The Happy Return

“Mr. Howell sent me, sir. Starboard side chain pump’s knocked all to pieces.”

“Yes?” Hornblower knew that Howell the ship’s carpenter would not merely send a message of despair.

“He’s rigging another one, sir, but it will be an hour before it works, sir. He told me to tell you the water’s gaining a little, sir.”

“Ha-h’m,” said Hornblower. The infant addressing him grew round-eyed and confidential now that the first strangeness of speaking to his captain had worn off.

“There was fourteen men all knocked into smash at the pump, sir. ‘Orrible, sir.”

“Very good. Run back to Mr. Howell and tell him the captain is sure he will do his best to get the new pump rigged.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The boy dived down to the maindeck, and Hornblower watched him ru

“One hour and a half already,” said Bush, coming up rubbing his hands. “Glorious, sir. Glorious.”

It might have been no more than ten minutes for all Hornblower could tell, but Bush had in duty bound been watching the sand glass by the bi

“I’ve never known Dagoes stick to their guns like this before,” commented Bush. “Their aim’s poor, but they’re firing as fast as ever. And it’s my belief we’ve hit them hard, sir.”

He tried to look through the eddying smoke, even fa

“The smoke’s thi

He held up a wetted finger.

“There is indeed, sir. A trifle of breeze over the port quarter. Ah!”

There came a stronger puff as he spoke, which rolled away the smoke in a solid mass over the starboard bow and revealed the scene as if a theatre curtain had been raised. There was the Natividad, looking like a wreck. Her jury foremast had gone the way of its predecessor, and her mainmast has followed it. Only her mizzen mast stood now, and she was rolling wildly in the swell with a huge tangle of rigging trailing over her disengaged side. Abreast her foremast three ports had been battered into one; the gap looked like a missing tooth.

“She’s low in the water,” said Bush, but on the instant a fresh broadside vomited smoke from her battered side, and this time by some chance every shot told in the Lydia, as the crash below well indicated. The smoke billowed round the Natividad, and as it cleared the watchers saw her swinging round head to the wind, helpless in the light air. The Lydia had felt the breeze. Hornblower could tell by the feel of her that she had steerage way again; the quartermaster at the wheel was twirling the spokes to hold her steady. He saw his chance on the instant.

“Starboard a point,” he ordered. “Forward, there! Cast off the cutter.”

The Lydia steadied across her enemy’s bows and raked her with thunder and flame.

“Back the main tops’l!” ordered Hornblower.

The men were cheering again on the maindeck through the roar of the guns. Astern the red sun was dipping to the water’s edge in a glory of scarlet and gold. Soon it would be night.

“She must strike soon. Christ! Why don’t she strike?” Bush was saying, as at close range the broadsides tore into the helpless enemy, raking her from bow to stern. Hornblower knew better. No ship under Crespo’s command and flying el Supremo’s flag would strike her colours. He could see the golden star on a blue ground fluttering through the smoke.

“Pound him, lads, pound him!” shouted Gerard.

With the shortening range he could rely on his gun captains to fire independently now. Every gun’s crew was loading and firing as rapidly as possible. So hot were the guns that at each discharge they leaped high in their carriages, and the dripping sponges thrust down their bores sizzled and steamed at the touch of the scorching hot metal. It was growing darker, too. The flashes of the guns could be seen again now, leaping in long orange tongues from the gun muzzles. High above the fast fading sunset could be seen the first star, shining out brilliantly.

The Natividad’s bowsprit was gone, splintered and broken and hanging under her forefoot, and then in the dwindling light the mizzen mast fell as well, cut through by shots which had ripped their way down the whole length of the ship.

“She must strike now, by God!” said Bush.

At Trafalgar Bush had been sent as prize master into a captured Spanish ship, and his mind was full of busy memories of what a beaten ship looked like—the dismounted guns, the dead and wounded heaped on the deck and rolling back and forth as the dismasted ship rolled on the swell, the misery, the pain, the helplessness. As if in reply to him there came a sudden flash and report from the Natividad’s bows. Some devoted souls with tackles and hand-spikes had contrived to slew a gun round so that it would bear right forward, and were firing into the looming bulk of the Lydia.

“Pound him, lads, pound him!” screamed Gerard, half mad with fatigue and strain.

The Lydia by virtue of her top hamper was going down to leeward fast upon the rolling hulk. At every second the range was shortening. Through the darkness, when their eyes were not blinded with gun flashes, Hornblower and Bush could see figures moving about on the Natividad’s deck. They were firing muskets now, as well. The flashes pricked the darkness and Hornblower heard a bullet thud into the rail beside him. He did not care. He was conscious now of his overmastering weariness.

The wind was fluky, coming in sudden puffs and veering unexpectedly. It was hard, especially in the darkness, to judge exactly how the two ships were nearing each other.

“The closer we are, the quicker we’ll finish it,” said Bush.

“Yes, but we’ll run on board of her soon,” said Hornblower.

He roused himself for a further effort.

“Call the hands to stand by to repel boarders,” he said, and he walked across to where the two starboard side quarterdeck carronades were thundering away. So intent were their crews on their work, so hypnotised by the monotony of loading and firing, that it took him several seconds to attract their notice. Then they stood still, sweating, while Hornblower gave his orders. The two carronades were loaded with canister brought from the reserve locker beside the taffrail. They waited, crouching beside the guns, while the two ships drifted closer and closer together, the Lydia’s main deck guns still blazing away. There were shouts and yells of defiance from the Natividad, and the musket flashes from her bows showed a dark mass of men crowding there waiting for the ships to come together. Yet the actual contact was unexpected, as a sudden combination of wind and sea closed the gap with a rush. The Natividad’s bow hit the Lydia amidships, just forward of the mizzenmast, with a jarring crash. There was a pandemonium of yells from the Natividad as they swarmed forward to board, and the captains of the carronades sprang to their lanyards.

“Wait!” shouted Hornblower.

His mind was like a calculating machine, judging wind and sea, time and distance, as the Lydia slowly swung round. With hand spikes and the brute strength of the men he trained one carronade round and the other followed his example, while the mob on the Natividad’s forecastle surged along the bulwarks waiting for the moment to board. The two carronades came right up against them.