“What’s wrong there?” demanded Hornblower.
“Please, sir—”
Hornblower was already striding over to see for himself. From the muzzle of one of the three loaded guns there was a curl of steam; in all three there was a wild hissing as the hot shot rested on the wet wads.
“Run up, train, and fire,” ordered Hornblower. “Now what’s the matter with you others? Roll that thing out of the way.”
“Shot won’t fit, sir,” said more than one voice as someone with a wadhook awkwardly rolled the fallen shot up against the parapet. The bearers of the other two stood by, sweating. Anything Hornblower could say in reply was drowned for the moment by the roar of one of the guns—the men were still at the tackles, and the gun had gone off on its own volition as they ran it up. A man sat crying out with pain, for the carriage had recoiled over his foot and blood was already pouring from it on to the stone floor. The captains of the other two loaded guns made no pretence at training and aiming. The moment their guns were run up they shouted “Stand clear!” and fired.
“Carry him down to Mr. Pierce,” said Hornblower, indicating the injured man. “Now let’s see about these shot.”
Hornblower returned to Bush with a rueful look on his face, embarrassed and selfconscious.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Bush.
“These shot are too hot,” explained Hornblower. “Damn it, I didn’t think of that. They’re half melted in the furnace and gone out of shape so that they won’t fit the bore. What a fool I was not to think of that.”
As his superior officer, Bush did not admit that he had not thought of it either. He said nothing.