At the eighth round something screamed through the air like a banshee two yards over Bushs head, a whirling irregular scream which died away abruptly behind his back.
What the hell was that? demanded Bush.
The guns unbushed, sir, said Berry.
God Bush poured out a torrent of blasphemy, uncontrolled, almost
hysterical. This was the climax of days and nights of strain and labour, the bitterest blow that could be imagined, with success almost within their grasp and now snatched away. He swore frightfully, and then came back to his senses; it would not be good for the men to know that their officer was as disappointed as Bush knew himself to be. His curses died away when he restrained himself, and he walked forward to look at the gun.
The damage was plain. The touchhole in the breech of a gun, especially a bronze gun, was always a weak point. At each round some small part of the explosion vented itself through the hole, the blast of hot gas and unconsumed powder grains eroding the edges of the hole, enlarging it until the loss of force became severe enough to impair the efficiency of the gun. Then the gun had to be bushed; a tapering plug, with a hole pierced through its length and a flange round its base, had to be forced into the touchhole from the inside of the gun, small end first. The hole in the plug served as the new touchhole, and the explosions of the gun served to drive the plug more and more thoroughly home, until the plug itself began to erode and to weaken, forcing itself up through the touchhole while the flange burned away in the fierce heat of the explosions until at last it would blow itself clean out, as it had done now.
Bush looked at the huge hole in the breech, a full inch wide; if the gun were to be fired in that condition half the powder charge would blow out through it. The range would be halved at best, and every subsequent round would enlarge the hole further.
Dye have a new ventfitting? he demanded.
Well, sir Berry began to go slowly through hip pockets, rummaging through their manifold contents while gazing absently at the sky and while Bush fumed with impatience. Yes, sir.
Berry produced, seemingly at the eleventh hour, the cast-iron plug that meant so much.
Lucky for you, said Bush, grimly. Get it fitted and dont waste any more time.
Aye aye, sir. Ill have to file it to size, sir. Then Ill have to put it in place.
Start work and stop talking. Mr. James!
Sir!
Run to the fort. Bush took a few steps away from the gun as he spoke, so as to get out of earshot of the men. Tell Mr. Hornblower that the guns unbushed. Itll be an hour before we can open fire again. Tell him Ill fire three shots when the guns ready, and ask him to acknowledge them as before.
Aye aye, sir.
At the last moment Bush remembered something.
Mr. James! Dont make your report in anyones hearing. Dont let that Spanish fellow, whatshisname, hear about this. Not if you want to be kind to your backside.
Aye aye, sir.
Run!
That would be a very long hot run for Mr. James; Bush watched him go and then turned back to the gun. Berry had selected a file from his roll of tools and was sitting on the rear step of the gun scraping away at the plug. Bush sat on the edge of the platform; the irritation at the disablement of the gun was overlaid by his satisfaction with himself as a diplomat. He was pleased at having remembered to warn James against letting Ortega into the secret. The men were chattering and beginning to skylark about; a few minutes more and they would be scattering all over the peninsula. Bush lifted his head and barked at them.
Silence, there! Sergeant!
Sir?
Post four sentries. Give em beats on all four sides. No one to pass that line on any account whatever.
Yessir.
Let the rest of your men sit down. You guns crew! Sit there, and dont chatter like Portuguese bumboat men.
The sun was very hot, and the rasprasprasp of Berrys file was, if anything, soothing. Bush had hardly ceased speaking when fatigue and sleepiness demanded their due; his eyes closed and his chin sank on his breast. In one second he was asleep; in three he was awake again, with the world whirling round him as he recovered himself from falling over. He blinked at the unreal world; the blink prolonged itself into sleep, and again he caught himself up on the point of keeling over. Bush felt that he would give anything at all, in this world or the next, to sink quietly on to his side and allow sleep to overwhelm him. He fought down the temptation; he was the only officer present and there might be an instant emergency. Straightening his back, he glowered at the world, and then even with his back straight he went to sleep again. There was only one thing to do. He rose to his feet, with his weary joints protesting, and began to pace up and down beside the gun platform, up and down in the sunshine, with the sweat pouring off him, while the guns crew quickly subsided into the sleep he envied themthey lay like pigs in a sty, at all anglesand while Berrys file went whitwhitwhit