“Clear the decks for action! Hands to quarters! Clear for action!”
Bush came down to the lower gundeck, which was his station for action; under his command was the whole deck and the seventeen twenty-four-pounders of the starboard battery, while Hornblower commanded under him those of the port side. The hands were already knocking down the screens and removing obstructions. A little group of the surgeon’s crew came along the deck; they were carrying a straitjacketed figure bound to a plank. Despite the jacket and the lashings it writhed feebly and wept pitifully—the captain being carried down to the safety of the cable tier while his cabin was cleared for action. A hand or two in the bustle found time to shake their heads over the unhappy figure, but Bush checked them soon enough. He wanted to be able to report the lower gundeck cleared for action with creditable speed.
Hornblower made his appearance, touched his hat to Bush, and stood by to supervise his guns. Most of this lower deck was in twilight, for the stout shafts of sunlight that came down the hatchways did little to illuminate the farther parts of the deck with its sombre red paint. Half a dozen ship’s boys came along, each one carrying a bucket of sand, which they scattered in handfuls over the deck. Bush kept a sharp eye on them, because the guns’ crews depended on that sand for firm foothold. The water buckets beside each gun were filled; they served a dual purpose, to dampen the swabs that cleaned out the guns and for immediate use against fire. Round the mainmast stood a ring of extra fire buckets; in tubs at either side of the ship smouldered the slow matches from which the gun captains could rekindle their linstocks when necessary. Fire and water. The marine sentries came clumping along the deck in their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, the tops of their shakos brushing the deck beams over their heads. Corporal Greenwood posted one at each hatchway, bayonet fixed and musket loaded. Their duty was to see that no unauthorized person ran down to take shelter in the safety of that part of the ship comfortably below waterline. Mr. Hobbs, the acting-gunner, with his mates and helpers made a momentary appearance on their way down to the magazine. They were all wearing list slippers to obviate any chance of setting off loose powder which would be bound to be strewn about down there in the heat of action.
Soon the powder boys came running up, each with a charge for the guns. The breechings of the guns were cast off and the crews stood by the tackles, waiting for the word to open the ports and run out the guns. Bush darted his glance along both sides. The gun captains were all at their posts. Ten men stood by every gun on the starboard side, five by every gun on the port side—maximum and minimum crews for twenty-four-pounders. It was Bush’s responsibility to see to it that whichever battery came into action the guns were properly manned. If both sides had to be worked at once he had to make a fair division, and when the casualties began and guns were put out of service he had to redistribute the crews. The petty officers and warrant officers were reporting their subdivisions ready for action, and Bush turned to the midshipman beside him whose duty was to carry messages.
“Mr. Abbott, report the lower deck cleared for action. Ask if the guns should be run out.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A moment before the ship had been full of noise and bustle, and now everything down here was still and quiet save for the creaking of the timbers; the ship was rising and swooping rhythmically over the sea—Bush as he stood by the mainmast was automatically swaying with the ship’s motion. Young Abbott came running down the ladder again.
“Mr. Buckland’s compliments, sir, and don’t run the guns out yet.”
“Very good.”
Hornblower was standing farther aft, in line with the ringbolts of the train tackles; he had looked round to hear what message Abbott bore, and now he turned back again. He stood with his feet apart, an Bush saw him put one hand into the other, behind his back, and clasp it firmly. There was a rigidity about the set of his shoulders and in the way he held his head that might be significant of anything, eagerness for action or the reverse. A gun captain addressed a remark to Hornblower, and Bush watched him turn to answer it. Even in the half-light of the lower deck Bush could see there were signs of strain in his expression, and that smile might be forced. Oh well, decided Bush, as charitably as he could, men often looked like that before going into action.
Silently the ship sailed on; even Bush had his ears cocked, trying to hear what was going on above him so as to draw deductions about the situation. Faintly down the hatchway came the call of a seaman.
“No bottom, sir. No bottom with this line.”
So there was a man in the chains taking casts with the lead, and they must be drawing near the land; everyone down on the lower deck drew the same conclusion and started to remark about it to his neighbour.
“Silence, there!” snapped Bush.
Another cry from the leadsman, and then a bellowed order. Instantly the lower deck seemed to be filled solid with noise. The maindeck guns were being run out; in the confined space below every sound was multiplied and reverberated by the ship’s timbers so that the gun-tracks rolling across the planking made a noise like thunder. Everyone looked to Bush for orders, but he stood steady; he had received none. Now a midshipman appeared descending the ladder.
“Mr. Buckland’s compliments, sir, and please to run your guns out.”
He had squealed his message without ever setting foot on deck, and everyone had heard it. There was an instant buzz round the deck, and excitable people began to reach for the gunports to open them.
“Still!” bellowed Bush. Guiltily all movement ceased.
“Up ports!”
The twilight of the lower deck changed to daylight as the ports opened; little rectangles of sunshine swayed about on the deck on the port side, broadening and narrowing with the motion of the ship.
“Run out!”
