“Run up!” Hornblower was giving the orders. The gun’s crew heaved at the tackles and the gun rumbled forward.
Hornblower took his place behind the gun and, squatting down, he squinted along it.
“Trail right!” Tackles and handspikes heaved the gun around. “A touch more! Steady! No, a touch left. Steady!”
Somewhat to Bush’s relief Hornblower straightened himself and came from behind the gun. He leaped on to the parapet with his usual uncontrollable vigour and shaded his eyes; Bush at one side kept his telescope trained on the schooner.
“Fire!” said Hornblower.
The momentary hiss of the priming was drowned in the instant bellow of the gun. Bush saw the black line of the shot’s path across the blue of the sky, reaching upward during the time it might take to draw a breath, sinking downward again; a strange sort of line, an inch long if he had to say its length, constantly renewing itself in front and constantly disappearing at its back end, and pointing straight at the schooner. It was still pointing at her, just above her—to that extent did the speed of the shot outpace the recording of retina and brain—when Bush saw the splash, right in line with the schooner’s bows. He took his eye from the telescope as the splash disappeared, to find Hornblower looking at him.
“A cable’s length short,” he said, and Hornblower nodded agreement.
“We can open fire, then, sir?” asked Hornblower.
“Yes, carry on, Mr. Hornblower.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hornblower was hailing again.