“Ram ‘em home,” said Hornblower. “Now, bearers.”
It was not such an easy thing to do, to put the ends of the bearingstretchers at the muzzles of the guns and then to tilt so as to induce the hot shot to roll down into the bore.
“The Don must’ve exercised with these guns better than we’d give ‘em credit for,” said Hornblower to Bush, “judging by the practice they made yesterday. Rammers!”
The ramrods thrust the shot home against the charges; there was a sharp sizzling noise as each hot shot rested against the wet wads.
“Run up!”
The guns’ crews seized the tackles and heaved, and the ponderous guns rolled slowly forward to point their muzzles out through the embrasures.
“Aim for the point over there and fire!”
With handspikes under the rear axles the guns were traversed at the orders of the captains; the priming tubes were already in the touchholes and each gun was fired as it bore. The sound of the explosions was very different here on the stone platform from when guns were fired in the confined spaces of a wooden ship. The slight wind blew the smoke sideways.
“Pretty fair!” said Hornblower, shading his eyes to watch the fall of the shot; and, turning to Bush, “That’ll puzzle those gentlemen over there. They’ll wonder what in the world we’re firing at.
“How long,” asked Bush, who had watched the whole process with a fascinated yet horrified interest, “before a hot shot burns through those wads and sets off the gun itself?”