With the ports open the noise was not so great; the crews flung their weight on the tackles and the trucks roared as the guns thrust their muzzles out. Bush stepped to the nearest gun and stooped to peer out through the open port. There were the green hills of the island at extreme gunshot distance; here the cliffs were not nearly so abrupt, and there was a jungle-covered shelf at their feet.
“Hands wear ship!”
Bush could recognize Roberts’ voice hailing from the quarterdeck. The deck under his feet steadied to the horizontal, and the distant hills seemed to swing with the vessel. The masts creaked as the yards came round. That must be Samaná Point which they were rounding. The motion of the ship had changed far more than would be the result of mere alteration of course. She was not only on an even keel but she was in quiet water, gliding along into the bay. Bush squatted down on his heels by the muzzle of a gun and peered at the shore. This was the south side of the peninsula at which he was looking, presenting a coastline toward the bay nearly as steep as the one on the seaward side. There was the fort on the crest and the Spanish flag waving over it. The excited midshipman came scuttling down the ladder like a squirrel.
“Sir! Sir! Will you try a ranging shot at the batteries when your guns bear?”
Bush ran a cold eye over him.
“Whose orders?” he asked.
“M—Mr. Buckland’s, sir.”
“Then say so. Very well. My respects to Mr. Buckland, and it will be a long time before my guns are within range.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was smoke rising from the fort, and not powder smoke either. Bush realized with something like a quiver of apprehension that probably it was smoke from a furnace for heating shot; soon the fort would be hurling red-hot shot at them, and Bush could see no chance of retaliation; he would never be able to elevate his guns sufficiently to reach the fort, while the fort, from its commanding position on the crest, could reach the ship easily enough. He straightened himself up and walked over to the port side to where Hornblower, in a similar attitude, was peering out beside a gun.
“There’s a point running out here,” said Hornblower. “See the shallows there? The channel mus
t bend round them. And there’s a battery on the point—look at the smoke. They’re heating shot.”
“I daresay,” said Bush.
Soon they would be under a sharp crossfire. He hoped they would not be subjected to it for too long. He could hear orders being shouted on deck, and the masts creaked as the yards came round; they were working the Renown round the bend.
“The fort’s opened fire, sir,” reported the master’s mate in charge of the forward guns on the starboard side.
“Very well, Mr. Purvis.” He crossed over and looked out. “Did you see where the shot fell?”
“No, sir.”
“They’re firing on this side, too, sir,” reported Hornblower.
“Very well.”
Bush saw the fort spurting white cannon smoke. Then straight in the line between his eye and the fort, fifty yards from the side of the ship, a pillar of water rose up from the golden surface, and within the same instant of time something crashed into the side of the ship just above Bush’s head. A ricochet had bounded from the surface and had lodged somewhere in the eighteen inches of oak that constituted the ship’s side. Then followed a devil’s tattoo of crashes; a well-aimed salvo was striking home.
“I might just reach the battery on this side now, sir,” said Hornblower.
“Then try what you can do.”
Now here was Buckland himself, hailing fretfully down the hatchway.
“Can’t you open fire yet, Mr. Bush?”
“This minute, sir.”
Hornblower was standing by the centre twenty-four-pounder. The gun captain slid the rolling handspike under the gun carriage, and heaved with all his weight. Two men at each side tackle tugged under his direction to point the gun true. With the elevating coign quite free from the breech the gun was at its highest angle of elevation. The gun captain flipped up the iron apron over the touchhole, saw that the hole was filled with powder, and with a shout of “Stand clear” he thrust his smouldering linstock into it. The gun bellowed loud in the confined space; some of the smoke came drifting back through the port.
“Just below, sir,” reported Hornblower, standing at the next port. “When the guns are hot they’ll reach it.”
“Carry on, then.”
“Open fire, first division!” yelled Hornblower.
The four foremost guns crashed out almost together.
“Second division!”
Bush could feel the deck heaving under him with the shock of the discharge and the recoil. Smoke came billowing back into the confined space, acrid, bitter; and the din was paralysing.
“Try again, men!” yelled Hornblower. “Division captains, see that you point true!”
There was a frightful crash close beside Bush and something screamed past him to crash into the deck beam near his head. Something flying through an open gunport had struck a gun on its reinforced breech. Two men had fallen close beside it, one lying still and the other twisting and turning in agony. Bush was about to give an order regarding them when his attention was drawn to something more important. There was a deep gash in the deck beam by his head and from the depths of the gash smoke was curling. It was a red-hot shot that had struck the breech of the gun and had apparently flown into fragments. A large part—the largest part—had sunk deep into the beam and already the wood was smouldering.
“Fire buckets here!” roared Bush.
Ten pounds of red-hot glowing metal lodged in the dry timbers of the ship could start a blaze in a few seconds. At the same time there was a rush of feet overhead, the sound of gear being moved about, and then the clank-clank of pumps. So on the maindeck they were fighting fires too. Hornblower’s guns were thundering on the port side, the gun-trucks roaring over the planking. Hell was unchained, and the smoke of hell was eddying about him.
