Bush could recognise Roberts’ voice hailing from the quarterdeck. The deck under his feet steadied to the horizontal, and the distant hills seemed to swing with the vessel. The masts creaked as the yards came round. That must be Samaná Point which they were rounding. The motion of the ship had changed far more than would be the result of mere alteration of course. She was not only on an even keel but she was in quiet water, gliding along into the bay. Bush squatted down on his heels by the muzzle of a gun and peered at the shore. This was the south side of the peninsula at which he was looking, presenting a coastline towards the bay nearly as steep as the one on the seaward side. There was the fort on the crest and the Spanish flag waving over it. The excited midshipman came scuttling down the ladder like a squirrel.
“Sir! Sir! Will you try a ranging shot at the batteries when your guns bear?”
Bush ran a cold eye over him.
“Whose orders?” he asked.
“M—Mr. Buckland’s, sir.”
“Then say so. Very well. My respects to Mr. Buckland, and it will be a long time before my guns are within range.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was smoke rising from the fort, and not powder smoke either. Bush realised with something like a quiver of apprehension that probably it was smoke from a furnace for heating shot; soon the fort would be hurling redhot shot at them, and Bush could see no chance of retaliation; he would never be able to elevate his guns sufficiently to reach the fort, while the fort, from its commanding position on the crest, could reach the ship easily enough. He straightened himself up and walked over to the port side to where Hornblower, in a similar attitude, was peering out beside a gun.
“There’s a point running out here,” said Hornblower. “See the shallows there? The channel must bend round them. And there’s a battery on the point—look at the smoke. They’re heating shot.”
“I daresay,” said Bush.