound up his twine.

“Two rounds with onethird charges ought to do it now, sir,” he announced. “That’ll seat—”

“It can wait a few minutes longer,” said Bush, interrupting him with a shorttempered delight in showing this selfsatisfied skilled worker that his decisions need not all be treated like gospel.

Wellard was in clear sight of them all now, running and walking and stumbling over the irregular surface. He reached the gun gasping for breath, sweat running down his face.

“Please, sir—” he began. Bush was about to blare at him for his disrespectful approach but Wellard anticipated him. He twitched his coat into position, settled his absurd little hat on his head, and stepped forward with all the stiff precision his gasping lungs would allow.

“Mr. Hornblower’s respects, sir,” he said, raising his hand to his hat brim.

“Well, Mr. Wellard?”

“Please will you not reopen fire, sir.”

Wellard’s chest was heaving, and that was all he could say between two gasps. The sweat running down into his eyes made him blink, but he manfully stood to attention ignoring it.

“And why not, pray, Mr. Wellard?”

Even Bush could guess at the answer, but asked the question because the child deserved to be taken seriously.

“The Dons have agreed to a capitulation, sir.”

“Good! Those ships there?”

“They’ll be our prizes, sir.”

“Hurray!” yelled Berry, his arms in the air.

Five hundred pounds for Buckland, five shillings for Berry but prize money was something to cheer about in any case. And this was a victory, the destruction of a nest of privateers, the capture of a Spanish regiment, security for convoys going through the Mona Passage. It had only needed the mounting of the gun to search the anchorage to bring the Dons to their senses.

“Very good, Mr. Wellard, thank you,” said Bush.

So Wellard could step back and wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and Bush could wonder what item in the terms of the capitulation would be likely to rob him of his next night’s rest.

Bush stood on the quarterdeck of the Renown at Buckland’s side with his telescope trained on the fort.

“The party’s leaving there now, sir,” he said; and then, after an interval, “The boat’s putting off from the landing stage.”

The Renown swung at her anchor in the mouth of the Gulf of Samaná, and close beside her rode her three prizes; All four ships were jammed with the prisoners who had surrendered themselves, and sails were ready to loose the moment the Renown should give the signal.

“The boat’s well clear now,” said Bush. “I wonder—ah!”

The fort on the crest had burst into a great fountain of smoke, within which could be made out flying fragments of masonry. A moment later came the crash of the explosion. Two tons of gunpowder, ignited by the slow match left burning by the demolition party, did the work. Ramparts and bastions, tower and platform, all were dashed into ruins. Already at the foot of the steep slope to the water lay what was left of the guns, trunnions blasted off, muzzles split, and touchholes spiked; the insurgents when they came to take over the place would have no means to reestablish the defences of the bay—the other battery on the point across the water had already been blown up.

“It looks as if the damage is complete enough, sir,” said Bush.

“Yes,” said Buckland, his eyes to his telescope observing the ruins as they began to show through the smoke and dust. “We’ll get under way as soon as the boat’s hoisted in, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bush.

With the boat lowered on to its chocks the hands went to the capstan and hauled the ship laboriously up to her anchor; the sails were loosed as the anchor rose clear. The main topsail aback gave her a trifle of sternway, and then, with the wheel hard over and hands at the headsail sheets, she came round. The topsails, braced up, caught the wind as the quartermaster at the wheel spun the spokes over hastily, and now she was under full command, moving easily through the water, heeling a little to the wind, the sea swinging under her cutwater, heading out closehauled to weather Engano Point. Somebody forward began to cheer, and in a moment the entire crew was yelling lustily as the Renown left the scene of her victory. The prizes were getting under way at the same time, and the prize crews on board echoed the cheering. Bush’s telescope could pick out Hornblower on the deck of La Gaditana, the big shiprigged prize, waving his hat to the Renown.

“I’ll see that everything is secure below, sir,” said Bush.

There were marine sentries beside the midshipmen’s berth, bayonets fixed and muskets loaded. From within, as Bush listened, there was a wild babble of voices. Fifty women were cramped into that space, and almost as many children. That was bad, but it was necessary to confine them while the ship got under way. Later on they could be allowed on deck, in batches perhaps, for air and exercise. The hatchways in the lower gundeck were closed by gratings, and every hatchway was guarded by a sentry. Up through the gratings rose the smell of humanity; there were four hundred Spanish soldiers confined down there in conditions not much better than prevailed in a slave ship. It was only since dawn that they had been down there, and already there was this stench. For the men, as for the women, there would have to be arrangements made to allow them to take the air in batches. It meant endless trouble and precaution; Bush had already gone to considerable trouble to organise a system by which the prisoners should be supplied with food and drink. but every water butt was full, two boatloads of yams had been brought on board from the shore, and, given the steady breeze that could be expected, the run to Kingston would be completed in less than a week. Then their troubles would be ended and the prisoners handed over to the military authorities—probably the prisoners would be as relieved as Bush would be.