down the full length of the bigger ship.
A cooler appreciation told him that this was not something that an experienced captain would allow, and Dwyer was nothing if not experienced. Going large, the wind astern, there was the greatest scope for manoeuvrability, and at the right moment he would haul his wind - wheel around closer to the westerly — to bring his whole broadside to bear on the hapless frigate. They would lose ground on their chase, but. . .
'Starb'd first, then to larb'd,' Binney relayed. On the quarterdeck the captain had his plan complete: it was seldom that a ship fought both sides at once, and here they would be able to have the unengaged side gun-crews cross the deck to reinforce those in action. 'Mr Kydd, I want the best gun-captains to starb'd, if you please.'
Kydd felt the ship turn, the sudden heel making the deck sway before she steadied. He tensed. There was a muffled shout from the main-hatchway, and Binney roared, 'Stand by!'
Kydd braced himself, but these were only twenty-four-pounders; he had served great thirty-twos before now. At the gun closest to him he saw one of the new hands. His eyes were wild and his legs visibly shaking.
The distant shout again, and instandy Binney barked, 'Fire!'
The crash of their broadside with its deadly gunflashes playing through the smoke dinned on his ears, the smoke in great quantities filling the air. Up and down the invisible gundeck he heard the bellow of gun-captains as they whipped raw gun-crews into motion.
They had got in their broadside first. Such a brutal assault from two whole decks of guns would utterly shatter the frigate - if they had aimed true. Kydd felt Achilles's stately sway as she resumed her course; this she would not be doing if they had failed.
'Larb'd guns!' Having blasted the frigate to a standstill they would cross her bows and in turn deliver a ruinous raking broadside, while at the same time be resuming their pursuit.
He folded his arms and smiled. There was little for him to do. Poynter and the other quarter-gunners could be relied on to keep up the fire: his duty was for the graver part of an action — if it was hot work, with casualties and damage, Kydd would need a cool mind acting as deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck, to see through carnage and destruction to deploying men to continue the fight. But there was no chance of that now.
Reload complete, the crews crossed to larboard and took position. 'Stand by!' Gun-captains crouched down, the handspikes went to work, the guns steadied and the gunlocks were held to the lanyard. Kydd pitied the helpless frigate somewhere out there on the bright morning sea, knowing what must be coming next. A cry from aft, and then Binney's 'Fire!’ The broadside smashed out — but a louder, flatter concussion overlaid the sound of the guns. Kydd's half-raised sleeve was rudely tugged away, sending him spinning to the deck. Then, the tearing screams and cries began.
He picked himself up shakily, afraid for what he would see when the smoke cleared. His coat had been ripped right up the sleeve, which hung useless, and as the smoke gave way he saw a gun now lying on its carriage, split open along its length, the upper portion vanished. Wisps of smoke still hung sullenly over it.
A small defect in casting deep within the iron of a gun, perhaps a bubble or streak of slag, had been sought out by the colossal forces of detonation and had failed, the rupture of metal spreading in an instant to burst the gun asunder.
The cost to its crew was grievous. Those closest had been torn apart, bright scarlet and entrails from the several bloody corpses bedaubing deck and nearby guns, and all around the piteous writhing of others not so lucky, choking out their lives in agony.
Flying pieces of metal had found victims even at a distance, and sounds of pain and distress chilled Kydd's blood. Binney stood further aft, swaying in shock, but he appeared untouched, staring at the slaughter.
The gundeck had come to a stop, aware of the tragedy forward. Kydd felt for the unfortunates involved, but there was a higher imperative: out there was an enemy not yet vanquished, who could lash back at any time. There was no alternative: organise fire buckets of water to soak away body parts, rig the wash-deck hose to sluice away the blood but, above all, resume the fight.
It was the worst possible luck — the easy success against the frigate was just what would have pulled Achilles's ship's company together and given point to their exercises, but now, and for a long time after, there would be flinching and dread in gun action.
Fearfully, the men
