“Keep her at that! Back away, starboard side! Go with ‘em, port side. Lift! Bring the bows round now. Steady!”
The gun in its cat’s cradle hung precariously over the carriage as Bush lined it up.
“Now, back towards me! Steady! Lower! Slowly, damn you! Steady! For’ard a little! Now lower again!”
The gun sank down towards its position on the carriage. It rested there, the trunnions not quite in their holes, the breech not quite in position on the bed.
“Hold it! Berry! Chapman! Handspikes under those trunnions! Ease her along!”
With something of a jar the ton of metal subsided into it, place on the carriage, trunnions home into their holes and breech settled upon the bed. A couple of hands set to work untying the knots that would free the cat’s cradle from under the gun, but Berry, gunner’s mate, had already snapped the capsquares down upon the trunnions, and the gun was now a gun, a vital fighting weapon and not an inanimate ingot of metal. The shot were being piled at the edge of the platform.
“Lay those charges out back there!” said Bush, pointing. No one in his senses allowed unprotected explosives nearer a gun than was necessary. Berry was kneeling on the platform, bent over the flint and steel with which he was working to catch a spark upon the tinder with which to ignite the slow match. Bush wiped away the sweat that streamed over his face and neck; even though he had not taken actual physical part in the carrying and heaving he felt the effect of his exertions. He looked at the sun again to judge the time; this was no moment for resting upon his labours.
“Gun’s crew fall in!” he ordered. “Load and run up’”
He applied his eye to the telescope.
“Aim for the schooner,” he said. “Take a careful aim.”