Invasion

was fitted with a tompion and a stout lead apron, promising gunlocks in action, and was finished in traditional sea- service black.

An official-looking small building stood where the pier joined the shore and Kydd strode over to it. 'Where are the Sea Fencibles? I mean to see 'em drill,' he said, to a man lounging at the entrance puffing a clay pipe.

Conscious of admiring glances at his commander's uniform from passing ladies, he asked again. 'Their lieutenant, then?'

The man looked at him then slowly removed the pipe. 'How in blue blazes would I know, Admiral? I'm th' Revenoo only.'

Customs and Excise men were immune to the press, or Kydd would have been sorely tempted. Stalking past, he entered and got the information he wanted, then dispatched his men—and waited.

It was nearly two hours before a sullen and resentful gun crew were all closed up, still in their shopman's aprons, sea-jerseys and tradesmen's smocks. An elderly lieutenant in morning clothes arrived red-faced in vexation.

'So kind in Mr. Bonaparte to wait upon you, sir,' Kydd said sarcastically. 'And now may we see some action? Pray muster your equipment.'

One of the men turned on the lieutenant. 'An' its Toosday and Sat'day only we drill. What's th' meaning o' this'n?'

'It's a special muster for the officer here, and you'll see your silver right enough,' the lieutenant snarled. By now a knot of people had gathered, the exercise promised a pleasing diversion for the Ramsgate seafront.

Kydd pulled out his watch pointedly. The lieutenant called them to attention and made the gun numbers sing out their duties. That done, the order was given to cast loose the gun and rig tackles. There was another wait while the side tackles and other equipment were located in store and brought out. It took some looking to find the ringbolts to take the breeching and more for the training tackle before the gun was ready.

It was a hot day but Kydd was taking no nonsense and the gun crew bent to their labours.

'Out tompion!'

'Run out the gun!'

'Point your gun!'

'Fire!'

'Worm and sponge!'

The age-old orders rang out, but it was not an impressive sight, even without the heavy real twenty-four-pound shot and cartridges. The flat space atop the pier was not best suited to close exercise, but Kydd was merciless—if the French came they would be serving their piece whatever the conditions.

'Pity help you, sir, when we go to live firing,' Kydd said sorrowfully, to the lieutenant.

'Live firing?'

'Yes. I will have at least one round from you.' Kydd had noticed that the vent hole was blocked by a neat little spider funnel, proof enough of how much the gun had been used.

'Why, sir—'

'You object?'

'It's—it's not done, sir. The noise, it would frighten the ladies.

And people would think the French to have come.'

'One round, if you please.'

The lieutenant looked about helplessly, then muttered stubbornly, 'I haven't the keys to the magazine as I must apply to the colonel of militia.'

Kydd could hardly believe his ears, but said, 'Then we can oblige you, sir. Poulden, send to Teazer for a twenty-four-pounder carro-nade ball, cartridge, wadding and gunner's pouch. There, sir,' he added genially, 'you shall have your fun.'

The expectant spectators were now several deep and an excited murmur went round. 'Mr. Austen won't half be in a takin', sir,' one member of the gun crew said, fiddling with a tackle fall and looking anxiously at the lieutenant, whose face had paled.

'Sir, don't you rather think that—'

'Bonaparte's hordes could be upon you at any time, and you hesitate at a live practice?'

A grinning gun crew arrived with the requirements. 'Do you stand back, the Teazers. We'll be leaving it to these fine men to show us how to serve a gun. Are you ready, sir?'

'Well, I—'

'Clear the area, you men,' Kydd told his boat's crew, who shooed the interested audience off the pier to a safe distance. There was now a sizeable crowd lining the esplanade. 'The first time in dumb show,' Kydd said encouragingly. 'Then the real firing.'

The Fencibles gun crew mumbled to themselves as they addressed their iron beast, soon to bellow its defiance to the world.

'Come, come, gentlemen!'

In half-hearted show a dummy run was performed. Then, in deathly silence, the gun was loaded. Cartridge, wad, a gleaming black shot and another wad. Priming, quill tube—and the gun captain stood ready, looking unhappily at the lieutenant.