Lieutenant Hornblower h-2

by Cecil Scott Forester

  “What’s your duty?” demanded Bush.

  “Guarding the provision store, sir. There’s liquor here.”

  “Very well.”

  If the madmen who had made the assault—that marine, for instance, whose bayonetthrust Bush had parried—had got at the liquor there would be no controlling them at all.

  Abbott, the midshipman in subordinate command of Bush’s own division, came hurrying up.

  “What the hell d’ye think you’ve been doing?” demanded Bush, testily. “I’ve been without you since the attack began.”

  “Sorry, sir,” apologised Abbott. Of course he had been carried away by the fury of the attack, but that was no excuse; certainly no excuse when one remembered young Wellard still at Hornblower’s side and attending to his duties.

  “Get ready to make the signal to the ship,” ordered Bush “You ought to have been ready to do that five minutes ago. Clear three guns. Who was it who was carrying the flag? Find him and bend it on over the Spanish colours. Jump to it, damn you.”

  Victory might be sweet, but it had no effect on Bush’s temper, now that the reaction had set in. Bush had had no sleep and no breakfast, and even though perhaps only ten minutes had elapsed since the fort had been captured, his conscience nagged at him regarding those ten minutes; there were many things he ought to have done in that time.

  It was a relief to turn away from the contemplation of his own shortcomings and to settle with Whiting regarding the safeguarding of the prisoners. They had all been fetched out of the barrack buildings by now; a hundred half naked men, and at least a score of women, their hair streaming down their backs and their scanty clothing clutched about them. At a more peaceful moment Bush would have had an eye for those women, but as it was he merely felt irritated at the thought of an additional complication to deal with, and his eyes only took note of them as such.

  Among the men there was a small sprinkling of negroes and mulattoes, but most of them were Spaniards. Nearly all the dead men who lay here and there were fully clothed, in white uniforms wide blue facings—they were the sentinels and the main guard who had paid the penalty for their lack of watchfulness.

  “Who was in command?” asked Bush of Whiting.

  “Can’t tell, sir.”

  “Well, ask them, then.”

  Bush had command of no language at all save his own, and apparently neither had Whiting, judging by his unhappy glance.

  “Please, sir—” This was Pierce, surgeon’s mate, trying to attract his attention. “Can I have a party to help carry the wounded into the shade?”

  Before Bush could answer him Abbott was hailing from the gun platform.

  “Guns clear, sir. May I draw powder charges from the magazines?”

  And then before Bush could give permission here was young Wellard, trying to elbow Pierce on one side so as to command Bush’s attention.

  “Please, sir. Please, sir. Mr. Hornblower’s respects, sir, an’ could you please come up to the tower there, sir? Mr. Hornblower says it’s urgent, sir.”

  Bush felt at that moment as if one more distraction would break his heart.

  Chapter X

  At each corner of the fort there was a small bastion built out, to give flanking fire along the walls, and on top of the southwest bastion stood a little watchtower which carried the flagstaff. Bush and Hornblower stood on the tower, the broad Atlantic behind them and before them the long gulf of the bay of Samaná. Over their heads waved two flags: the White Ensign above, the red and gold of Spain below. Out in the Renown they might not be able to make out the colours, but they would certainly see the two flags. And when having heard the three signal guns boom out they trained their telescopes on the fort they must have seen the flags slowly flutter down and rise again, dip and rise again. Three guns; two flags twice dipped. That was the signal that the fort was in English hands, and the Renown had seen it, for she had braced up her mizzen topsail and begun the long beat back along the coast of the peninsula.

  Bush and Hornblower had with them the one telescope which a hasty search through the fort had brought to light; when one of them had it to his eye the other could hardly restrain his twitching fingers from snatching at it. At the moment Bush was looking through it, training it on the farther shore of the bay, and Hornblower was stabbing with an index finger at what he had been looking at a moment before.

  “You see, sir?” he asked. “Farther up the bay than the bakery. There’s the town—Savana, it’s called. And beyond that there’s the shipping. They’ll up anchor any minute now.”

  “I see ‘em,” said Bush, the glass still at his eye. “Four small craft. No sail hoisted—hard to tell what they are.”

