“Follow me,” he said, and pushed on.
A ramp with an easy slope led up the side of the ramparts. A dead man lay there, half way up, but Bush gave the corpse no more attention than it deserved. At the top was the main battery, six huge guns pointing through the embrasures. And beyond was the sky, all bloodyred with the dawn. A third of the way up to the zenith reached the significant colour, but even while Bush halted to look at it a golden gleam of sun showed through the clouds on the horizon, and the red began to fade perceptibly; blue sky and white clouds and blazing golden sun took its place. That was the measure of the time the assault had taken; only a few minutes from the earliest dawn to tropical sunrise. Bush stood and grasped this astonishing fact—it could have been late afternoon as far as his own sensations went.
Here from the gun platform the whole view of the bay opened up. There was the opposite shore; the shallows where the Renown had grounded (was it only yesterday?), the rolling country lifting immediately into the hills of that side, with the sharply defined shape of the other battery at the foot of the point. To the left the peninsula dropped sharply in a series of jagged headlands, stretching like fingers out into the blue, blue ocean; farther round still was the sapphire surface of Scotchman’s Bay, and there, with her backed mizzen topsail catching brilliantly the rising sun, lay the Renown. At that distance she looked like a lovely toy; Bush caught his breath at the sight of her, not because of the beauty of the scene but with relief. The sight of the ship, and the associated memories which the sight called up in his mind, brought his sanity flooding back; there were a thousand things to be done now.
Hornblower appeared up the other ramp; he looked like a scarecrow with his disordered clothes. He held sword in one hand and pistol in the other, just as did Bush. Beside him Wellard swung a cutlass singularly large for him, and at his heels were a score or more of seamen still under discipline their muskets, with bayonets fixed, held before them ready for action.
“Morning, sir,” said Hornblower. His battered cocked hat was still on his head for him to touch it, and he made a move to do so, checking himself at the realization that his sword was in his hand.
“Good morning ‘ said Bush automatically.
“Congratulations, sir ‘ said Hornblower. His face was white, and the smile on his lips was like the grin of a corpse. His beard sprouted over his lips and chin.
“Thank you,” said Bush.
Hornblower pushed his pistol into his belt and then sheathed his sword.
“I’ve taken possession of all that side, sir,” he went on, with a gesture behind him. “Shall I carry on?”