“I might just reach the battery on this side now, sir,” said Hornblower.
“Then try what you can do.”
Now here was Buckland himself, hailing fretfully down the hatchway.
“Can’t you open fire yet, Mr. Bush?”
“This minute, sir.”
Hornblower was standing by the centre twentyfourpounder. The gun captain slid the rolling handspike under the gun carriage, and heaved with all his weight. Two men at each side tackle tugged under his direction to point the gun true. With the elevating coign quite free from the breech the gun was at its highest angle of elevation. The gun captain flipped up the iron apron over the touchhole, saw that the hole was filled with powder, and with a shout of “Stand clear” he thrust his smouldering linstock into it. The gun bellowed loud in the confined space; some of the smoke came drifting back through the port.
“Just below, sir,” reported Hornblower, standing at the next port. “When the guns are hot they’ll reach it.”
“Carry on, then.”
“Open fire, first division!” yelled Hornblower.
The four foremost guns crashed out almost together.
“Second division!”
Bush could feel the deck heaving under him with the shock of the discharge and the recoil. Smoke came billowing back into the confined space, acrid, bitter; and the din was paralysing.
“Try again, men!” yelled Hornblower. “Division captains, see that you point true!”
There was a frightful crash close beside Bush and something screamed past him to crash into the deck beam near kits head. Something flying through an open gunport had struck a gun on its reinforced breech. Two men had fallen close beside it, one lying still and the other twisting and turning in agony. Bush was about to give an order regarding them when his attention was drawn to something more important. There was a deep gash in the deck beam by his head and from the depths of the gash smoke was curling. It was a redhot shot that had struck the breech of the gun and had apparently flown into fragments. A large part—the largest part—had sunk deep into the beam and already the wood was smouldering.
“Fire buckets here!” roared Bush.
Ten pounds of redhot glowing metal lodged in the dry timbers of the ship could start a blaze in a few seconds. At the same time there was a rush of feet overhead, the sound of gear being moved about, and then the clankclank of pumps. So on the maindeck they were fighting fires too. Hornblower’s guns were thundering on the port side, the guntrucks roaring over the planking. Hell was unchained, and the smoke of hell was eddying about him.
The masts creaked again with the swing of the yards; despite everything, the ship had to be sailed up the tortuous channel. He peered out through a port, but his eye told him, as he forced himself to gauge the distance calmly, that the fort on the crest was still beyond range. No sense in wasting ammunition. He straightened himself and looked round the murky deck. There was something strange in the feel of the ship under his feet. He teetered on his toes to put his wild suspicions to the test. There was the slightest perceptible slope to the deck—a strange rigidity and permanence about it. Oh my God! Hornblower was looking round at him and making an urgent gesture downwards to confirm the awful thought. The Renown was aground. She must have run so smoothly and slowly up a mudbank as to lose her speed without any jerk perceptible. But she must have put her bows far up on the bank for the slope of the deck to be noticeable. There were more rending crashes as other shots from the shore struck home, a fresh hurrying and bustle as the fire parties ran to deal with the danger. Hard aground, and doomed to be slowly shot to pieces by those cursed forts, if the shots did not set them on fire to roast alive on the mudbank. Hornblower was beside him, his watch in his hand.
“Tide’s still rising,” he said. “It’s an hour before high water. But I’m afraid we’re pretty hard aground.”
Bush could only look at him and swear, pouring out filth from his mouth as the only means of relieving his overwrought feelings.
“Steady there, Duff!” yelled Hornblower, looking away from him at a gun’s crew gathered round their gun. “Swab that out properly! D’ye want your hands blown off when you load?”
By the time Hornblower looked round at Bush again the latter had regained his selfcontrol.
“An hour to high water, you say?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. According to Carberry’s calculations.”
“God help us’”
“My shot’s just reaching the battery on that point, sir. If I can keep the embrasures swept I’ll slow their rate of fire even if I don’t silence them.”
