The gun lay, eight feet of dull bronze, upon the cat’s cradle that had been spread to receive it. This was a small area of stout ropenetting, from which diverged, knotted thickly to the central portion, a score or more of individual lines, each laid out separately on the ground.
“We’ll get that on its way first. Take a line, each of you marines.”
The thirty redcoated marines that Hornblower had sent along from the fort moved up to the cat’s cradle. Their noncommissioned officers pushed them into position, and Bush checked to see that each man was there.
“Take hold.”
It was better to go to a little trouble and see that everything was correctly balanced at the start rather than risk that the unwieldy lump of metal should roll off the cat’s cradle and should have to be laboriously manoeuvred back into position.
“Now, all of you together when I give the word. Lift!”
The gun rose a foot from the ground as every man exerted himself.
“March! Belay that, sergeant.”
The sergeant had begun to call the step, but on this irregular ground with every man supporting eighty pounds of weight it was better that they should not try to keep step.
“Halt! Lower!”