  “Easy enough to guess, though, sir.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Bush.

  There would be no need for big men of war here, immediately adjacent to the Mona Passage. Half the Caribbean trade came up through here, passing within thirty miles of the bay of Samaná. Fast, handy craft, with a couple of long guns each and a large crew, could dash out and snap up prizes and retire to the protection of the bay, where the crossed fire of the batteries could be relied on to keep out enemies, as the events of yesterday had proved. The raiders would hardly have to spend a night at sea.

  “They’ll know by now we’ve got this fort,” said Hornblower. “They’ll guess that Renown will be coming round after ‘em. They can sweep, and tow, and kedge. They’ll be out of the bay before you can say Jack Robinson. And from Engano Point it’s a fair wind for Martinique.”

  “Very likely,” agreed Bush.

  With a simultaneous thought they turned to look at the Renown. With her stern to them, her sails braced sharp on the starboard tack, she was making her way out to sea; it would be a long beat before she could go about in the certainty of being able to weather Cape Samaná. She looked lovely enough out there, with her white sails against the rich blue, but it would be hours before she could work round to stop the bolt hole. Bush turned back and considered the sheltered waters of the bay.

  “Better man the guns and make ready for ‘em,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hornblower. He hesitated. “We won’t have ‘em under fire for long. They’ll be shallow draught. They can hug the point over there closer than Renown could.”

  “But it won’t take much to sink ‘em, either,” said Bush. “Oh, I see what you’re after.”

  “Redhot shot might make all the difference, sir,” said Hornblower.

  “Repay ‘em in their own coin,” said Bush, with a grin of satisfaction. Yesterday the Renown had endured the hellish fire of redhot shot. To Bush the thought of roasting a few Dagoes was quite charming.

  “That’s right, sir,” said Hornblower.

  He was not grinning like Bush. There was a frown on his face; he was oppressed with the thought that the privateers might escape to continue their depredations elsewhere, and any means to reduce their chances should be used.

  “But can you do it?” asked Bush suddenly. “D’ye know how to heat shot?”

  “I’ll find out, sir.”

  “I’ll wager no man of ours knows how.”

  Shot could only be heated in a battery on land; a seagoing ship, constructed of inflammable material, could not run the risk of going into action with a flaming furnace inside her. The French, in the early days of the Revolutionary War, had made some disastrous experiments in the hope of finding a means of countering England’s naval superiority, but after a few ships had set themselves on fire they had given up the attempt. Seagoing men now left the use of the heated weapon to shorebased garrison artillery.

  “I’ll try and find out for myself, sir,” said Hornblower. “There’s the furnace down there and all the gear.”

  Hornblower stood in the sunshine, already far too hot to be comfortable. His face was pale, dirty and bearded, and in his expression eagerness and weariness were oddly at war.

  “Have you had any breakfast yet?” asked Bush.

  “No, sir.” Hor
nblower looked straight at him. “Neither have you, sir.”

  “No,” grinned Bush.

  He had not been able to spare a moment for anything like that, with the whole defence of the fort to be organised. But he could bear fatigue and hunger and thirst, and he doubted if Hornblower could.

  “I’ll get a drink of water at the well, sir,” said Hornblower.

  As he said the words, and the full import came to him, a change in his expression was quite obvious. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips; Bush could see that the lips were cracked and parched and that the tongue could do nothing to relieve them. The man had drunk nothing since he had landed twelve hours ago—twelve hours of desperate exertion in a tropical climate.

  “See that you do, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush. “That’s an order.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Bush found the telescope leaving his hand and passing into Hornblower’s.

  “May I have another look, sir, before I go down? By George, I thought as much. That twomaster’s warping out, sir. Less than an hour before she’s within range. I’ll get the guns manned, sir. Take a look for yourself, sir.”

  He went darting down the stone stairs of the tower, having given back the telescope, but half way down he paused.

  “Don’t forget your breakfast, sir,” he said, his face upturned to Bush. “You’ve plenty of time for that.”