Another crash as a shot struck home, and another.
“But the one across the channel’s out of range.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
The powder boys were running through all the bustle with fresh charges for the guns. And here was the messenger-midshipman threading his way through them.
“Mr. Bush, sir! Will you please report to Mr. Buckland, sir? And we’re aground, under fire, sir.”
“Shut your mouth. I leave you in charge here, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The sunlight on the quarterdeck was blinding. Buckland was standing hatless at the rail, trying to control the working of his features. There was a roar and a spluttering of steam as someone turned the jet of a hose on a fiery fragment lodged in the bulkhead. Dead men in the scuppers; wounded being carried off. A shot, or the splinters it had sent flying, must have killed the man at the wheel so that the ship, temporarily out of control, had run aground.
“We have to kedge off,” said Buckland.
“Aye aye, sir.”
That meant putting out an anchor and heaving in on the cable with the capstan to haul the ship off the mud by main force. Bush looked round him to confirm what he had gathered regarding the ship’s position from his restricted view below. Her bows were on the mud; she would have to be hauled off stern first. A shot howled close overhead, and Bush had to exert his selfcontrol not to jump.
“You’ll have to get a cable out aft through a stern port.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Roberts’ll take the stream anchor off in the launch.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The fact that Buckland omitted the formal ‘Mister’ was significant of the strain he was undergoing and of the emergency of the occasion.
“I’ll take the men from my guns, sir,” said Bush.
“Very good.”
Now was the time for discipline and training to assert themselves; the Renown was fortunate in having a crew more than half composed of seasoned men drilled in the blockade of Brest. At Plymouth she had only been filled up with pressed men. What had merely been a drill, an evolution, when the Renown was one of the Channel Fleet, was now an operation on which the life of the ship depended, not something to be done perfunctorily in competition with the rest of the squadron. Bush gathered his guns’ crews around him and set about the task of rousing out a cable and getting it aft to a port, while overhead Roberts’ men were manning stay tackles and yard tackles to sway out the launch.
Down below the heat between the decks was greater even than above with the sun glaring down. The smoke from Hornblower’s guns was eddying thick under the beams; Hornblower was holding his hat in his hand and wiping his streaming face with his handkerchief. He nodded as Bush appeared; there was no need for Bush to explain the duty on which he was engaged. With the guns still thundering and the smoke still eddying, powder boys still running with fresh charges and fire parties bustling with their buckets, Bush’s men roused out the cable. The hundred fathoms of it weighed a trifle over a couple of tons; clear heads and skilled supervision were necessary to get the unwieldy cable laid out aft, but Bush was at his best doing work which called for single-minded attention to a single duty. He had it clear and faked down along the deck by the time the cutter was under the stern to receive the end, and then he watched the vast thing gradually snake out through the af
ter port without a hitch. The launch came into his line of vision as he stood looking out, with the vast weight of the stream anchor dangling astern; it was a relief to know that the tricky business of getting the anchor into her had been successfully carried out. The second cutter carried the spring cable from the hawsehole. Roberts was in command; Bush heard him hail the cutter as the three boats drew off astern. There was a sudden jet of water among the boats; one or other, if not both, of the batteries ashore had shifted targets; a shot now into the launch would be a disaster, and one into a cutter would be a serious setback.
“Pardon, sir,” said Hornblower’s voice beside him, and Bush turned back from looking out over the glittering water.
“Well?”
“I could take some of the foremost guns and run ‘em aft,” said Hornblower. “Shifting the weight would help.”
