Tenacious

the sword by its rings, left the rest on his desk for Tysoe to stow and returned on deck as nonchalantly as he could.

The favourable south-westerly firmed but backed more to the east; stuns'ls to leeward were struck as they were backwinded by their topsails. The master frowned at the sight of Vanguard's lee stuns'ls still abroad. 'Not as I should say, but for a raw captain Berry hangs on t' his canvas a mort long,' he muttered.

An hour later, the winds were further towards the south-east and the remaining stuns'ls were taken in. 'Hands to quarters!' Houghton snapped. Under plain sail there was no need to worry over delicate sail set and he would have his way with gun practice. 'Mr Kydd, you will take post as second of the gundeck for now, if you please.'

Kydd had been expecting this. In battle, in a hard-fought slugging match, a signal lieutenant might well find himself employed at the guns, replacing a killed or wounded gundeck officer—in fact, that very instance had provided his own elevation to the quarterdeck.

The long twenty-fours of Tenacious were powerful weapons but Kydd had cut his teeth as a young man on the thirty-two-pounders of Duke William; any others were lesser beasts.

The crews mustered on the gundeck, throwing off muzzle lashings, taking down the rammers, sheepskin staves and other implements. The bark of gun captains was loud in the close air as they goaded men to their stations. It seemed impossibly crowded but there was a pattern in the seething mass and Kydd waited on the centreline.

Adams was in charge of the forward half of the gundeck standing, like Kydd, well clear of the throng. He caught Kydd's eye, removed his hat and performed an exaggerated bow. Kydd grinned and returned the gesture, then turned back to his section.

Dobbie was gun captain but also quarter gunner, responsible for the after four guns on the larboard side. His squat, powerful build was perfectly suited to hard work in the low decked spaces. Kydd watched as Dobbie bullied crews into place: two to throw off the cross seizings and bight the fall of each side tackle, others hauling the training tackle to the rear of the gun and standing braced to take in the sudden slack when the gun 'fired,' the remainder ready to train the guns round by brute force with handspikes under the carriage wheels.

Sudden daylight as the gunports were opened. The sharp squeal of small blocks gave an edge to the preparations and Dobbie thrust over to his gun captains, peering at their gunlocks, checking their gunner's pouch and powder horn.

Each gun captain was responsible for his own gun, then immediately to Dobbie, who in turn would answer for their effectiveness to Kydd, a hierarchy of responsibilities upon which Kydd could not trespass.

'Gun crews mustered, sir,' Dobbie reported, touching his forehead. A midshipman hovered, theoretically having charge of the guns under Kydd, but wise enough to give Dobbie room.

'Thank you, Dobbie,' Kydd said, and walked across purposefully to one of the guns. He removed the cover of the conical match tub. Inside, he could see that the perforated head had its full complement of unlit slow-match hanging down—in action, should a gunlock fail, one would be used to touch off the gun. He eased it off and peered inside. 'But where's our water?' he said mildly, turning to Dobbie. If a piece of the lighted match fell, water would be needed to douse it quickly. The look Dobbie gave the gun captain suggested that no further action would be required.

'Ye know the captain permits no sham motions,' Kydd said, careful to direct his remarks in general, 'all t' be as in battle, stand fast the shot 'n' cartridge.' He let it hang, then turned to the nearest of the gun crew. 'Y'r station at quarters?'

'After tackle o' number eleven larb'd,' he said instantly.

'And?'

'Second division o' boarders.' He was listed to be called away to board the enemy in the second wave when the trumpet sounded.

'And where do ye find y'r weapons?'

'Ah—forrard arms chest?'

'T' see this man knows his duty afore he sees his grog,' Kydd replied briskly to the midshipman, who hastily scrawled in his notebook. He turned to go back to his place on the centreline but heard the smothered chuckles of a powder monkey clutching his cartridge box.

'Now then, y' scallywag,' he said. 'Do ye tell me, what is y' duty should there be a fire at the gun?'

The youngster's eyes went wide. 'Er, tell Mr Jones?' he squeaked.

'I'm sure the gunner will know of it b' then,' Kydd said, then glared at the midshipman. 'The younker t' tell you of his duty before you get y'r grog.'

The ship's company of Tenacious had been together for some time now and practice was becoming more a matter of detail. Gun captains could be stood down while second gun captains took over; men could exchange stations and be equally proficient; they were hardening well.

Kydd paced slowly down the deck amid the heavy rumble of cannon, but his mind strayed to the poop-deck. That was his principal station in battle, heading the signals team, a task requiring the utmost coolness under enemy fire. An admiral had only the medium of signals to bring his fleet round to meet a sudden threat and if the signal lieutenant blundered ...

'Carry on,' he snapped to the midshipman. There was little further he could contribute to the ongoing sweat and toil—he would go up and see how Rawson, the senior signal midshipman, was spending his time in the absence of his officer.

With so many men below at the guns the decks seemed deserted, but as Kydd hurried up the poop ladder he was reassured to see his men at work. Rawson turned and touched his hat. 'We're doin' some exercising with Emerald, sir,' he said, gesturing to the lithe frigate on their beam. 'An' they're not up t' snuff is my opinion,' he confided.

'An' it's not your duty t' pass judgement on others, Mr Rawson,' Kydd admonished him.

A seaman whipped down the current hoist, which Kydd saw was number 116: 'your signal hoist cannot be distinguished.'