Stirk considered. “Well, that’ll do fer now. Remember, you doesn’t pull yer weight, I comes down on yer hard, as yez know.” He took his position at the breech of the gun. “Now, ye know me method — we gets it straight afore we gets it fast. So we go through the drill, b’ order. Stand by!” He glared at his gun crew one by one. “Run out th’ gun!”
While those with implements watched, Kydd and the others tugged at the tackle. The monster gun sullenly ground a foot or two toward the port. On this point of sailing the deck was canted, so the work was all uphill.
“Stap me,” marveled Stirk, “but you’re a useless pawky lot! Let’s ’ave some real ’eavy in it, then.”
The gun moved out faster, but Kydd was dismayed at the effort required to shift the three tons of cold iron.
“That’s better! Now, come on, gemmun, remember yer drill! Youse — clear the breechin’ from the truck. You ’n’ you fakes out the tackle falls nice ’n’ neat. Yer don’t want me remindin’ yer all the time, now, do yer? So — prime! We doesn’t take action here. Point yer gun!”
He looked at Jewkes, standing by nervously. “Look, mate,” he said, “keep yer trainin’ tackle close up-bight yer fall after she fires, ’cos side tackles’ll be runnin’ out quick ’n’ they don’t want it foulin’. Handspike. I want youse right here ’n’ watchin’ me all the time — t’ain’t no good admirin’ the view. Now the piece is ready to fire. Hey! Put that gun tackle down, you, Kydd! Gun goes orf, it’ll fly out ’n’ take you with it!”
Kydd’s face burned.
“Gun has fired. Denison ’n’ Cullen with Jewkes on the trainin’ tackle fer now.”
With the cannon’s recoil they would need no training tackle for the real thing.
The long black gun rumbled inboard, helped by the inclined deck and the training tackle fixed to the rear. Fully run in, its massive size, chest high to Kydd, was overawing.
A brief image of the parson and his gun — there had been a spiteful crack from a barrel not much bigger than his little finger: what kind of earth-splitting sound would come from a gaping maw nearly the size of his head, Kydd wondered. His palms began to sweat.
“Yours now, Lofty. Let me see some speed.” The man was good at the task. Taking advantage of the gunport, he sinuously arced out of the port to face inboard, plying his sheepskin-tipped stave into the muzzle at the same time. Three twists to the left going in, three to the right coming out. “Let’s be ’avin you, then, Cullen. Where’s yer powder?”
A doleful-looking sailor went through the motions of going to the midline of the vessel, where a grinning ship’s boy pretended elaborately to give him a cartridge from a long covered container.
“Load with cartridge!” Stirk ordered.
The invisible cartridge was stuffed down the muzzle to Cullen’s armpit. He whipped out his arm, by which time the Iberian had advanced with his rammer. Thrusting forcefully several times, he leaped back, the action like a dance movement.
“Wait for it, Pedro — me priming wire ’as to feel the cartridge, ’n’ then I signals an’ that’s when you carry on.” He gave a wintry smile. “But that was smartly done, cully. Shot yer gun.”
An imaginary wad was slapped into the muzzle as two men bent to the shot rack, pretending to heave a shot on to the cradle. It would need two to carry the great thirty-two-pound shot to the muzzle, where the cradle would tilt the ball in.
“Pedro?”
But the dark-eyed man was already there, plunging the rammer down. “Wad!” he shouted before Stirk could speak.
A “wad” was passed into the muzzle, more plunges with the rammer and they stood back.
“Good. Now we does it in one. Run out the gun!”
The exercise warmed Kydd, and he tore off his jacket and waistcoat. It was not hard to learn the motions; the difficult part was to learn to pull together with the others and to stop his muscles trembling at the unaccustomed effort.
Ahead of him on the tackle, others were finding it hard as well, with panting and feverish mopping of foreheads. Doggo had doffed his shirt altogether, the feral hair over his neck and shoulders glistening with sweat. “Now, lads, yer needs to get low into it, like this,” he said, leaning into the line of the rope.
The young lieutenant appeared distracted. “Cease exercise. Stand down.”
Stirk sat on the rear of the gun carriage, looking at them with a sardonic smile. A desultory chatter drifted around.
“What’re we waitin’ for, then?” Jewkes said, peevish.