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,
Tenacious
57
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 5
Julian Stockwin
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.”
Kydd glanced about: the flag locker was neatly stowed, the seamen quietly at their posts at the
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,
Tenacious
57
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 5
Julian Stockwin
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.”
Kydd glanced about: the flag locker was neatly stowed, the seamen quietly at their posts at the
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