“Can’t you open fire yet, Mr. Bush?”
“This minute, sir.”
Hornblower was standing by the centre twentyfourpounder. The gun captain slid the rolling handspike under the gun carriage, and heaved with all his weight. Two men at each side tackle tugged under his direction to point the gun true. With the elevating coign quite free from the breech the gun was at its highest angle of elevation. The gun captain flipped up the iron apron over the touchhole, saw that the hole was filled with powder, and with a shout of “Stand clear” he thrust his smouldering linstock into it. The gun bellowed loud in the confined space; some of the smoke came drifting back through the port.
“Just below, sir,” reported Hornblower, standing at the next port. “When the guns are hot they’ll reach it.”
“Carry on, then.”
“Open fire, first division!” yelled Hornblower.
The four foremost guns crashed out almost together.
“Second division!”
Bush could feel the deck heaving under him with the shock of the discharge and the recoil. Smoke came billowing back into the confined space, acrid, bitter; and the din was paralysing.
“Try again, men!” yelled Hornblower. “Division captains, see that you point true!”