“Quarter less three!” called the leadsman.
Seventeen feet of water.
“We are within range now, sir,” said Mound.
“Those mortars of yours are more accurate when firing at less than extreme range, though, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir. And I would prefer to have a little to spare, too, in case they can shift anchorage.”
“Leave yourself plenty of room to swing, though. We know nothing of these shoals.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Mound swung round for a final glance at the tactical situation; at the spars of the Blanchefleur above the dunes where she was anchored far up the lagoon, the battery at the end of the spit, Clam taking up a position where she could see up the lagoon from a point just out of range of the battery, and lotus waiting beyond the entrance to cut off escape in case by any miracle the Blanchefleur should be able to claw her way out to windward and make a fresh attempt to reach Stralsund. Mound kept on reaching for his trouser pockets and then hastily refraining from putting his hands in, when he remembered the Commodore was beside him—an odd gesture, and he did it every few seconds.
“For God’s sake, man,” said Hornblower, “put your hands in your pockets and leave off fidgeting.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Mound, a little startled. He plunged his hands in gratefully, and hunched his shoulders into a comfortable slouch, pleasantly relaxed. He took one more look round before calling to the midshipman standing by the cathead forward.
“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.