“So it would,” agreed Bush; Hornblower’s face was streaked and grimy with his exertions, as Bush noted while he considered if he had sufficient authority to give the order on his own responsibility. “Better get Buckland’s permission. Ask him in my name if you like.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
These lowerdeck twentyfourpounders weighed more than two tons each; the transfer of some from forward aft would be an important factor in getting the bows off the mudbank. Bush took another glance through the port. James, the midshipman in the first cutter, was turning to look back to check that the cable was out in exact line with the length of the ship. There would be a serious loss of tractive effort if there was an angle in the cable from anchor to capstan. Launch and cutter were coming together in preparation for dropping the anchor. All round them the water suddenly boiled to a salvo from the shore; the skipping jets of the ricochets showed that it was the fort on the hill that was firing at them—and making good practice for that extreme range. The sun caught an axe blade as it turned in the air in the sternsheets of the launch; Bush saw the momentary flash. They were letting the anchor drop from where it hung from the gallows in the stern. Thank God.
Hornblower’s guns were still bellowing out, making the ship tremble with their recoil, and at the same time a splintering crash over his head told him that the other battery was still firing on the ship and still scoring hits. Everything was still going on at once; Hornblower had a gang of men at work dragging aft the foremost twentyfourpounder on the starboard side—a ticklish job with the rolling handspike under the transom of the carriage. The trucks squealed horribly as the men struggled to turn the cumbersome thing and thread their way along the crowded deck. But Bush could spare Hornblower no more than a glance as he hurried up to the maindeck to see for himself what was happening at the capstan.
The men were already taking their places at the capstan bars under the supervision of Smith and Booth; the maindeck guns were being stripped of the last of their crews to supply enough hands. Naked to the waist, the men were spitting on their hands and testing their foothold—there was no need to tell them how serious the situation was; no need for Booth’s knotted rattan.
“Heave away!” hailed Buckland from the quarterdeck.
“Heave away!” yelled Booth. “Heave, and wake the dead!”
The men flung their weight on the bars and the capstan came round, the pawls clanking rapidly as the capstan took up the slack. The boys with the nippers at the messenger had to hurry to keep pace. Then the intervals between the clanking of the pawls became longer as the capstan turned more slowly. More slowly; clank—clank—clank. Now the strain was coming; the bitts creaked as the cable tightened. Clank—clank. That was a new cable, and it could be expected to stretch a trifle.
The sudden howl of a shot—what wanton fate had directed it here of all places in the ship? Flying splinters and prostrate men; the shot had ploughed through the whole crowded mass. Red blood was pouring out, vivid in the sunshine; in understandable confusion the men drew away from the bloody wrecks.
“Stand to your posts!” yelled Smith. “You, boys! Get those men out of the way. Another capstan bar here! Smartly now!”
The ball which had wrought such fearful havoc had not spent all its force on human flesh; it had gone on to shatter the cheekpiece of a gun carriage and then to lodge in the ship’s side. Nor had human blood quenched it; smoke was rising on the instant from where it rested. Bush himself seized a fire bucket and dashed its contents on the glowing ball; steam blended with the smoke and the water spat and sputtered. No single fire bucket could quench twentyfour pounds of redhot iron, but a fire party came running up to flood the smouldering menace.
The dead and the wounded had been dragged away and the men were at the capstan bars again.
“Heave!” shouted Booth. Clank—clank—clank. Slowly and more slowly still turned the capstan. Then it came to a dead stop while the bitts groaned under the strain.
“Heave! Heave!”
Clank! Then reluctantly, and after a long interval, clank! Then no more. The merciless sun beat down upon the men’s straining backs; their horny feet sought for a grip against the cleats on the deck as they shoved and thrust against the bars. Bush went below again, leaving them straining away; he could, and did, send plenty of men up from the lower gundeck to treblebank the capstan bars. There were men still hard at work in the smoky twilight hauling the last possible gun aft, but Hornblower was back among his guns supervising the pointing. Bush set his foot on the cable. It was not like a rope, but like a wooden spar, as rigid and unyielding. Then through the sole of his shoe Bush felt the slightest tremor, the very slightest; the men at the capstan were putting their reinforced strength against the bars. The clank of one more pawl gained reverberated along the ship’s timbers; the cable shuddered a trifle more violently and then stiffened into total rigidity again. It did not creep over an eighth of an inch under Bush’s foot, although he knew that at the capstan a hundred and fifty men were straining their hearts out at the bars. One of Hornblower’s guns went off; Bush felt the jar of the recoil through the cable. Faintly down the hatchways came the shouts of encouragement from Smith and Booth at the capstan, but not an inch of gain could be noted at the cable. Hornblower came and touched his hat to Bush.
