Steady, you fool! shouted Bush, only conscious after the words had passed his lips that they were spoken at the top of his voice.
There was a hint of recognition in the marines mad eyes, and he turned aside,
his bayonet at the charge, and rushed on. There were other marines in the background; they must have made their way in through the embrasures. They were all yelling, all drunk with fighting. And here was another rush of seamen, swarming down from the ramparts they had scaled. On the far side there were wooden buildings; his men were swarming round them and shots and screams were echoing from them. Those must be the barracks and storehouses, and the garrison must have fled there for shelter from the fury of the stormers.
Whiting appeared, his scarlet tunic filthy, his sword dangling from his wrist. His eyes were bleary and cloudy.
Call em off, said Bush, grasping at his own sanity with a desperate effort.
It took Whiting a moment to recognise him and to understand the order.
Yes, sir, he said.
A fresh flood of seamen came pouring into view beyond the buildings; Hornblowers division had found its way into the fort on the far side, evidently. Bush looked round him and called to a group of his own men who appeared at that moment.
Follow me, he said, and pushed on.
A ramp with an easy slope led up the side of the ramparts. A dead man lay there, half way up, but Bush gave the corpse no more attention than it deserved. At the top was the main battery, six huge guns pointing through the embrasures. And beyond was the sky, all bloodyred with the dawn. A third of the way up to the zenith reached the significant colour, but even while Bush halted to look at it a golden gleam of sun showed through the clouds on the horizon, and the red began to fade perceptibly; blue sky and white clouds and blazing golden sun took its place. That was the measure of the time the assault had taken; only a few minutes from the earliest dawn to tropical sunrise. Bush stood and grasped this astonishing factit could have been late afternoon as far as his own sensations went.
Here from the gun platform the whole view of the bay opened up. There was the opposite shore; the shallows where the Renown had grounded (was it only yesterday?), the rolling country lifting immediately into the hills of that side, with the sharply defined shape of the other battery at the foot of the point. To the left the peninsula dropped sharply in a series of jagged headlands, stretching like fingers out into the blue, blue ocean; farther round still was the sapphire surface of Scotchmans Bay, and there, with her backed mizzen topsail catching brilliantly the rising sun, lay the Renown . At that distance she looked like a lovely toy; Bush caught his breath at the sight of her, not because of the beauty of the scene but with relief. The sight of the ship, and the associated memories which the sight called up in his mind, brought his sanity flooding back; there were a thousand things to be done now.
Hornblower appeared up the other ramp; he looked like a scarecrow with his disordered clothes. He held sword in one hand and pistol in the other, just as did Bush. Beside him Wellard swung a cutlass singularly large for him, and at his heels were a score or more of seamen still under discipline their muskets, with bayonets fixed, held before them ready for action.
Morning, sir, said Hornblower. His battered cocked hat was still on his head for him to touch it, and he made a move to do so, checking himself at the realization that his sword was in his hand.
Good morning said Bush automatically.
Congratulations, sir said Hornblower. His face was white, and the smile on his lips was like the grin of a corpse. His beard sprouted over his lips and chin.
Thank you, said Bush.
Hornblower pushed his pistol into his belt and then sheathed his sword.
Ive taken possession of all that side, sir, he went on, with a gesture behind him. Shall I carry on?
Yes, carry on, Mr. Hornblower.
Aye aye, sir.
This time Hornblower could touch his hat. He gave a rapid order posting a petty officer and men over the guns.
You see, sir, said Hornblower, pointing, a few got away.
Bush looked down the precipitous hillside that fell to the bay and could see a few figures down there.
Not enough to trouble us, he said; his mind was just beginning to work smoothly now.
No, sir. Ive forty prisoners under guard at the main gate. I can see Whitings collecting the rest. Ill go on now, sir, if I may.
Very well, Mr. Hornblower.
Somebody at least had kept a clear head during the fury of the assault. Bush went on down the farther ramp. A petty officer and a couple of seamen stood there on guard; they came to attention as Bush appeared.
What are you doing? he asked.
This yeres the magazine, zur, said the petty officerAmbrose, captain of the foretop, who had never lost the
broad Devon acquired in his childhood, despite his years in the navy. Wem guarding of it.
Mr. Hornblowers orders?
Iss, zur.
A forlorn party of prisoners were squatting by the main gate. Hornblower had reported the presence of them. But there were guards he had said nothing about: a sentry at the well; guards at the gate; Woolton, the steadiest petty officer of them all, at a long wooden building beside the gate, and six men with him.