“Steady, all of you,” said Bush. “These won’t be as hot as the last batch. Take your aim carefully.”
But when Bush climbed on to the parapet and trained his telescope on the second schooner he could see that the schooner was changing her mind. She had brailed up her foresail and taken in her jibs; her boats were lying at an angle to her course, and were struggling, beetlelike, off her bows. They were pulling her round—she was going back up the bay and deciding not to run the gauntlet of the redhot shot. There was the smouldering wreck of her consort to frighten her.
“She’s turning tail!” said Bush loudly. “Hit her while you can, you men.”
He saw the shot curving in the air, he saw the splashes in the water; he remembered how yesterday he had seen a ricochet shot from these very guns rebound from the water and strike the Renown ’s massive side—one of the splashes was dead true for line, and might well indicate a hit.
“Fresh charges!” he bellowed, turning to make himself heard down at the magazine. “Sponge out!”
But by the time the charges were in the guns the schooner had got her head right round, had reset her foresail, and was creeping back up the bay. Judging by the splashes of the last salvo she would be out of range before the next could be fired.
“Mr. Hornblower!”
“Sir!”
“’Vast sending any shot.”
“Aye aye, sir.”