“Red swallowtail at the dip, sir!” reported the master’s mate excitedly.
That meant that the shell had fallen short but close.
“Put in two pinches more, Mr Jones,” said Mound.
Moth‘s mortar roared out again, but this time they saw the shell burst, apparently directly above the Blanchefleur‘s mastheads. They saw the big ball of smoke, and the sound of the explosion came faintly back to them on the wind. Mound shook his head gravely; either Duncan over there had not cut his fuse correctly or it had burnt away more rapidly than usual. Two blue flags at Clam‘s peak indicated that the fall of Moth‘s shot had been unobserved — the signalling system was still functioning correctly. Then Mound bent his gangling body over and applied the linstock to fuse and touch-hole. The mortar roared; some freak of ballistics sent a fragment of blazing wad close over Hornblower’s head, making him duck while the smoke billowed round him, but as he looked up again he just caught sight of the spark of the fuse high up against the sky, poised at the top of its trajectory, before it disappeared from sight in its swift downward swoop. Hornblower, Mound, Jones, the whole mortar’s crew stood waiting tensely for the shell to end its flight. Then over the rim of the sand-dune they saw a hint of white smoke, and the sound of the bursting shell came back to them directly afterwards.
“I think we’ve hit her, sir,” said Mound, with elaborate carelessness.
“Black ball at Clam‘s masthead, sir!” shouted the master’s mate.
That meant a hit. A thirteen-inch shell, soaring that immense distance into the air, had come plunging down onto Blanchefleur’s decks and had exploded. Hornblower could not imagine what destruction it might cause.
“Both mortars together, now,” snapped Mound, throwing aside all lackadaisical pose. “Jump to it, you men.”
Two white pendants at the dip from Clam meant that Moth’s next shot had fallen close but too far. Then both of Harvey‘s mortars roared — the little ketch dipped and plunged as the violence of the recoil forced her bows down. Up went the black ball to Clam‘s masthead.
“Another hit!” exulted Mound.
Blanchefleur‘s topmasts, seen over the dunes, suddenly began to separate. She was turning round — her desperate crew was trying to tow her or kedge her back up the channel.
“Please God we wreck her before she gets away!” said Mound. “Why in hell doesn’t Moth fire?”
Hornblower watched him closely; the temptation to fire his mortars the moment they were loaded, without waiting for Moth to take her turn, was powerful indeed, but to yield to it meant confusion for the observer over in Clam and eventual losing of all control. Moth fired, and two black balls at Clam‘s masthead showed that she, too, had scored a hit. But Blanchefleur had turned now; Hornblower could see the tiniest, smallest movement of her topmast against the upper edge of the dunes, only a yard or two at most. Mound fired his two mortars, and even while the shells were in the air his men leaped to the capstan and flung themselves on the bars. Clank — clank! Twice the pawl slipped over the ratchet as they hauled in on the spring and swung the ketch round to keep her mortars trained on the target. At that instant Blanchefleur‘s fore-topmast fell from view. Only main and mizzen were in sight now.
“Another hit, by God!” shouted Hornblower, the words forced from him like a cork from a popgun. He was as excited as a schoolboy; he found he was jumping up and down on the deck. The foremast gone; he tried to picture the frightful destruction those shells must be causing, crashing down on the frail wooden decks. And there was smoke visible over the crest of the dunes too, more than could be accounted for by the bursting of the shells, and blacker, too. Probably she was on fire. Mizzenmast and mainmast came into line again — Blanchefleur was swinging across the channel. She must be out of control. Perhaps a shell had hit the cable out to the kedge or wrecked the towing boats.
Moth fired again; and two red swallowtails at the dip showed that her shells had fallen close and short — Blanchefleur must have swerved appreciably across the channel. Mound had noticed it, and was increasing the propelling charge in his mortars. That was smoke; undoubtedly it was smoke eddying from Blanchefleur. She must be on fire. And from the way she lay, stationary again — Hornblower could see that her topmasts made no movement at all to the sand-dunes — she must have gone aground. Mound fired again, and they waited. There went the mizzen-topmast, leaning over slowly, and the maintopmast disappeared as well. There was nothing to see now, except the smoke rising ever more thickly. Mound looked at Hornblower for orders.
“Better keep on firing,” said Hornblower, thickly. Even if the crew were roasting alive in her it was his duty to see that Blanchefleur was utterly destroyed. The mortars roared out again, and the shells made their steep ascent, climbing upwards for ten full seconds before swooping down again. Clam signalled ‘close and over’. Moth fired again, and Clam signalled a hit for, her; Hornblower’s inner eye was seeing mental pictures of the shells plunging from the sky in among the crew of the Blanchefleur as they laboured amid the flames to save their ship, burning, dismasted, and aground. It took only the briefest interval of time for those pictures to form, for the moment the signal was seen in Clam Mound bent to fire the mortars, and yet the fuses had not taken fire when the sound of a violent explosion checked him. Hornblower whipped his glass to his eye; an immense gust of smoke showed over the sand-dunes, and in the smoke Hornblower thought he could make out flying specks — corpses or fragments of the ship, blown into the air by the explosion. The fire, or one of Moth‘s last shells, had reached Blanchefleur‘s magazines.
“Signal to Clam, Mr Mound,” said Hornblower “‘What do you see of the enemy?’”
They waited for the answer.
“‘Enemy — totally — destroyed’, sir,” read off the master’s mate, and the crew gave a ragged cheer.
“Very good, Mr Mound. I think we can leave these shallows now before daylight goes. Hang out the recall, if you please, with Clam‘s number and Lotus‘s number.”
This watery northern sunshine was deceptive. It shone upon one but it gave one no heat at all. Hornblower shivered violently for a moment — he had been standing inactive, he told himself, upon the Harvey‘s deck for some hours, and he should have worn a greatcoat. Yet that was not the real explanation of the shudder, and he knew it. The excitement and interest had died away, leaving him gloomy and deflated. It had been a brutal and cold-blooded business, destroying a ship that had no chance of firing back at him. It would read well in a report, and brother officers would tell each other of Hornblower’s new achievement, destroying a big French privateer in the teeth of the Swedes and the French amid shoals innumerable. Only he would know of this feeling of inglorious anticlimax.