He organised the final carrying party and started up to the crest. When he reached it the bay opened below him. He put his glass to his eye: the three vessels were lying at anchor within easy cannon shot of where he stood, and when he swung the glass to his left he could just make out, far, far away, the two specks which were the flags flying over the fortthe swell of the land hid the body of the building from his sight. He closed the glass and applied himself to the selection of a level piece of ground on which to lay the timbers for the platform. Already the men with the lightest loads were around him, chattering and pointing excitedly until with a growl he silenced them.
The hammers thumped upon
the nails as the crosspieces were nailed into position on the timbers. No sooner had they ceased than the gun carriage was swung up on to it by the lusty efforts of half a dozen men. They attached the tackles and saw to it that the guntrucks ran easily before chocking them. The marines came staggering up, sweating and gasping under their monstrous burden. Now was the moment for the trickiest piece of work in the mornings programme. Bush distributed his steadiest men round the carrying ropes, a reliable petty officer on either side to watch that accurate balance was maintained.
Lift and carry.
The gun lay beside the carriage on the platform.
Lift. Lift. Higher. Not high enough. Lift, you men!
There were gasps and grunts as the men struggled to raise the gun.
Keep her at that! Back away, starboard side! Go with em, port side. Lift! Bring the bows round now. Steady!
The gun in its cats cradle hung precariously over the carriage as Bush lined it up.
Now, back towards me! Steady! Lower! Slowly, damn you! Steady! Forard 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 cats cradle from under the gun, but Berry, gunners 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.
Guns 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.
The guntrucks squealed as the handspikes trained the gun round.
Gun laid, sir, reported the gun captain.
Then fire!
The gun banged out sharp and clear, a higherpitched report than the deafening thunderous roar of the massive twentyfourpounders. That report would resound round the bay. Even if the shot missed its mark this time, the men down in those ships would know that the next, or the next, would strike. Looking up at the high shore through hastily trained telescopes they would see the powder smoke slowly drifting along the verge of the cliff, and would recognise their doom. Over on the southern shore Villanueva would have his attention called to it, and would know that escape was finally cut off for the men under his command and the women under his protection. Yet all the same, Bush, gazing through the telescope, could mark no fall of the shot.
Load and fire again. Make sure of your aim.
While they loaded Bush turned his telescope upon the flags over the fort, until the gun captains cry told him that loading was completed. The gun banged out, and Bush thought he saw the fleeting black line of the course of the shot.
Youre firing over her. Put the quoins in and reduce the elevation. Try again!
He looked again at the flags. They were very slowly descending, down out of his sight. Now they rose once more, very slowly, fluttered for a moment at the head of the Flagstaff, and sank again. The next time they rose they remained steady. That was the preconcerted signal. Dipping the colours twice meant that the gun had been heard in the fort and all was well. It was Bushs duty now to complete ten rounds of firing, slowly. Bush watched each round carefully; it seemed likely that the schooner was being hit. Those flying ninepound balls of iron were crashing through the frail upper works, smashing and destroying, casting up showers of splinters.