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 treble-bank 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 double-shot 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 — double-shotting 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.
“Silence!” bellowed Hornblower.
Clank — clank — clank. Reluctant sounds; but the ship was moving. The cable was coming in slowly, like a mortally wounded monster. If only they could keep her on the move! Clank — clank — clank. The interval between the sounds was growing shorter — even Bush had to admit that to himself The cable was coming in faster — faster.
“Take charge here, Mr Hornblower,” said Bush, and sprang for the maindeck. If the ship were free there would be urgent matters for the first lieutenant to attend to. The capstan pawls seemed almost to be playing a merry tune, so rapidly did they sound as the capstan turned.
Undoubtedly there was much to be attended to on deck. There were decisions which must be made at once. Bush touched his hat to Buckland.
“Any orders, sir?”
Buckland turned unhappy eyes on him.
“We’ve lost the flood,” he said.
This must be the highest moment of the tide, if they were to touch ground again, hedging would not be so simple an operation.
“Yes, sir,” said Bush.
The decision could only lie with Buckland; no one else could share the responsibility. But it was terribly hard for a man to have to admit defeat in his very first command. Buckland looked as if for inspiration round the bay, where the red-and-gold flags of Spain flew above the banked-up powder smoke of the batteries — no inspiration could be found there.
“We can only get out with the land breeze,” said Buckland. “Yes, sir.”
There was almost no longer for the land breeze to blow, either, thought Bush; Buckland knew it as well as he did. A shot from the fort on the hill struck into the main chains at that moment, with a jarring crash and a shower of splinters. They heard the call for the fire party, and with that Buckland reached the bitter decision.