“So it would,” agreed Bush; Hornblower’s face was streaked and grimy with his exertions, as Bush noted while he considered if he had sufficient authority to give the order on his own responsibility. “Better get Buckland’s permission. Ask him in my name if you like.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
These lower-deck twenty-four-pounders weighed more than two tons each; the transfer of some from forward aft would be an important factor in getting the bows off the mudbank. Bush took another glance through the port. James, the midshipman in the first cutter, was turning to look back to check that the cable was out in exact line with the length of the ship. There would be a serious loss of tractive effort if there was an angle in the cable from anchor to capstan. Launch and cutter were coming together in preparation for dropping the anchor. All round them the water suddenly boiled to a salvo from the shore; the skipping jets of the ricochets showed that it was the fort on the hill that was firing at them—and making good practice for that extreme range. The sun caught an axe blade as it turned in the air in the sternsheets of the launch; Bush saw the momentary flash. They were letting the anchor drop from where it hung from the gallows in the stern. Thank God.
Hornblower’s guns were still bellowing out, making the ship tremble with their recoil, and at the same time a splintering crash over his head told him that the other battery was still firing on the ship and still scoring hits. Everything was still going on at once; Hornblower had a gang of men at work dragging aft the foremost twenty-four-pounder on the starboard side—a ticklish job with the rolling hand-spike under the transom of the carriage. The trucks squealed horribly as the men struggled to turn the cumbersome thing and thread their way along the crowded deck. But Bush could spare Hornblower no more than a glance as he hurried up to the maindeck to see for himself what was happening at the capstan.
The men were already taking their places at the capstan bars under the supervision of Smith and Booth; the maindeck guns were being stripped of the last of their crews to supply enough hands. Naked to the waist, the men were spitting on their hands and testing their foothold—there was no need to tell them how serious the situation was; no need for Booth’s knotted rattan.
“Heave away!” hailed Buckland from the quarterdeck.
“Heave away!” yelled Booth. “Heave, and wake the dead!”
The men flung their weight on the bars and the capstan came round, the pawls clanking rapidly as the capstan took up the slack. The boys with the nippers at the messenger had to hurry to keep pace. Then the intervals between the clanking of the pawls became longer as the capstan turned more slowly. More slowly; clank—clank—clank. Now the strain was coming; the bitts creaked as the cable tightened. Clank—clank. That was a new cable, and it could be expected to stretch a trifle.
The sudden howl of a shot—what wanton fate had directed it there of all places in the ship? Flying splinters and prostrate men; the shot had ploughed through the whole crowded mass. Red blood was pouring out, vivid in the sunshine; in understandable confusion the men drew away from the bloody wrecks.
“Stand to your posts!” yelled Smith. “You, boys! Get those men out of the way. Another capstan bar here! Smartly now!”
The ball which had wrought such fearful havoc had not spent all its force on human flesh; it had gone on to shatter the checkpiece of a gun carriage and then to lodge in the ship’s side. Nor had human blood quenched it; smoke was rising on the instant from where it rested. Bush himself seized a fire bucket and dashed its contents on the glowing ball; steam blended with the smoke and the water spat and sputtered. No single fire bucket could quench twenty-four pounds of red-hot iron, but a fire party came running up to flood the smouldering menace.
The dead and the wounded had been dragged away and the men were at the capstan bars again.
“Heave!” shouted Booth. Clank—clank—clank. Slowly and more slowly still turned the capstan. Then it came to a dead stop while the bitts groaned under the strain.
“Heave! Heave!”
