When all gun-crews were closed up, Kydd went to a gun-captain and told him to show the general his equipment – slung powder horn and a pouch with spare flints, cartridge pricker, quill tubes and the rest. Each gun number was told to prove his gear: worm, rammer, sponge and crow, a powder monkey proudly holding out his salt-box for carrying the charge.
‘Slow time, Mr Gilbey.’
His first lieutenant clapped on his hat. ‘Fire! Gun has fired!’ he roared.
The exercise had begun. Tackle falls were eased and the guns rumbled back down the canted deck. The gun-crew got to work – sponge and rammer, invisible wad and shot, the gun-captain showily bruising his priming and slamming the gun-lock down before the gun was run out once more.
Then it was quick time: the fearful muscle-bulging round of heaving the gun in and out in a synchronised choreography, four men furiously serving their iron beast each side, nimbly sharing the limited seven feet of space between each gun with an adjacent crew. After ten minutes of frantic activity, Kydd called a halt.
‘We’ll have three rounds apiece from numbers three and five guns, Mr Gilbey, and to make it interesting we’ll stream a mark.’
The float was found, and on its mast a red flag was fixed, its nine feet square looking enormous on the frigate’s deck.
‘A trifle large, wouldn’t you think?’ Beresford murmured.
Kydd gave a tight smile but said nothing as it was heaved over the side, sliding rapidly astern. While L’Aurore went about to clear the range, the guns were loaded, grey cartridge and iron-black shot, quill tube inserted and gun-lock cocked.
At three hundred yards the jaunty bobbing of the flag was in clear view on the grey-green sea but Kydd took Beresford to the first gun. ‘Do see if you feel the gun is rightly pointed, if you will, sir.’
Gingerly, the general bent to look. ‘There’s no sights!’ he said, astonished. Only a bare barrel looked out into the broad expanse of sea. ‘How do you lay the weapon?’
Kydd pointed out the quoin under the breech for elevation and the handspike to lever the gun bodily from side to side. ‘The gun-captain must lay the gun to his own satisfaction.’ Obligingly, the man did so, with hand signals to his crew.
‘There, sir.’
Once more Beresford bent down, squinted along the barrel to the muzzle, then rose ruefully. ‘As I fail to even see your target, Captain.’
It was a common mistake for first-time gunners. The trick was to locate the target first and draw the muzzle to it, rather than the other way round. After explanations, Beresford picked up on the flag, now a tiny thing set against the sighting along the gun barrel, which unreasonably reared and fell each side randomly with the pitch and heave of the seas.
‘Do say, sir, when you, as gun-captain, will fire your piece.’
Beresford wouldn’t be drawn. ‘It’s quite impossible. The damn thing won’t stay still.’ Kydd hid a smile: unlike the rock-still conditions on land, the sea was a moving, live thing that altered everything, from the footing of the gunners to the eventual flight of the ball.
‘Stand by, gun-crews! Over here, sir, if you please.’
They stood back at a respectful distance, but before Gilbey could give the orders Beresford called out imperiously, ‘And it’s five guineas to one, Mr Kydd, that not a one shall strike within fifty yards!’ The gun-crews turned to look back incredulously.
Kydd, keeping a straight face, nodded in agreement. ‘Carry on, Mr Gilbey.’
‘Number three gun! Fire when you bear.’
The gun-captain crouched, staring along the barrel, giving large then smaller signals, the gun-lanyard in his hand until he went rigid for a few seconds. Then, in one fluid motion, he jerked on the lanyard, swivelled to one side and arched his body, as the gun, with a brutal slam of sound and momentarily hidden in smoke, hurtled back in recoil.
The smoke cleared quickly in the brisk breeze and, after a second or two, a white plume arose gracefully – not twenty yards to one side and fair for elevation.
‘If that were another frigate, he’d be looking to a hit a-twixt wind and water,’ Kydd commented smugly.
‘Number five!’
Eager to do better, the gun-captain took his time and was rewarded with a strike in line but beyond. Beresford had the grace to look rueful. ‘Your guinea is safe, sir. These gunners are in the character of magicians, I believe.’
Kydd relented and explained how it was done. A field gun in the Army was fired with port-fire and linstock, bringing a glowing match to the touch-hole, a practice that was long gone in the Navy. Aboard ship, a gun was fired with a gun-lock, a larger version of that to be found on a musket, and the lag between yanking the lanyard and the gun going off was a manageable small fraction of a second.
And Kydd, like others who were gunnery-wise, made a practice of rating only top seamen gun-captain, those who had long experience on the helm, who could ‘read’ a sea, anticipate their ship’s behaviour in any conditions. This made all the difference when it came to judging the exact moment to fire during the roll of the ship when the muzzle of the gun swept down over the target.
He would leave it to another time to make the point that most gunnery was conducted at the range of a cricket pitch when, in the blood and chaos, only the fastest and steadiest gun-crews would be left standing.
‘Good practice indeed,’ Beresford acknowledged, when the three rounds had been expended. While they had not blown the target out of the water, all that was wanted had been achieved: that in the invisible profile of an enemy ship around the float, every shot would have told.
‘Sir, stand down the people for dinner?’ Gilbey asked respectfully.
Kydd nodded.
Gear was secured and the welcome blast of ‘Up spirits’ was piped by the boatswain’s mate. A happy line of mess-men was soon lining up by the tub in the waist where the grog was mixed in the open air, under the strict supervision of the master-at-arms and the mate-of-the-watch.
The general wanted to visit the mess-decks during their noon meal. Kydd knew it would be an eye-opening experience for him. Army other-ranks were in truth the lowest forms of humanity, from ignorant farmhands and factory workers down to thieves and murderers, their training little more than musket drill and marching. Aboard ship there was no room for these untrained masses: the skills and teamwork in bringing in madly flogging sails on the yardarm or serving the great guns in a no-quarter fighting match were vital and essential.
As well, daily life at sea within the confines of a man-o’-war had its own demands. The committing to test courage on a daily basis put side by side with the human need to relate to one’s shipmates brought out character and strength in the relationships that shaped them. These men were individuals, formed in a crucible of ordeals, ranging from personal combat to the howling menace of a gale, and over time they drew together in a mutual interdependence and regard that was at the very core of what it was to be a member of the company of a fine ship.
The general, with his hat under his arm and therefore deemed invisible, passed between the tables, hearing yarns and ditties, laughter and concerns, feeling the temper of a prime frigate at her best. Afterwards he visited the galley, with its large, purpose-built Brodie stove. The cook in his kingdom ruled his mates and skinkers with an iron fist, lordly checking the metal tallies on the nets of fresh meat doled out from the huge copper vats to the mess-cooks and quick to see that the slush rising on the seething surface was diligently skimmed for his later profitable disposal.
Of course, changes would come after only days into a sea voyage, away from a friendly harbour source of fresh victuals. No more fresh meat but salt beef and pork from the cask, bread replaced by the hard tack that the Navy insisted go under the same name, and in place of greens, preserved stuff such as sauerkraut and trundlers, dried peas.