“D’you notice any movement when I fire a gun, sir?” As he asked the question he turned and waved to the captain of a midship gun which was loaded and run out. The gun captain brought the linstock down on the touchhole, and the gun roared out and came recoiling back through the smoke. Bush’s foot on the cable recorded the effect.
“Only the jar—no—yes.” Inspiration came to Bush. To the question he asked, Bush already knew the answer Hornblower would give. “What are you thinking of?”
“I could fire all my guns at once. That might break the suction, sir.”
So it might, indeed. The Renown was lying on mud, which was clutching her in a firm grip. If she could be severely shaken while the hawser was maintained at full tension the grip might be broken.
“I think it’s worth trying, by God,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir. I’ll have my guns loaded and ready in three minutes, sir.” Hornblower turned to his battery and funnelled his hands round his mouth. “Cease fire! Cease fire, all!”
“I’ll tell ‘em at the capstan,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir.” Hornblower went on giving his orders. “Load and doubleshot your guns. Prime and run out.”
That was the last that Bush heard for the moment as he went up on the maindeck and made his suggestion to Smith, who nodded in instant agreement.
“’Vast heaving!” shouted Smith, and the sweating men at the bars eased their weary backs.
An explanation was necessary to Buckland on the quarterdeck, he saw the force of the argument. The unfortunate man, who was watching the failure of his first venture in independent command, and whose ship was in such deadly peril, was gripping at the rail and wringing it with his two hands as if he would twist it like a corkscrew. In the midst of all this there was a piece of desperately important news that Smith had to give.
�
�Roberts is dead,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
“No!”
“He’s dead. A shot cut him in two in the launch.”
“Good God!”
It was to Bush’s credit that he felt sorrow at the death of Roberts before his mind recorded the fact that he was now first lieutenant of a ship of the line. But there was no time now to think of either sorrow or rejoicing, not with the Renown aground and under fire. Bush hailed down the hatchway.
“Below, there! Mr. Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“Are your guns ready?”
“Another minute, sir.”
“Better take the strain,” said Bush to Smith; and then, louder, down the hatchway, “Await my order, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The men settled themselves at the capstan bars again, braced their feet, and heaved.
“Heave!” shouted Booth. “Heave!”
The men might be pushing at the side of a church, so little movement did they get from the bars after the first inch.
“Heave!”
Bush left them and ran below. He set his foot on the rigid cable and nodded to Hornblower. The fifteen guns—two had been dragged aft from the port side—were run out and ready, the crews awaiting orders.
“Captains, take your linstocks!” shouted Hornblower.
“All you others, stand clear! Now, I shall give you the words ‘one, two, three’. At ‘three’ you touch your linstocks down. Understand?”
There was a buzz of agreement.
“All ready? All linstocks glowing?” The gun captains swung them about to get them as bright as possible. “Then one—two—three!”
Down came the linstocks on the touchholes, and almost simultaneously the guns roared out; even with the inevitable variation in the amounts of powder in the touchholes there was not a second between the first and the last of the fifteen explosions. Bush, his foot on the cable, felt the ship heave with the recoil—doubleshotting the guns had increased the effect. The smoke came eddying into the sweltering heat, but Bush had no attention to give to it. The cable moved under his foot with the heave of the ship. Surely it was moving along. It was! He had to shift the position of his foot. The clank of a newly gained pawl on the windlass could be heard by everyone. Clank—clank. Someone in the smoke started to cheer and others took it up.
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