The King`s Coat

those guns up to firing position. Lieutenants Roth and Hann had charge of the lower gun deck, though should they close to pistol or boarding range, Hann, as the fifth lieutenant, or lieutenant-at-arms, would go on deck to oversee the boarding parties which he had trained at musketry and the use of the pike and cutlass. ’Bout time, you,' Harm fairly spat at Lewrie. ’I was at the masthead, sir.’

’Take station to starboard and stay out of the way. You might be good enough to run messages, if you've wit to remember them.’

Ariadne was allotted a complement of sixteen midshipmen, and it was galling to see the youngest and smallest boys getting assigned to the engaged side while Lewrie was rated more useless than even Striplin, an eleven-year-old who was not half the height of an average sailor. Harm and Roth, and their quartergunners in charge of four guns, had to put tools in the hands of some men, shove others out of the way of possible recoil, while Alan, who had found that gunnery exercise was one of his least hated duties, had to stand aside, silent and useless.

Once the lower gun deck was arranged to Roth's satisfaction, the deck became fairly silent, and long minutes passed as Ariadne drew up to their foe.

Alan amused himself reciting the fourteen steps of gun drill he had memorized. He daydreamed about delivering brave messages to the quarterdeck, or having both officers shot dead before him… Please God, most especially Lieutenant Harm… and himself taking charge and performing some feat that would go down in glory. When that grew dull, and he realized that an immediate commission to lieutenant might not be in the cards, he worked on other remembrances and fantasies. There was what he would have liked to have done with Harrison's slim little West Country wife, her with her burring accent from Zealand. There was that last glorious night with the little chambermaid to be relished, or the lady at Vauxhall Gardens who had found him so pretty she had taken him home to her lodgings and half-killed him with kindness. Then there was a ball in the country, where he and his hostess had struck an arrangement after the host had drunk himself into a stupor. The crotch of his slop trousers became uncomfortably tight just remembering what a rogering buck he had used to be. If I don't get ashore for some mutton in New York this trip, I don't know what I'll do…

Muter what seemed an age, little Beckett dashed down and spoke with Roth, who ordered the gun ports opened. As they hinged up out of the way, the deck became a painfully loud cavern as the heavy guns were run out to stick their black muzzles from the ports. Alan made his way to midships and knelt down to spy their target. It was the rebel privateer brig, tacking heavily to make a dash past Ariadne's bows to get at her prey in the convoy! 'Stand by,' Roth called. There was a loud bang from the upper deck. 'As you bear.. .fire!' One by one, each piece discharged with a monumental blast that had Alan's ears ringing most painfully, but it was glorious! So much noise, so much power, so much smoke and recoil and the great guns all rolling back to snub at the end of their groaning breeching ropes! He had not taken part in a live firing yet, merely drills, yet he knew at once that if he could play with cannon, he could make a career in the Navy and not half mind all the rest of the stupidity.

It did not appear, however, that Ariadne's bite was quite as impressive as her bark. In point of fact, Alan could see quite a few tall splashes as heavy balls impacted with the sea. Some were far beyond the brig, having passed over her hannlessly, perhaps twitching a sail with the wind of their passage; some struck short, incredibly short, so close to Ariadne that he at first thought it was the enemy that had fired at them and missed! There were a few (frankly, more than merely a few) splashes far in front and far astern of the privateer brig where they may have killed an injudicious fish or two, but had no effect on their foe. ’Goddarnn my eyes!' Roth called as loud as the broadside after the last thunder had died away. 'What a pack of duckfuckers. Try to keep your eyes open and aim at something this time. Swab out yer guns!' Ariadne began a ponderous turn to starboard to keep the enemy on her beam and within the arc of her guns. Alan could see a gay flag on the privateer, a red-and-white-striped banner with a blue canton to the upper mast. They were almost close enough to discern a circle of tiny white stars on the flag as the guns were run out again. ’Point yer guns! Handspikes and crows, there!' Hann ordered, 'Aim the goddamn things, now!' They let loose a second broadside. It was about as effective as the first. Jesus, how can we miss at this range? Alan thought miserably. He spans two gun ports, so he must be no farther than three or four cables away from us. It's impossible to miss! And then the privateer brig sailed out of their gun ports to the north, outreaching the much heavier and slower Ariadne.

