“Why do you say that?”
“WestCountry serge, stitched and choked exactly like ours, sir. Out of English prizes, I fancy.”
It was most probable; the Spanish forces which held this end of the island against the insurgents most likely depended on renewing their stores from English ships captured in the Mona Passage. Well, with good fortune they would take no more prizes—the implication, forcing itself on Bush’s mind despite his many preoccupations, made him stir uneasily as he stood by the guns with his hands clasped behind him and the sun beating down on his face. The Dons would be in a bad way with their source of supplies cut off. They would not be able to hold out long against the rebellious blacks that hemmed them in here in the eastern end of Santo Domingo.
“Ram those wads handsomely, there, Cray,” said Hornblower. “No powder in that bore, or we’ll have ‘Cray D.D.’ in the ship’s books.”
There was a laugh at that—‘D.D.’ in the ship’s books means ‘discharged, dead’—but Bush was not paying attention. He had scrambled up the parapet and was staring out at the bay.
“They’re standing down by the bay,” he said. “Stand by, Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush strained his sight to look at the four vessels creeping down the fairway. As he watched he saw the first one hoisting sail on both masts. Apparently she was taking advantage of a flaw of wind, blowing flukily in the confined and heated waters, to gain some of the desperately necessary distance towards the sea and safety.
“Mr. Abbott, bring down that glass!” shouted Hornblower.
As Abbott descended the steps Hornblower addressed a further comment to Bush.