Clank! Then reluctantly, and after a long interval, clank! Then no more. The merciless sun beat down upon the men’s straining backs; their horny feet sought for a grip against the cleats on the deck as they shoved and thrust against the bars. Bush went below again, leaving them straining away; he could, and did, send plenty of men up from the lower gundeck to treble-bank the capstan bars. There were men still hard at work in the smoky twilight hauling the last possible gun aft, but Hornblower was back among his guns supervising the pointing. Bush set his foot on the cable. It was not like a rope, but like a wooden spar, as rigid and unyielding. Then through the sole of his shoe Bush felt the slightest tremor, the very slightest; the men at the capstan were putting their reinforced strength against the bars. The clank of one more pawl gained reverberated along the ship’s timbers; the cable shuddered a trifle more violently and then stiffened into total rigidity again. It did not creep over an eighth of an inch under Bush’s foot, although he knew that at the capstan a hundred and fifty men were straining their hearts out at the bars. One of Hornblower’s guns went off; Bush felt the jar of the recoil through the cable. Faintly down the hatchways came the shouts of encouragement from Smith and Booth at the capstan, but not an inch of gain could be noted at the cable. Hornblower came and touched his hat to Bush.
“D’you notice any movement when I fire a gun, sir?” As he asked the question he turned and waved to the captain of a midship gun which was loaded and run out. The gun captain brought the linstock down on the touchhole, and the gun roared out and came recoiling back through the smoke. Bush’s foot on the cable recorded the effect.
“Only the jar—no—yes.” Inspiration came to Bush. To the question he asked Bush already knew the answer Hornblower would give. “What are you thinking of?”
“I could fire all my guns at once. That might break the suction, sir.”
So it might, indeed. The Renown was lying on mud, which was clutching her in a firm grip. If she could be severely shaken while the hawser was maintained at full tension the grip might be broken.
“I think it’s worth trying, by God,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir. I’ll have my guns loaded and ready in three minutes, sir.” Hornblower turned to his battery and funnelled his hands round his mouth. “Cease fire! Cease fire, all!”
“I’ll tell ’em at the capstan,” said Bush.
“Very good, sir.” Hornblower went on giving his orders. “Load and double-shot your guns. Prime and run out.”
That was the last that Bush heard for the moment as he went up on the maindeck and made his suggestion to Smith, who nodded in instant agreement.
“ ’Vast heaving!” shouted Smith, and the sweating men at the bars eased their weary backs.
An explanation was necessary to Buckland on the quarterdeck; he saw the force of the argument. The unfortunate man, who was watching the failure of his first venture in independent command, and whose ship was in such deadly peril, was gripping at the rail and wringing it with his two hands as if he would twist it like a corkscrew. In the midst of all this there was a piece of desperately important news that Smith had to give.
“Roberts is dead,” he said, out of the side of his mouth.
“No!”
“He’s dead. A shot cut him in two in the launch.”
“Good God!”
It was to Bush’s credit that he felt sorrow at the death of Roberts before his mind recorded the fact that he was now first lieutenant of a ship of the line. But there was no time now to think of either sorrow or rejoicing, not with the Renown aground and under fire. Bush hailed down the hatchway.
“Below, there! Mr. Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“Are your guns ready?”
“Another minute, sir.”
“Better take the strain,” said Bush to Smith; and then, louder, down the hatchway, “Await my order, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The men settled themselves at the caps
tan bars again, braced their feet, and heaved.
“Heave!” shouted Booth. “Heave!”
The men might be pushing at the side of a church, so little movement did they get from the bars after the first inch.
“Heave!”
Bush left them and ran below. He set his foot on the rigid cable and nodded to Hornblower. The fifteen guns—two had been dragged aft from the port side—were run out and ready, the crews awaiting orders.
“Captains, take your linstocks!” shouted Hornblower. “all you others, stand clear! Now, I shall give you the words ‘one, two, three’. At ‘three’ you touch your linstocks down. Understand?”
There was a buzz of agreement.
“All ready? All linstocks glowing?” The gun captains swung them about to get them as bright as possible. “Then one—two—three!”