The hands labored at swabbing out their hot barrels, slipping in fresh cartridge bags, ramming home wads and fresh shot, then straining to roll the guns, squealing on their ungreased wooden trucks, back up to the sills.

Beckett appeared once more at Lieutenant Roth's side. 'The captain's respects, Mister Roth, and you are to prepare to engage to starboard.’

’Lewrie, supervise the larboard guns and see they're secure,' Roth told him, leading all but three of the numbers from each hot gun over to starboard. Alan made sure that no cartridge bags had been pricked, that all vents were covered from sparks, and that the ports were securely closed, and the heavy guns were snubbed in place by the train and side-tackles with no chance to roll about and crush someone.

By the time he and the excess numbers had finished that chore, the starboard guns were speaking, rattling the fabric of the ship. He bent down to see out, and could not detect any improvement in their aim as they fired at a much smaller target, the privateer schooner, which was in the process of cutting out a slow merchantman. And by the time the most experienced gun captains and quartergunners had found their enemy's range and had begun to slap balls close about her, she had danced out of reach and gun-arcs to rush down on another prize. Ariadne now turned about and chased after their earlier target, the brig. The men stood behind the guns in long swaying lines for what seemed like an hour. There were sounds of gunfire far off, light sixand nine-pounders, occasionally the deeper boom of a twelve-pounder. And then it was over; they were to secure from Quarters. Charges and balls were drawn, and the guns were securely bowsed down.

By the time the mess tables were being lowered between the guns, and all the other officers had left, Lewrie shrugged and went up on the upperdeck gangways. Down south to windward, or off to the southeast astern, stood the three raiders, safe as houses with Ariadne and Dauntless now far down to leeward to the north in pursuit of a panicky flock of merchantmen. The privateer ship had a fore-topmast missing and showed a few scars, but was still afloat. More to the point, five tubby merchant vessels that had lately been part of the convoy were also down to windward, prizes of the privateers.

Seven bells chimed from the belfry, and bosun's pipes began to shrill. 'D'ye hear there? Clear decks an' up spirits!' the b0sun shouted as loud as a gunshot. Eleven-thirty in the moming; as if to confirm it, Lewrie drew out his gold-damascened silver pocket watch and opened it.

So that was a battle, he thought. I can't see anything we accomplished. If this is the glory of naval life, you can have this nautical humbug! How do you make all that prize money, or make a name for yourself, when you're down below getting bored to death? Lewrie took himself off to the cockpit for their issue of rum, then came back up to perform noon sights, which he got wrong, as usual, resulting in an hour of racing up and down the mainmast.

Later, at dinner, he noticed the many long faces around their mess table. Finnegan and Turner, Mr. Brail, the captain's clerk, a couple of surgeon's mates, Shirke, Chapman, Ashburn and himself. Bascombe was in the Day Watch. Except for the sound of cutlery, it was dead quiet.

Well, perhaps not too quiet; there was the sound of the master's mates, Finnegan and Turner, as they chomped and chewed and gargled and hawked-both of them were what were termed 'rough feeders.’

’Um… this morning,' Alan said, clearing his throat, which raised an involuntary groan from everyone as they thought of their poor performance. 'What happened… exactly?’

‘Nothin' worth talkin' about,' Finnegan mumbled. 'Bloody shambles,' Chapman said with a blank: stare. For him to make a comment of any kind was rare. 'We weren't handled at all badly,' Ashburn said between bites. 'Placed right clever, if you ask me.’

’But the gunnery…' Alan prompted. ’Aye, that was awful,' Shirke said. 'It's like Harvey was telling us, we haven't spent much time at gun drill. ’

‘We've drilled,' Turner said. 'Jus' never fired the damn things, 'cept fer salutin' and pissin' off merchant masters. Good gunners gone stale, new 'uns couldn't hit a spit kid if it were tied to their mouths.’

’They were pretty fast, too. I expect that didn't help,' Alan said. ’Dauntless did alright,' Keith Ashburn said. 'Got hits on her foe, chased her off, and chased off that brig once it got past us. No one could have caught that schooner once she got past us, though. Lost five ships. Not a bad morning's work for