"I think so. What I'm doing is pretty cmde, but if I can make one out of three guns operable without ruining the bore, I'll be satisfied. You see, there's not much danger that these puny fires will actually melt the barrels. Captain. The iron is too tough for that. But they might just soften enough to let me pull out the metal strips that have been jammed into them, without my gouging into the bore. Oh, there may be a nick here and there—you see, a primer is made of harder metal than the cannon itself. But I don't believe that will really spoil your weapons."
"You think you can give me four sakers, perhaps?'*
"Perhaps. Dirk is going to work on the basilisk, and I don't want to predict how he'll make out. A big gun like that is death to handle, but Dirk has had a considerable experience with even bigger. I've seen him turn out a seven-thousand-pound full cannon for harbor defense up in New York that couldn't be equaled—much less bettered—not anywhere."
The captain's eyes glowed. "Four sakers and the basilisk, that's all I ask of you. Give me five guns and I'll bring the rebels to heel myself, with my own batteries. The infantry can sit in their garrison on their arses, or if they're in a mood, they can watch the fireworks. They . . ." His voice dwindled away, for he suddenly realized that Jeremy was no longer beside him. Something had happened at one of the pits, and a score of men were milling around it. The young gunsmith was sprinting to the scene of the commotion.
It was near dawn when Jeremy finally decided that the guns were sufficiently heated for an effort to be made to withdraw the bent metal primers from them. As the iron was too hot to be touched, he had devised long strips of lignum vitae, a particularly hard local wood, which had been soaked in water all night; the natural toughness of the wood, combined with the dampness, would, he hoped, prevent these poles from catching fire.
Each primer was approximately seven feet long, and at the end was a sheet of iron approximately four inches high and almost as wide. The boucaniers had jammed one of these into every small-mouthed saker, then had bent double the metal pole to which the plate was attached, thus preventing the withdrawal of the whole priming mechanism from the gun. It was Jeremy's intention to insert the lignum vitae pole between the lip of the gun mouth and the u where the iron pole was bent. Two men would kneel on either end of the short pole, as close to the hot saker barrel as they could come without burning themselves, and would gently pry the primer out.
Sir Arthur, the members of his staff, and even a few of the ladies came trooping out to the lawn. All appeared haggard, but that did not prevent the civilians from chatting with their feminine companions in loud and penetrating voices. Jeremy, who was making a final water-drop test, glanced up in irritation and peremptorily ordered everyone not directly concerned with the operation to leave the immediate area. The governor general, smiling faintly, set the example and withdrew a discreet distance. The members of his suite followed at once.
Jeremy had decided to take the position closest to the saker on one side, and Captain Thorne had volunteered for the inside place on the other. Two sergeants, chosen for their brawn as well as their ability to follow orders quickly, lined up behind them, and all was in readiness. Jeremy peered across the gun at the captain, and both squinted because of the extreme brightness of the fire.
"When I push this wood stick through, Captain," the young gunsmith directed, "let it slide for a second. Then you and the sergeant take hold—and hang on tight. My sergeant and I will tug first, then you do the same. We'll try to establish some sort of rhythm if we can, slow at first and faster, much faster, a bit later. I'll set the tempo. And remember, pull the stick to you, not up and down." A cloud of smoke made his eyes smart, but he paid no attention to the fumes. "Keep the stick level, pull straight to your right, and most important of all—don't jerk it. If you do, the bore could be ruined. Am I clear?"
"You are." Thorne's face looked ghostly in the firelight.
"All right. We'll try it. Hand me a lignum vitae rod, someone."
He received the stick, which had just been lifted from a wooden tub of water, and slipped it into the narrow opening between the gun mouth and the twisted primer. Captain Thorne took hold of the other end, and Jeremy assumed that the other's sergeant had also laid his hands on it. He could feel rather than see that the man behind him had gripped it.
"Now!" he breathed, and slowly pushed to the right with all his force, praying that the wood would not crack or break. It held, though he could not feel the primer budge. "Yours!" he called, relaxing slightly as Captain Thorne and his assistant exerted pressure on the rod. "Yours! Ours! Yours! Ours!"
For five minutes the strange tug of war continued, then suddenly the primer moved a fraction of an inch. Jeremy, coughing and blinded by streams of perspiration that ran down his forehead into his eyes, immediately increased the pace. "Yours! Ours!"
It seemed as though an eternity passed; actually it was no more than two minutes when the primer, still attached to its metal plate, came free and sent the four men sprawling on the ground.
There was no time for Jeremy to enjoy his triumph, and he scrambled to his feet. "Put out the fire in this pit!" he roared.
Men who had been held in readiness for this task immediately lifted large wooden tubs of water and doused the flames. At Jeremy's direction they then poured still more water onto the wrought-iron gun barrel. A cheer went up from the onlookers, but Jeremy shook his head angrily; he still had to determine whether the saker had been injured beyond possible immediate repair. With Captain Thorne crowding close to him, he again dropped to his knees and inserted the lighted end of a long French taper into the mouth of the gun. Slowly, methodically, he examined the bore. There were a few small scrapes where the metal plate had been jammed and a scratch on the interior surface where the metal square had pulled loose, but that was all.
Withdrawing the candle and extinguishing it, he grinned at the artillery officer. "There's nothing wrong with this saker now that a few rounds of shot won't cure, Captain," he said. "But if I were you I wouldn't try any heated iron in it for the next hour." Solemnly they shook hands, and Jeremy gave explicit instructions to the crew: they were to continue to bathe the barrel in cold water and were to stop only when the iron was cool enough to be touched with a bare hand.
Then, without a pause for rest, he and his three helpers moved on to the next pit and began the operation all over again. For one and a half hours they labored, and at the end of that time there were five sakers ready for use. Three others had been damaged beyond any hope of repair and required complete recasting. The remainder might eventually respond to the treatment that Jeremy had prescribed, but he was wasting no more effort on them now. There were enough sakers to permit the brigade to utilize artillery in repulsing the rebels' forthcoming attack, and he was satisfied.
Meantime Dirk Friendly had accomplished a near miracle with the ponderous basilisk. A careful blending of force and skill had restored the big gun to an almost perfect condition, and Dirk insisted it was capable of blowing gaping holes in the masonry of the fortress. The basilisk, accurately fired, had been known to sink a heavy frigate unaided, and no sooner did the word spread that one of these monsters had been repaired than every artilleryman clamored for the opportunity to serve on her crew. It would be some hours before the barrel of the basilisk cooled sufficiently for it to be put into operation, but there was every possibility now that some of the sakers would be in working order in time to stop the boucanier attack.
It was after seven o'clock when Jeremy and Dirk sat down at the edge of one of the gun pits for a few minutes of rest, and they let their legs dangle into the pit as they breakfasted on slabs of cold beef and bread, washed down with pitchers of ale. Both were tired, but more than fatigue clouded their eyes, and they ate in silence for some time. The giant chewed reflectively on a chunk of meat, yawned, and looked across the ruined lawn toward the town.