Down came the linstocks on the touchholes, and almost simultaneously the guns roared out; even with the inevitable variation in the amounts of powder in the touchholes there was not a second between the first and the last of the fifteen explosions. Bush, his foot on the cable, felt the ship heave with the recoil—double-shotting the guns had increased the effect. The smoke came eddying into the sweltering heat, but Bush had no attention to give to it. The cable moved under his foot with the heave of the ship. Surely it was moving along. It was! He had to shift the position of his foot. The clank of a newly-gained pawl on the windlass could be heard by everyone. Clank—clank. Someone in the smoke started to cheer and others took it up.
“Silence!” bellowed Hornblower.
Clank—clank—clank. Reluctant sounds; but the ship was moving. The cable was coming in slowly, like a mortally wounded monster. If only they could keep her on the move! Clank—clank—clank. The interval between the sounds was growing shorter—even Bush had to admit that to himself. The cable was coming in faster—faster.
“Take charge here, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush, and sprang for the maindeck. If the ship were free there would be urgent matters for the first lieutenant to attend to. The capstan pawls seemed almost to be playing a merry tune, so rapidly did they sound as the capstan turned.
Undoubtedly there was much to be attended to on deck. There were decisions which must be made at once. Bush touched his hat to Buckland.
“Any orders, sir?”
Buckland turned unhappy eyes on him.
“We’ve lost the flood,” he said.
This must be the highest moment of the tide; if they were to touch ground again, kedging off would not be so simple an operation.
“Yes, sir,” said Bush.
The decision could only lie with Buckland; no one else could share the responsibility. But it was terribly hard for a man to have to admit defeat in his very first command. Buckland looked as if for inspiration round the bay, where the red-and-gold flags of Spain flew above the banked-up powder smoke of the batteries—no inspiration could be found there.
“We can only get out with the land breeze,” said Buckland.
“Yes, sir.”
There was almost no longer for the land breeze to blow, either, thought Bush; Buckland knew it as well as he did. A shot from the fort on the hill struck into the main chains at that moment, with a jarring crash and a shower of splinters. They heard the call for the fire party, and with that Buckland reached the bitter decision.
“Heave in on the spring cable,” he ordered. “Get her round head to sea.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Retreat—defeat; that was what that order meant. But defeat had to be faced; even with that order given there was much that had to be done to work the ship out of the imminent danger in which she lay. Bush turned to give the orders.
“ ’Vast heaving at the capstan, there!”
The clanking ceased and the Renown rode free in the muddy, churned-up waters of the bay. To retreat she would have to turn tail, reverse herself in that confined space, and work her way out to sea. Fortunately the means were immediately available: by heaving in on the bow cable which had so far lain idle between hawsehole and anchor the ship could be brought short round.
“Cast off the stern cable messenger!”
The orders came quickly and easily; it was a routine piece of seamanship, even though it had to be carried out under the fire of red-hot shot. There were the boats still manned and afloat to drag the battered vessel out of harm’s way if the precarious breeze should die away. Round came the Renown’s bows under the pull of the bow cable as the capstan set to work upon it. Even though the wind was dying away to a sweltering calm movement was obvious—but the shock of defeat and the contemplation of that accursed artillery! While the capstan was dragging the ship up to her anchor the necessity for keeping the ship on the move occurred to Bush. He touched his hat to Buckland again.
“Shall I warp her down the bay, sir?”
Buckland had been standing by the binnacle staring vacantly at the fort. It was not a question of physical cowardice—that was obvious—but the shock of defeat and the contemplation of the future had made the man temporarily incapable of logical thought. But Bush’s question prodded him back into dealing with the current situation.
“Yes,” said Buckland, and Bush turned away, happy to have something useful to do which he well knew how to do.