  Bush’s glance through the telescope confirmed what Hornblower had said. At least one of the vessels up the bay was beginning to move. He turned and swept the rest of the land and water with a precautionary glance before handing the telescope to Abbott, who during all this conversation had been standing by, silent in the presence of his betters.

  “Keep a sharp lookout,” said Bush.

  Down in the body of the fort Hornblower was already issuing rapid orders, and the men, roused to activity, were on the move. On the gun platform they were casting loose the remaining guns, and as Bush descended from the platform he saw Hornblower organising other working parties, snapping out orders with quick gestures. At the sight of Bush he turned guiltily and walked over to the well. A marine was winding up the bucket, and Hornblower seized it. He raised the bucket to his lips, leaning back to balance the weight; and he drank and drank, water slopping in quantities over his chest as he drank, water pouring over his face, until the bucket was empty, and then he put it down with a grin at Bush, his face still dripping water. The very sight of him was enough to make Bush, who had already had one drink from the well, feel consumed with thirst all over again.

  By the time Bush had drunk there was the usual group of people clamouring for his attention, for orders and information, and by the time he had dealt with them there was smoke rising from the furnace in the corner of the courtyard, and a loud crackling from inside it. Bush walked over. A seaman, kneeling, was plying a pair of bellows; two other men were bringing wood from the pile against the ramparts. When the furnace door was opened the blast of heat that rose into Bush’s face was enough to make him step back. Hornblower turned up with his hurried pace.

  “How’s the shot, Saddler?” he asked.

  The petty officer picked up some rags, and, with them to shield his hands, laid hold of two long handles that projected from the far side of the furnace, balancing two projecting from the nearest side. When he drew them out it became apparent that all four handles were part of a large iron grating, the centre of which rested inside the furnace above the blazing fuel. Lying on the grating were rows of shot, still black in the sunshine. Saddler shifted his quid, gathered his saliva, and spat expertly on the nearest one. The spittle boiled off, but not with violence.

  “Not very hot yet, sir,” said Saddler.

  “Us’ll fry they devils,” said the man with the bellows, unexpectedly; he looked up, as he crouched on his knees, with ecstasy in his face at the thought of burning his enemies alive.

  Hornblower paid him no attention.

  “Here, you bearer men,” he said, “let’s see what you can do.”

  Hornblower had been followed by a file of men, every pair carrying a piece of apparatus formed of two iron bars joined with iron crosspieces. The first pair approached. Saddler took a pair of tongs and gingerly worked a hot shot on to the bearer.

  “Move on, you two,” ordered Hornblower. “Next!”

  When a shot lay on every bearer Hornblower led his men away.

  “Now let’s see you roll those into the guns,” he said.

  Bush followed, consumed with curiosity. The procession moved up the ramp to the gun platform, where now crews had been told off to every gun; the guns were run back with the muzzles well clear of the embrasures. Tubs of water stood by each pair of guns.

  “Now, you rammers,” said Hornblower, “are your dry wads in? Then in with your wet wads.”

  From the tubs the seamen brought out round flat discs of fibre, dripping with water.

  “Two to a gun,” said Hornblower.

  The wet wads were thrust into the muzzles of the guns and then were forced down the bores with the clubended ramrods.

  “Ram ‘em home,” said Hornblower. “Now, bearers.”

  It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearingstretchers at the muzzles of the guns and then to tilt so as to induce the hot shot to roll down into the bore.

  “The Don must’ve exercised with these guns better than we’d give ‘em credit for,” said Hornblower to Bush, “judging by the practice they made yesterday. Rammers!”

  The ramrods thrust the shot home against the charges; there was a sharp sizzling noise as each hot shot rested against the wet wads.

  “Run up!”

  The guns’ crews seized the tackles and heaved, and the ponderous guns rolled slowly forward to point their muzzles out through the embrasures.

  “Aim for the point over there and fire!”

  With handspikes under the rear axles the guns were traversed at the orders of the captains; the priming tubes were already in the touchholes and each gun was fired as it bore. The sound of the explosions was very different here on the stone platform from when guns were fired in the confined spaces of a wooden ship. The slight wind blew the smoke sideways.

  “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 w
hich 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.