The heavy blocks soared up in the air, the yard was braced round again, and Ramage called to Jackson: 'Carry on then, and make for the cove: Mr Lacey will be waiting for you. And make sure the gun tackle is hooked into the cascabel ring and moused before you let go!'
;Aye, aye, sir,' Jackson grinned, 'otherwise we'll have to dive for it!'
The painter and sternfast were cast off and the two boats edged away from the Juno, the men rowing from the outboard side of each one. Progress was painfully slow but Jackson was careful to use the wind so that it helped them in their crabwise course towards the Diamond.
Ramage found Southwick beside him, watching the boats. 'You looked as though you were enjoying yourself, sir,' he said cheerfully, first making sure they were out of earshot of the men.
'I was,' Ramage admitted. 'It's deucedly tedious just marching up and down the quarterdeck like a sentry at the Horse Guards.'
Southwick nodded sympathetioally. 'The convoy will soon be here. We'll be busy enough then.'
Two hours later Ramage found an excuse for going over to the Diamond: the men with the jolly boat and two cutters had not returned and it would soon be dinner time, so he ordered the cook to prepare food for the men and had himself rowed over in one of the Surcouf’s boats. As an afterthought he had ordered the gunner to fetch up a lock and spare flint, carefully wrapped against the spray, a pricker, trigger line, wads, two round shot and two cartridges, the cylindrical wooden boxes being stowed in a canvas bag as a precaution against both spray and powder accidentally spilling. It was unlikely that the gun would be ready, but he warned Southwick not to be alarmed if he heard a shot.
As the boat rounded the Rock and the cove came into view he was pleasantly surprised to see that the carriage was up on the ledge and close to it what looked like a great letter A without the cross bar. The men had made sheers from the spars that had previously lashed the cutters together, and an oar provided the support. A heavy tackle slung from the sheers had hoisted the gun and several men were now manoeuvring the carriage directly under it.
By the time Ramage leapt on shore the gun had been lowered and he heard an excited yell from Lacey: ‘Throw over the cap-squares! Now, in with the bolts!'
The lieutenant pulled off the band of cloth he had been wearing round his brow to keep the perspiration from his eyes, snatched up his hat and jammed it on his head before saluting. 'You beat us by a quarter of an hour, sir,’ he said ruefully, gesturing at the men hurriedly unlashing the sheers.
'I've brought you all some food, anyway,' Ramage said with a grin. 'And powder and shot for the first round!'
Within fifteen minutes the men had hurried through their meal and were overhauling the train tackles which had kinked and tangled themselves, carrying the heavy breeching from the cove and clearing small rocks away on the ledge to make the gun platform comparatively smooth. Lacey had chosen a site which was in fact a slight depression with a piece of rock protruding like a stump of a tree on each side, ideally placed to secure each end of the breeching which, passing through the cascabel ring at the breech end of the gun, would bring the gun to a stop after it had recoiled a few feet.
Ramage went over to explore the big cave again while Lacey and his men finished preparing the gun and he was several yards inside the cave, examining it as possible accommodation for the men and a store for provisions, when he was startled to hear Lacey calling him from the entrance, obviously uncertain about entering.
Ramage joined him to find the lieutenant looking embarrassed.
'The men - er, well sir, the men have asked me to, er . . .'
‘Take a deep breath and spit it out, man,' Ramage said impatiently. 'I assume they aren't telling me they're planning a mutiny.'
'The gun's ready for firing, sir,' Lacey said hurriedly, 'and the men want you to name the battery.’
'Name it? What on earth for?'
'Well, sir, I believe there are going to be three batteries, and I think they had in mind that it would be easier to distinguish them if each had a name. They seem particularly concerned about this first one.'
Ramage was hot, tired, and in no mood for thinking of names. 'Tell them I'll think of a name tomorrow.'
Lacey's face fell. 'They - well, sir,' he said with a rush, 'they've already chosen a name, and they want you to approve it, sir.'
Ramage frowned. With Jackson, Rossi and Stafford out there, he suspected they had thought of some ludicrous name that would be impossible for him to use in official reports: something like the Nipcheese Battery, as a dig at the purser, or the Checkmate, to tease the Surgeon.
'They want to call it the Marchesa Battery, sir,' Lacey said nervously. ‘I - er, I understand there's an Italian Marchesa for whom some of them had a very high regard; the aunt of young Orsini, I think.'
Ramage tried to keep a straight face. Obviously Lacey was picturing some ancient Italian dowager. 'Yes, that is correct; Orsini's aunt is the Marchesa di Volterra.' He began walking towards the battery so that Lacey should not see the delighted grin on his face. 'A most appropriate name in the circumstances; yes, most appropriate,' he said with all the seriousness he could muster. Most of the former Tritons were grouped round the gun: Jackson, Stafford, Rossi, Maxton . . . All could see from Ramage's expression that he had agreed to the name. The gun was ready: the trigger line was neatly coiled on top of the breech, the lock was in position, the rammer, sponge and handspikes were ready. Well clear of the gun were the cartridge boxes with two round shot beside them. Jackson had the long metal primer tucked in his belt and a powder horn on a lanyard round his neck.
They seemed to be taking the naming ceremony seriously, and Ramage decided he should, too. 'I think we might fire a round in celebration, Mr Lacey,' he said briskly.
'Aye, aye, sir!' Lacey said happily and barked out an order. Immediately the eight men sprang forward and the rest stood back. Obviously the gun crew had been chosen while he was in the cave, and all of them were former Tritons.
Jackson, as gun captain, had the long pricker - officially known as the priming wire - and the powder flask ready. Stafford as the second captain was checking the lock, snapping it to make sure the flint made a good spark. One man had picked up the rammer while a fourth ran up with the thin flannel cylinder of gunpowder that was the cartridge, lifted it to the muzzle and pressed it in. He then helped the man with the rammer push it home, took the wad that was handed and helped ram that home. A fifth man came up with shot and that was pushed down the bore and rammed home. Both men jumped back clear of the muzzle as the men at the tackles ran the gun forward. If it had been mounted on board the Juno, the muzzle and much of the barrel would be poking out through the port, clear of the ship's side. Now it was run out to leave the heavy rope breeching slack, ready to take the strain when the gun recoiled.
The drill was excellent. Lacey, in contrast to the unnecessary orders he had been giving as the men lashed the cutter together, was now standing silent at the rear of the gun, waiting for Jackson to give the signal.
The American held up his hand and Lacey shouted, 'Prime!'
Jackson went to the vent, rammed the priming wire down the hole and made sure it had penetrated the flannel of the cartridge inside the breech, making a small hole and exposing the powder inside. Then he poured a small amount of powder into the pan, checking that it covered the vent.