The gun moved out faster, but Kydd was dismayed at the effort required to shift the three tons of cold iron.

“That’s better! Now, come on, gemmun, remember yer drill! Youse – clear the breechin’ from the truck. You ’n’ you fakes out the tackle falls nice ’n’ neat. Yer don’t want me remindin’ yer all the time, now, do yer? So – prime! We doesn’t take action here. Point yer gun!”

He looked at Jewkes, standing by nervously. “Look, mate,” he said, “keep yer trainin’ tackle close up-bight yer fall after she fires, ’cos side tackles’ll be runnin’ out quick ’n’ they don’t want it foulin’. Handspike. I want youse right here ’n’ watchin’ me all the time – t’ain’t no good admirin’ the view. Now the piece is ready to fire. Hey! Put that gun tackle down, you, Kydd! Gun goes orf, it’ll fly out ’n’ take you with it!”

Kydd’s face burned.

“Gun has fired. Denison ’n’ Cullen with Jewkes on the trainin’ tackle fer now.”

With the cannon’s recoil they would need no training tackle for the real thing.

The long black gun rumbled inboard, helped by the inclined deck and the training tackle fixed to the rear. Fully run in, its massive size, chest high to Kydd, was overawing.

A brief image of the parson and his gun – there had been a spiteful crack from a barrel not much bigger than his little finger: what kind of earth-splitting sound would come from a gaping maw nearly the size of his head, Kydd wondered. His palms began to sweat.

“Yours now, Lofty. Let me see some speed.” The man was good at the task. Taking advantage of the gunport, he sinuously arced out of the port to face inboard, plying his sheepskin-tipped stave into the muzzle at the same time. Three twists to the left going in, three to the right coming out. “Let’s be ’avin you, then, Cullen. Where’s yer powder?”

A doleful-looking sailor went through the motions of going to the midline of the vessel, where a grinning ship’s boy pretended elaborately to give him a cartridge from a long covered container.

“Load with cartridge!” Stirk ordered.

The invisible cartridge was stuffed down the muzzle to Cullen’s armpit. He whipped out his arm, by which time the Iberian had advanced with his rammer. Thrusting forcefully several times, he leaped back, the action like a dance movement.

“Wait for it, Pedro – me priming wire ’as to feel the cartridge, ’n’ then I signals an’ that’s when you carry on.” He gave a wintry smile. “But that was smartly done, cully. Shot yer gun.”

An imaginary wad was slapped into the muzzle as two men bent to the shot rack, pretending to heave a shot on to the cradle. It would need two to carry the great thirty-two-pound shot to the muzzle, where the cradle would tilt the ball in.

“Pedro?”

But the dark-eyed man was already there, plunging the rammer down. “Wad!” he shouted before Stirk could speak.

A “wad” was passed into the muzzle, more plunges with the rammer and they stood back.

“Good. Now we does it in one. Run out the gun!”

The exercise warmed Kydd, and he tore off his jacket and waistcoat. It was not hard to learn the motions; the difficult part was to learn to pull together with the others and to stop his muscles trembling at the unaccustomed effort.

Ahead of him on the tackle, others were finding it hard as well, with panting and feverish mopping of foreheads. Doggo had doffed his shirt altogether, the feral hair over his neck and shoulders glistening with sweat. “Now, lads, yer needs to get low into it, like this,” he said, leaning into the line of the rope.

The young lieutenant appeared distracted. “Cease exercise. Stand down.”

Stirk sat on the rear of the gun carriage, looking at them with a sardonic smile. A desultory chatter drifted around.

“What’re we waitin’ for, then?” Jewkes said, peevish.

Bull Lynch snorted. “Why – yer goin’ anywhere?”

“Let’s jus’ get the exercise over. Need to get me head down fer a caulk.”

The lieutenant reappeared, looking apprehensive. He raised his speaking trumpet. “Pay attention, the gundeck. The Captain means to exercise the great guns today with the discharge of one round from each gun.”

He hesitated, then ordered, “All guns, load with cartridge!”

Kydd’s heart quickened: he would hear the guns speak now.

Stirk rose. “C’mere, nipper,” he said, to their ship’s boy. “Now run along an’ get me pouch from the gunner’s mate.”

Kydd had noticed the ship’s boys stationed at each gun, some no more than ten years old, and had been touched by their youthful high spirits. He could not help but wonder how they could possibly endure in a great sea battle.

“You, Denison, match tub – and, Cullen, yer knows yer sponge’ll need water.” Stirk checked carefully around, then went to the gunlock atop the breech of the gun. Carefully removing the lead apron, he attached a lanyard to the mechanism. Cocking it, he watched closely as it clicked a fat spark. Satisfied, he straightened. “Thanks, younker,” he said to the panting boy waiting behind with the pouch. He smiled at the lad. “So where’s yer ear tackle, then?”

The boy brought out a grubby white rag, which Stirk fastened with mock roughness around his head. It was in the form of two circlets that went around the head, intersecting at the ears where there were large pads.

The others began tying their kerchiefs and bandannas over their ears as well. Kydd felt awkward and apprehensive as he followed suit.

Slinging the powder horn over his shoulder, Stirk waited for the loading process to complete. This time, there was a real cartridge – a lightgray cylinder with coarse stitching, which held Kydd with a horrifying fascination. It went in, bottom end first, seam downward.

“Slow time, lads. We get it right first.”

More carefully than before, the dark Spaniard plied his rammer. This time Stirk had his thumb on the touchhole to tell by the escaping air when the charge was seated.

A wad and then the iron ball itself. To Kydd, it looked huge. Stirk noticed his interest. “Right ship-smasher, that. Go through two feet o’ solid oak at a mile, that ’un will.”

The cradle tilted and the cannon ball disappeared into the gun. Another wad would be needed to keep it hard up against the cartridge against the roll of the ship.

“Run out!”

In a sudden bout of nervous energy, Kydd hauled mightily on the tackle.

Stirk took his priming wire, more an iron spike, and by piercing the cartridge through the vent hole ensured that naked powder was waiting for the jet of flame from the quill tube. The gunlock pan was filled with bruised gunpowder from the powder horn, and Stirk raised his hand. “Stand by to fire!”

A flurry of clicks echoed along the gundeck as the gunlocks were cocked. Gun captains stood behind their weapons, lanyard in hand, and kept their eyes on the lieutenant, who plainly was waiting for word from the quarterdeck far above.

The ship heaved slightly, muffled creaks startling in the silence. The morning wind was strengthening and buffeting those closest to the gunport. Kydd caught a glimpse of a lone seabird wheeling low over the sea.

Still the waiting. The tension became unbearable.

Kydd stole a look at Stirk, who was calm but poised. He wiped moist hands on his trousers.

A distant shouting and a face appeared at the forehatch. “Stand by. Number-one gun – fire!”

In a split second, Kydd saw it all. At the first gun, only two guns forward, the gun captain tugged hard at the lanyard. After the briefest delay came the stupefying din, the visceral push of the blast. It left him stunned. Then a vast, enveloping mass of smoke roiled out for a hundred yards or more before it was blown back in again. It swirled around them, briefly hiding the waiting gun crews.

“Number-two gun – fire!”

Kydd knew what to expect and closed his eyes. The cannon was nearer and there was a vicious iron ring to the blast. He flinched; a trembling started in his knees.