Artemis(69)

'No, mate, yer captain fer now,' Stirk said, unslinging his gunner's pouch and giving it to Kydd. He stepped aside.

Kydd took position, immediately behind the fat breech of the gun. It felt very different to know that the whole elaborate ballet of the gun crew would now take its time from him. The gun crew returned his gaze with differing expressions - boredom, seriousness, interest — but never contempt or distrust. Renzi regarded him gravely, with the tiniest ghost of a smile. Kydd's nervousness settled. He glanced sideways at Stirk.

'Go on, cully, take charge then,' Stirk snapped.

'Cast loose!' Kydd ordered. After Stirk's tough growl, his own voice seemed weak and thin, but the muzzle was obediently cut free and the crew took up their positions. Kydd looked again at Stirk, but the man stood impassive, his arms folded. Kydd turned back to the gun. Ah, yes, test the gunlock. He inspected the big lock on the top of the breech; the gunflint did not move in its clamp and the hammer eased back to full cock on its greased steel with a heavy firmness.

He yanked at the lanyard secured to the gunlock. It gave positively and, with a lethal-sounding steely click, a suitably fat spark jumped across. His confidence increased as his orders had the gun crew sweating at their tasks, rammer and sponge flailing as they hauled the heavy iron beast in and out in simulated battle.

At stand easy, his crew sat wearily on deck, their backs to the carriage, gossiping, just as he had done not so very long ago.

'That'll do, Tom,' Stirk said, a glimmer of approval just discernible. 'Now listen ter me . . .' There followed a stream of advice, given in gruff monosyllables, ranging from using a thumb on the vent-hole to tell from the air when the cartridge was fully rammed, to firing just as the deck began dipping on the downward part of a roll to ensure that the ball would smash home directly into the enemy hull.

Kydd wiped his hands on his trousers. Now they would try three rounds at a mark - his own gun, pointed and served by him.

'Load with cartridge!' It was his first live order.

The powder monkey already had his box containing the cartridge and Renzi helped himself to the grey flannel cylinder. He placed it carefully in the muzzle and the double-ended rammer was twirled to send it down the bore.

There was a definite jet of air up the cold iron of the vent-hole, which Kydd felt with his thumb as the cartridge approached the breech end. When this stopped he held up an arm. Renzi and the others bent to their wad and shot, but Kydd had no time to watch. He had his pricking wire into the priming hole, stabbing down until he was quite sure he had pierced the cartridge, then out with a quill priming tube and into its passageway to the main charge.

A little priming powder in the pan of the gunlock to catch the spark and now the piece was loaded and primed, a silent mass of black iron waiting only for his personal tug on the lanyard to bellow death into the outside world. His palms felt moist; the eyes of the others were on him as he bent to squint along the muzzle of the gun - there were no sights. These ship-smashers were designed for close-in work, but Black Jack Powlett was merciless with those who threw away their shot by not placing their fire precisely where it would do the most good.

The sea hissed past. The waves seemed higher and more lively viewed through the gunport. They were close-hauled on the starboard tack, under easy sail, which had their side of the gundeck to weather and therefore higher. Kydd searched about the grey sea wilderness for the mark, a beef cask and flag.

Nothing. He thrust past his crew to peer through the port. Still nothing but a vast extent of sea and swell out to the horizon. He sensed Stirk next to him. Almost immediately

Stirk pointed. Kydd followed the line of his arm and far, far away he caught a red flicker. 'No!' he gasped. The red flicker came and went, hidden and then revealed again by the lively swell.

'No more'n a mile,' grunted Stirk. Kydd's experience of battle had been of the order of a few hundred yards at the most. Powlett was not going to make it easy.

'Point your guns!' Rowley drawled. They would track the target until given the order to open fire.

Kydd took one last look at the mark and resumed his place behind the breech, looking down the long muzzle at the bearing where he knew it to be. He pointed to the left-hand side of the gun. Wong levered the handspike, his body glistening with sweat. He heaved at the truck, skidding the gun round so that the muzzle bore more towards the mark.

Kydd squinted down the gun — it was impossible! The gentle heaving of the frigate was enough to send the gun pointing skyward at one instant and then blankly at the sea the next. And the distant mark shot past the questing muzzle this way and that, as out of reach as a buzzing fly. He swore in exasperation.

Stirk eased him aside and sighted down the gun. 'Not bad, be half,' he grunted, 'but yer've forgotten yer has a quoin.' Muscles bunching, he worked at the wedge under the breech, which moved the muzzle up or down. Satisfied, he stepped back. 'Has a look now, mate.'