“Pass the bloody lashing, then!” the boatswain’s mate yelled from the top. His voice cracked falsetto with tension.
Kydd passed the seizing as fast as he could — the others tumbled into the shrouds and made the deck as he finished. He thought of Bowyer and made the lashing a good, tight, seaman-like one before he joined them. For no reason at all, a startlingly clear image of Guildford’s High Street overlaid his vision — the sun out, the street streaming with gentlemen and their ladies, beggars, and children with their whipping tops and hobbyhorses playing outside the red brick Holy Trinity church.
The noise and smoke increased. The French were near, very near. Kydd heard a smart tap on the foremast as he completed and reached the foretop. Looking down, he saw a musketball rolling spent across the top. On impulse he picked up the flattened disk and put it in his pocket before sliding dizzyingly down the backstay to the deck.
A last look showed the enemy only a few hundred yards away, and their own bows beginning their swing finally to place their ship side by side with the looming three-decker. With a thrill of excitement Kydd knew that the time for real battle had arrived, and he clattered down the ladders at a rush.
Just as he arrived on the lower gundeck there was a roar of cheering as the great thirty-two-pounders opened up with a mind-numbing slam of sound. The deck instantly choked with smoke blown back in the gunports, thick acrid wreaths that caught him in the throat. He stumbled into Lockwood, disoriented. The smoke began to clear with the strengthening breeze and he caught sight of his gun, the figures of the crew emerging, Doggo’s shapeless hat unmistakable.
Stirk’s eyes gleamed — his concentrated expression had a ferocious intensity. The gun crew moved fast and economically on the reload. Kydd and Cullen hurried the shot cradle to the muzzle, lifting the deadly iron sphere into the hot maw.
Through the gunport the enemy ship was clearly visible across the narrowing gap of water, and for a split second Kydd took in the black and yellow hull darkening the frame of the port. There was debris falling in the water alongside it from their own cannon strike and he was aware of countless gun muzzles staring at him.
Velasquez’s ramrod cut across his gaze as he plied it, his movements skilled and rapid, savage joy in his face.
Kydd went to the shot garland around the main hatch and rolled a ball on to the cradle. Standing on the grating was a ship’s boy, his ears bound and his eyes enormously big and bright. He clutched his cartridge box to him like a teddy bear, his strong little legs bare to the toes. Kydd smiled encouragingly at him, but there was no response in the solemn, wide-eyed face.
They faced about just as the enemy replied. The noise was fantastic, for their own guns spoke at the same time, the crashing thunder seeming to go on forever as the guns played up and down the sides of the two great vessels. No more than a hundred yards away now, they couldn’t miss, and Kydd knew that through the choking smoke their own ship-smashers would be doing deadly work.
Splintering crashes and screams somewhere in the gloom told of where the enemy shot had found its mark. As the smoke cleared he noticed a strange pattern of daylight two guns down, then saw that the ship’s side between the gunports was missing.
Behind it a seaman sat on the deck, staring at his right arm, which was now no more than a stick, the blood coursing steadily down from it. He watched it with a puzzled frown, then slowly pitched forward.
A rhythmic tearing gasp nearby made Kydd wheel round. A man was lying on his side, hands clutching a long jagged wound in his inner thigh, trying painfully to drag himself toward the hatchway. He left a bloody trail.
Cantlow appeared from aft. His white face stared sightlessly. Pushing past Kydd, he made his way forward aimlessly.
Shouts and cheers penetrated the general noise, clear through the sharp ringing in Kydd’s ears. Wildly thirsty, parched by the metallic-tasting powder smoke, he went to the scuttled butt of water amidships and ladled out a dipper of cool sweet nectar.
Again the gun crew rolled a shot into the muzzle and stepped back quickly. The French were now no more than a few dozen yards away, their harsh yells alien to the ear. They were answered with equal venom by the British seamen.
Velasquez spun like a dancer and sent the ramrod spinning in. But then he pirouetted and fell, the ugly tear of a musketball wound in his back.
Stirk bawled obscenely as he leaped forward and carried the writhing man tenderly to the rear.
“Double shotting!” Stirk roared. There would be two balls to one shot, the effect on accuracy greatly outweighed by the doubling of killing power. Their next ball was already on the cradle and they rushed it forward.
Stirk didn’t wait for firing orders — this was a smashing match and only the faster crews would win. There was no need to sight. He jerked on the gunlock lanyard. The gun bellowed and slammed to the rear with increased recoil, the breeching rope twanging dangerously.