The masts creaked again with the swing of the yards; despite everything the ship had to be sailed up the tortuous channel. He peered out through a port, but his eye told him, as he forced himself to gauge the distance calmly, that the fort on the crest was still beyond range. No sense in wasting ammunition. He straightened himself and looked round the murky deck. There was something strange in the feel of the ship under his feet. He teetered on his toes to put his wild suspicions to the test. There was the slightest perceptible slope to the deck—a strange rigidity and permanence about it. Oh my God! Hornblower was looking round at him and making an urgent gesture downwards to confirm the awful thought. The Renown was aground. She must have run so smoothly and slowly up a mudbank as to lose her speed without any jerk perceptible. But she must have put her bows far up on the bank for the slope of the deck to be noticeable. There were more rending crashes as other shots from the shore struck home, a fresh hurrying and bustle as the fire parties ran to deal with the danger. Hard aground, and doomed to be slowly shot to pieces by those cursed forts, if the shots did not set them on fire to roast alive on the mudbank. Hornblower was beside him, his watch in his hand.
“Tide’s still rising,” he said. “It’s an hour before high water. But I’m afraid we’re pretty hard aground.”
Bush could only look at him and swear, pouring out filth from his mouth as the only means of relieving his overwrought feelings.
“Steady there, Duff!” yelled Hornblower, looking away from him at a gun’s crew gathered round their gun. “Swab that out properly! D’ye want your hands blown off when you load?”
By the time Hornblower looked round at Bush again the latter had regained his self-control.
“An hour to high water, you say?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. According to Carberry’s calculations.”
“God help us!”
“My shot’s just reaching the battery on that point, sir. If I can keep the embrasures swept I’ll slow their rate of fire even if I don’t silence them.”
Another crash as a shot struck home, and another.
“But the one across the channel’s out of range.”
“Yes,” said Hornblower.
The powder boys were running through all the bustle with fresh charges for the guns. And here was the messenger-midshipman threading his way through them.
“Mr. Bush, sir! Will you please report to Mr. Buckland, sir? And we’re aground, under fire, sir.”
“Shut your mouth. I leave you in charge here, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The sunlight on the quarterdeck was blinding. Buckland was standing hatless at the rail, trying to control the working of his features. There was a roar and a spluttering of steam as someone turned the jet of a hose on a fiery fragment lodged in the bulkhead. Dead men in the scuppers; wounded being carried off. A shot, or the splinters it had sent flying, must have killed the man at the wheel so that the ship, temporarily out of control, had run aground.
“We have to kedge off,” said Buckland.
“Aye aye, sir.”
That meant putting out an anchor and heaving in on the cable with the capstan to haul the ship off the mud by main force. Bush looked round him to confirm what he had gathered regarding the ship’s position from his restricted view below. Her bows were on the mud; she would have to be hauled off stern fist. A shot howled close overhead, and Bush had to exert his self-control not to jump.
“You’ll have to get a cable out aft through a stern port.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Roberts’ll take the stream anchor off in the launch.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The fact that Buckland omitted the formal “Mister” was significant of the strain he was undergoing and of the emergency of the occasion.
“I’ll take the men from my guns, sir,” said Bush.
“Very good.”
Now was the time for discipline and training to assert themselves; the Renown was fortunate in having a crew more than half composed of seasoned men drilled in the blockade of Brest. At Plymouth she had only been filled up with pressed men. What had merely been a drill, an evolution, when the Renown was one of the Channel Fleet, w
as now an operation on which the life of the ship depended, not something to be done perfunctorily in competition with the rest of the squadron. Bush gathered his guns’ crews around him and set about the task of rousing out a cable and getting it aft to a port, while overhead Roberts’ men were manning stay tackles and yard tackles to sway out the launch.
Down below the heat between the decks was greater even than above with the sun glaring down. The smoke from Hornblower’s guns was eddying thick under the beams; Hornblower was holding his hat in his hand and wiping his streaming face with his handkerchief. He nodded as Bush appeared; there was no need for Bush to explain the duty on which he was engaged. With the guns still thundering and the smoke still eddying, powder boys still running with fresh charges and fire parties bustling with their buckets, Bush’s men roused out the cable. The hundred fathoms of it weighed a trifle over a couple of tons; clear heads and skilled supervision were necessary to get the unwieldy cable laid out aft, but Bush was at his best doing work which called for single-minded attention to a single duty. He had it clear and faked down along the deck by the time the cutter was under the stern to receive the end, and then he watched the vast thing gradually snake out through the after port without a hitch. The launch came into his line of vision as he stood looking out, with the vast weight of the stream anchor dangling astern; it was a relief to know that the tricky business of getting the anchor into her had been successfully carried out. The second cutter carried the spring cable from the hawse-hole. Roberts was in command; Bush heard him hail the cutter as the three boats drew off astern. There was a sudden jet of water among the boats; one or other, if not both, of the batteries ashore had shifted targets; a shot now into the launch would be a disaster, and one into a cutter would be a serious setback.
“Pardon, sir,” said Hornblower’s voice beside him, and Bush turned back from looking out over the glittering water.
“Well?”
“I could take some of the foremost guns and run ’em aft,” said Hornblower. “Shifting the weight would help.”
The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 34
