Kydd had no idea what subtleties could drive a man to such a conclusion, but he found himself respecting and admiring the action. “Do y’ not find the life — hard?” he said.
“There are worse things to be borne, my friend.”
“How long — I mean —”
“It is but ten months of the first year.”
Kydd had the insight to feel something of the bleakness of spirit that would have to be overcome, what it must have cost a cultivated man brutally to repress his finer feelings. He guessed that the reclusiveness would be part of Renzi’s defenses and was ashamed of his previous animosity. “Then, sir, you have my sincere admiration.” Kydd clapped him on the shoulder.
Renzi’s hand briefly touched his, and Kydd was startled to see his eyes glisten. “Don’t concern yourself on my account, I beg,” Renzi said, drawing away. “It has just been an unconscionable long time.”
In the morning, with the squadron wearing in succession and standing in for the French coast to the eastward, the enterprise had begun. They were under easy sail, for the transports from Plymouth would not reach them for another two days-but the time would not be wasted.
“Let’s be seein’ you now. All move over to larb’d, clap your eyes on this ’ere fugleman.” The Master-at-Arms indicated a marine, rigid at attention with his musket.
The men jostled over to leeward and faced the red-coated and pipeclayed marine with a mixture of distrust and interest. His sergeant glaring at him from one side and the Master-at-Arms on the other, he moved not a muscle.
“This man is a-going to pro-ceed through the motions of loadin’ an’ dischargin’ a musket. You will pay stric’ attention ’cos afterward you will do it.” He paused and surveyed the restless seamen. “Anyone can’t do it perfick by six bells joins me awkward squad in the first dog. Issue weapons!”
The gunner’s party opened an arms chest and passed out muskets.
Curiously Kydd inspected the plain but heavy firelock. It seemed brutish compared to the handsome length and damascened elegance of the parson’s fowling piece; this one had dull, pockmarked wood, a black finished barrel and worn steel lockwork, more reminiscent of some industrial machine.
“For them who haven’t seen one before, I’ll name th’ main parts.”
Within a bare minute Kydd had the essentials: the frizzen covering the pan had to be struck by a piece of flint, which would send a spark to set off the priming in the pan and thence to the cartridge. He looked doubtfully at the muzzle — the thumb-sized bore meant a heavy ball, and this implied a hefty kick.
“Right. We go through the motions first without a cartridge. First motion, half cock yer piece.”
The fugleman briskly brought his musket across his breast and like clockwork brought it to half cock.
The seamen of the gunner’s party went along the line, correcting and cursing by turns. The action of the recurved cock felt stiff and hostile to Kydd — but then it was necessary for a sea-service weapon to avoid delicate niceties.
“Second motion, prime your piece.”
Priming was not difficult to imagine. Brush the frizzen forward, shake in the priming, shut it again.
“Third motion, charge your piece.”
Take the remaining cartridge powder and ball, and insert it in the muzzle. Ram it down with the wooden rammer.
“Present your weapon.”
Lock to full cock. It took a moment to realize that the words meant to aim the musket — present the muzzle end to the enemy.
“Fire!” The finger drawing at the trigger, never jerking — a satisfying metallic clack and momentary spark.
“Rest.” The Master-at-Arms seemed content. “By numbers, one, half cock.”
They went through the drill again and again until it was reflexive, the fugleman never varying in his brisk timing.
Finally the order came. “Issue five rounds ball cartridge!”
The cartridges felt ominously heavy, a dull lead ball with a wrapped parchment cartridge. Kydd put them in his pocket. Nervously he gripped his weapon and waited for the word to fire.
“First six! You, to you with the red kerchief — step over here to wind’d.”
Kydd stepped over as number three.
“Face outboard — number one, load yer weapon.”
The first man went through the drill. The man bit off the top of the cartridge and spat it out. The rammer did its work. A quarter gunner inspected his priming, making sure the powder grains covered the pan but no more, and the man looked at the Master-at-Arms.
“At the ’orizon — present!”
The musket rose and steadied.
“Fire!”