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.”
“Red-hot 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 red-hot 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 shore-based 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.” Hornblower 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 two-master’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.