“Mr Jones. Let go!”
The anchor cable roared out briefly as the crew of the ketch raced aloft to get in the canvas.
The Harvey swung slowly round until she rode bows upwind, pointing nearly straight at the invisible Blanchefleur. The Moth, Hornblower saw, anchored nearly abreast of her sister ship.
Mound moved with a deceptive appearance of leisureliness about the business of opening fire. He took a series of bearings to make sure that the anchor was holding. At a word from him a seaman tied a white rag to the ‘spring’ where it lay on the deck as it passed forward to the capstan, and Mound fished in his pocket, brought out a piece of chalk, and marked a scale on the deck beside the rag.
“Mr Jones,” he said, “take a turn on the capstan.”
Four men at the capstan turned it easily. The white rag crept along the deck as the spring was wound in. The spring passed out through an after gun-port and was attached to the anchor far forward; pulling on it pulled the stern of the vessel round so that she lay at an angle to the wind, and the amount of the angle was roughly indicated by the movement of the white rag against the scale chalked on the deck.
“Carry on, Mr Jones,” said Mound, taking a rough bearing of the Blanchefleur‘s spars. The capstan clanked as the men at the bars spun it round.
“Steady!” called Mound, and they stopped.
“One more pawl!” said Mound, sighting very carefully now for Blanchefleur‘s mainmast.
Clank! went the capstan as the men momentarily threw their weight on the bars.
“One more!”
Clank!
“I think that’s right, sir,” said Mound. The Harvey‘s centre line was pointing straight at Blanchefleur. “Of course the cables stretch and the anchor may drag a little, but it’s easy enough to maintain a constant bearing by paying out or taking in on the spring.”
“So I understand,” said Hornblower.
He was familiar with the theory of the bomb-vessel; actually he was intensely interested in and excited at the prospect of the approaching demonstration. Ever since, at a desperate moment, he had tried to hit a small boat at long range with a six-pounder-shot from the Witch of Endor, Hornblower had been conscious that naval gunnery was an art which should be improved if it were possible. At present it was chancey, literally hit-or-miss. Mortar-fire from a bomb-vessel was the uttermost refinement of naval gunnery, brought to a high degree of perfection, although it was only a bastard offshoot. The high trajectory and the low muzzle velocity of the projectile, and the avoidance of the disturbing factor of irregularities in the bore of the gun, made it possible to drop the shell with amazing accuracy.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” said Mound, “I’ll go forrard. I like to cut my fuses myself.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hornblower.
The two mortars were like big cauldrons in the eyes of the bomb-ketch.
“Eleven hundred yards,” said Mound. “We’ll try a pound and three-quarters of powder, Mr Jones.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The powder was made up in cartridges of a pound, half a pound, and a quarter of a pound. The midshipman tore open one of each size, and poured the contents into the starboard-side mortar, and pressed it home with an enormous wad of felt, Mound had a measuring rule in his hand, and was looking up at the sky in a calculating way. Then he bent over one of the big shells, and with a pair of scissors he cut the fuse with profound care.
“One and eleven sixteenths, sir,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t know why I decided on that. The fuse burns at different speeds according to the weather, and that seems right for now. Of course we don’t want the shell to burst in the air, but if you have too long a fuse some Frog may get to it and put it out before it bursts.”
“Naturally,” said Hornblower.
The big shell was lifted up and placed in the muzzle of the mortar; a few inches down, the bore narrowed abruptly, leaving a distinct step inside, on which the bold belt round the shell rested with reassuring solidity. The curve of the thirteen-inch shell, with the fuse protruding, was just level with the rim of the muzzle.
“Hoist the red swallowtail,” called Mound, raising his voice to reach the ears of the master’s mate aft.
Hornblower turned and looked through his glass at Clam, anchored in the shallows a couple of miles away. It was under his personal supervision that this code of signals had been arranged, and he felt a keen anxiety that it should function correctly. Signals might easily be misunderstood. A red swallowtail mounted to the Clam‘s peak.
“Signal acknowledged, sir,” called the master’s mate.
Mound took hold of the smouldering linstock, and applied it to the fuse of the shell. After a moment the fuse took fire, spluttering feebly.
“One, two, three, four, five,” counted Mound, slowly, while the fuse still spluttered. Apparently he left himself a five-second margin in case the fuse burnt unsatisfactorily and had to be relit.
Then he pressed the linstock into the touch-hole of the mortar, and it went off with a roar. Standing immediately behind the mortar, Hornblower could see the shell rise, its course marked by the spark of the burning fuse. Up and up it went, higher and higher, and then it disappeared as it began its downward flight at right angles now to the line of sight. They waited, and they waited, and nothing more happened.
“Miss,” said Mound. “Haul down the red swallowtail.”
“White pendant from Clam, sir,” called the master’s mate.
“That means ‘range too great’,” said Mound. “A pound and a half of powder this time, please, Mr Jones.”
Moth had two red swallowtails hoisted, and two were hoisted in reply by Clam. Hornblower had foreseen the possibility of confusion, and had settled that signals to do with Moth should always be doubled. Then there would be no chance of Harvey making corrections for Moth’s mistakes, or vice versa. Moth‘s mortar roared out, its report echoing over the water. From the Harvey they could see nothing of the flight of the shell.
“Double yellow flag from Clam, sir.”
“That means Moth‘s shell dropped short,” said Mound. “Hoist our red swallowtail.”
Again he fired the mortar, again the spark of the fuse soared towards the sky and disappeared, and again nothing more happened.
“White pendant from Clam, sir.”
“Too long again?” said Mound, a little puzzled. “I hope they’re not cross-eyed over there.”
Moth fired again, and was rewarded by a double white pendant from Clam. This shell had passed over, when her preceding one had fallen short. It should be easy for Moth to find the target now. Mound was checking the bearing of the target.
“Still pointing straight at her,” he grumbled. “Mr Jones, take one half a quarter-pound from that pound and a half.”
Hornblower was trying to imagine what the captain of the Blanchefleur was doing at that moment on his own side of the sandspit. Probably until the very moment when the bomb-ketches opened fire he had felt secure, imagining that nothing except a direct assault on the battery could imperil him. But now shells must be dropping quite close to him, and he was unable to reply or defend himself in any active way. It would be hard for him to get under way; he had anchored his ship at the far end of the long narrow lagoon. The exit near him was shoal water too shallow even for a skiff — as the breakers showed — and with the wind as it was at present it was impossible for him to try to beat up the channel again closer to the battery. He must be regretting having dropped so far to leeward before anchoring: presumably he had done so to secure himself the better from the claws of a cutting-out attack. With boats or by kedging he might be able to haul his ship slowly up to the battery, near enough for its guns to be able to keep the bomb-ketches out of mortar-range.