Another anchor had to be cockbilled at the port bow, another cable roused out. A hail to James, in command of the boats since Roberts’ death, told him of the new evolution and called him under the bows for the anchor to be lowered down to the launch—the trickiest part of the whole business. Then the launch’s crew bent to their oars and towed ahead, their boat crank with the ponderous weight that it bore dangling aft and with the cable paying out astern of it. Yard by yard, to the monotonous turning of the capstan, the Renown crept up to her first anchor, and when that cable was straight up and down the flutter of a signal warned James, now far ahead in the launch, to drop the anchor his boat carried and return for the stream anchor which was about to be hauled up. The stern cable, now of no more use, had to be unhitched and got in, the effort of the capstan transferred from one cable to the other, while the two cutters were given lines by which they could contribute their tiny effort to the general result, towing the ponderous ship and giving her the smallest conceivable amount of motion which yet was valuable when it was a matter of such urgency to withdraw the ship out of range.
Down below Hornblower was at work dragging forward the guns he had previously dragged aft; the rumble and squeal of the trucks over the planking was audible through the ship over the monotonous clanking of the capstan. Overhead blazed the pitiless sun, softening the pitch in the seams, while yard after painful yard, cable’s length after cable’s length, the ship crept on down the bay out of range of the red-hot shot, over the glittering still water; down the bay of Samaná until at last they were out of range, and could pause while the men drank a niggardly half-pint of warm odorous water before turning back to their labours. To bury the dead, to repair the damages, and to digest the realization of defeat. Maybe to wonder if the captain’s malign influence still persisted, mad and helpless though he was.
VIII
When the tropic night closed down upon the battered Renown, as she stood off the land under easy sail, just enough to stiffen her to ride easily over the Atlantic rollers that the trade wind, reinforced by the sea breeze, sent hurrying under her bows, Buckland sat anxiously discussing the situation with his new first lieutenant. Despite the breeze, the little cabin was like an oven; the two lanterns which hung from the deck beams to illuminate the chart on the table seemed to heat the room unbearably. Bush felt the perspiration prickling under his uniform, and his stock constricted his thick neck so that every now and again he put two fingers into it and tugged, without relief. It would have been the simplest matter in the world to take off his heavy uniform coat and unhook his stock, but it never crossed his mind that he should do so. Bodily discomfort was something that one bore without complaint in a hard world; habit and pride both helped.
/> “Then you think we should bear up for Jamaica?” asked Buckland.
“I wouldn’t go as far as to advise it, sir,” replied Bush, cautiously.
The responsibility was Buckland’s, entirely Buckland’s, by the law of the navy, and Bush was a little irked at Buckland’s trying to share it.
“But what else can we do?” asked Buckland. “What do you suggest?”
Bush remembered the plan of campaign Hornblower had sketched out to him, but he did not put it instantly forward; he had not weighed it sufficiently in his mind—he did not even know if he thought it practicable. Instead he temporized.
“If we head for Jamaica it’ll be with our tail between our legs, sir,” he said.
“That’s perfectly true,” agreed Buckland, with a helpless gesture. “There’s the captain—”
“Yes,” said Bush. “There’s the captain.”
If the Renown were to report to the admiral at Kingston with a resounding success to her record there might not be too diligent an inquiry into past events; but if she came limping in, defeated, battered, it would be far more likely that inquiry might be made into the reasons why her captain had been put under restraint, why Buckland had read the secret orders, why he had taken upon himself the responsibility of making the attack upon Samaná.
“It was young Hornblower who said the same thing to me,” complained Buckland pettishly. “I wish I’d never listened to him.”
“What did you ask him, sir?” asked Bush.
“Oh, I can’t say that I asked him anything,” replied Buckland, pettishly again. “We were yarning together on the quarterdeck one evening. It was his watch.”
“I remember, sir,” prompted Bush.
“We talked. The infernal little whippersnapper said just what you were saying—I don’t remember how it started. But then it was a question of going to Antigua. Hornblower said that it would be better if we had the chance to achieve something before we faced an inquiry about the captain. He said it was my opportunity. So it was, I suppose. My great chance. But with Hornblower talking you’d think I was going to be posted captain tomorrow. And now—”
The Young Hornblower Omnibus Page 35
