He took a last glance down at the line and then jerked the lanyard. The gun went off with a crash which jerked the whole longboat sternwards, and the gun itself leapt in its carriage with a clatter. But the stout metal held firm, and the projectile, trailing its curved arc of line, cleared the water’s edge and dropped into the waiting crowd.

Communication was established, but it was a frail enough bond, because those madmen on shore had no sooner grabbed the line than they began to haul it in. Hornblower cursed himself for not having seen this development; he snatched up his speaking trumpet and groped wildly in his mind for a French phrase which might be the equivalent of “Avast heaving!” or “Belay!”

“Doucement! Doucement!” he roared.

He waved his arms frantically and danced about in the bows of the boat. Perhaps the wind carried his words down to the beach, or perhaps his gestures were understood. Someone was taking charge of proceedings; there was a swirl in the crowd and the line ceased to run out. Hornblower swung the longboat cautiously round and pulled slowly towards the Sutherland, paying out the line behind him until he could signal for his gig and row back to his ship to supervise the rest of the operation.

The immense string of halfempty casks was dropped into the sea, and the launch took it in tow and began to drag it slowly up to the longboat. Half empty, the casks rode high in the water. That would get them through the worst of the surf, and if the Frenchmen pulled in fast enough, most of the casks could be expected to reach land still containing most of their contents and if the worst came to the worst, the contents would be thrown up on to the beach soon enough. Meat which had already been six months in a cask would not be much spoiled by an additional immersion in sea water.