Artemis

which we hear before we begins our salt beef.' He assumed an air of reverence.

'Old horse, old horse, what brought you here?

You've carried me gear for many a year! An' now wore out with sore abuse

They salt you down for sailor's use!

They gaze on you with sad surprise

They roll ye over and bugger y'r eyes

They eat y'r meat and pick your bones And send the rest f Davey Jones!'

Laughing, they fell upon the food. Kydd glanced across the width of the deck to the mess opposite. Doggo, Wong and the others were clearly enjoying their change of fortune also, and a slow wink broke Stirk's oaken face.

'Hear tell as how y'r Blackjack is a tartar,' mumbled Kydd, his mouth full.

'Not as who would say,' Petit replied. 'The cat ain't seen th' daylight this five weeks or more — Cap'n, he knows it's us what fights the ship for 'im, 'n' so he treats us a-right, does he.'

'What about the first luff?' Kydd asked, absent-mindedly tapping a piece of hard-tack on the table. To his surprise no black-headed weevils squirmed out.

'Spershott? Don't say much. Keeps station on the Cap'n always, he does,' said Petit dismissively. 'It's Party yer wants ter watch. Second luff. Thinks he's goin' to make his mark b' comin' down on Rowley, the third — it's Devil- bait agin Harry Flashers all bloody day long.'

'An' Neville,' prompted Quashee.

'An' Neville,' agreed Petit. 'Kinda fourth luff, but supernumer'y — wished on us b' the Admiral who wants to put him in the way of a mort o' prize money, my guess.' He grunted and added, 'But a square sort, I'll grant yer.'

Kydd took another pull at his tankard. The wine was rich and smooth. Adam seemed not to relish it. 'Not to y'r taste, Nathan?' Kydd asked amiably.

The courteous expression did not change. 'Christ abstained.'

'Blue light sailor,' said Petit, wiping his mouth. 'But he dursn't top it the preacher wi' us.'

Kydd nodded, and looking at Adam continued with a smile, Aye, but Christ made damn sure the wedding wasn't dry, though, didn't he!'

Adam looked at him steadily and sipped his drink.

'Where are we headed, do you believe?' Renzi asked.

'Where there's a Frenchy what swims.' Quashee chuckled. He aped a prize agent reluctantly doling out the guineas — so ludicrous was the sight of his bulk going through the motions that the mess fell about helpless.

Petit clapped him on the back. 'True enough, yer black bastard. That is ter say that we're raidin' commerce, which is ter say that ev'rything what is under sail has ter loose tops'ls to us, 'n' we has first pickin's.'

At the fore hatchway the squeal of boatswain's calls cut through the sociability. Reluctantly the sailors rose.

Evening quarters was exercised every day at sea in Artemis. At four bells in the last dog-watch, the entire ship's company closed up for action to the stirring sound of 'Hearts of Oak' on the fife and drum.

Lieutenant Rowley had the gundeck, and stood impassive at the fore hatch. Kydd noted the puffs of white lace that emerged at each sleeve and the luxuriant hair, carefully styled in the new Romantic vogue. His fashionable cynical mannerisms gave the impression of hauteur, heightened by the faultlessly cut uniform. His orders were resonant enough, however. 'Exercise of the great guns — gun captains, in your own time . . .'

Stirk mustered his gun crew. His previous ship experience had ensured a rate of gun captain, and with Kydd and Renzi there were three other Royal Billys, Wong, Pinto and Doggo.

That left two of the original frigate crew on this gun -Gully, a bushy, round-faced man, and Colton, the second gun captain, a shrewish man with an uneven temper.

The twelve-pounder was only belly-high where the great thirty-two-pounders aboard the lower gundeck of Duke William were chest-high. Other than that, the cannon were nearly identical, and Kydd saw that the only real difference was in the number of men. Up to twenty men were needed to serve the big guns. Here, there were but three, together with a gun captain and his second, and the powder monkey.

Stirk was equal to the challenge. 'Right — different ships, different long splices. This barky likes it b' numbers, so 'ere's how we go.' He considered his men. 'Doggo, you're number one, load wad an' shot. Kydd, number two, want you to sponge 'n' ram. Renzi, number three, get the wad an' shot to number one. Gully, is it? Number four on the side tackle, please, mate, with Pinto an' Wong as number five 'n' six on the tackle. Oh, yeah — five an' six as well works the handspike, 'n' everyone bears a fist on the tackle falls runnin' out the gun.'

'An' me, Mr Stirk!' called the gangling boy at the hatch gratings amidships.

'An' Mr Luke, 'oo'll be doin' the honours with the powder,' he added gravely.

He stepped back, bumping into Colton. There was a moment of tension as Stirk stared him down. 'An' the second captain overhauls th' trainin' tackle.'

The routine of loading and firing was simple enough — the gun was run out and fired, then recoiled inboard. The cannon was sponged out, and a cartridge and wad rammed home. A ball was slammed in the muzzle, another was followed, rammed firmly in place, and the gun was run out again ready for firing. It was teamwork that counted, not only with the danger of naked powder brought close to gun blast, but the whole effectiveness of the gun depended on knowing what to do, and keeping out of the way of others when they did their part.

'We does it slow time first, lads,' ordered Stirk. This was Kydd's first time on the rammer. It was confusing that the rammer and sponge were at either end of the same stout wooden stave. He laid the stave down, sponge