“For them who haven’t seen one before, I’ll name th’ main parts.”

Within a bare minute Kydd had the essentials: the frizzen covering the pan had to be struck by a piece of flint, which would send a spark to set off the priming in the pan and thence to the cartridge. He looked doubtfully at the muzzle – the thumb-sized bore meant a heavy ball, and this implied a hefty kick.

“Right. We go through the motions first without a cartridge. First motion, half cock yer piece.”

The fugleman briskly brought his musket across his breast and like clockwork brought it to half cock.

The seamen of the gunner’s party went along the line, correcting and cursing by turns. The action of the recurved cock felt stiff and hostile to Kydd – but then it was necessary for a sea-service weapon to avoid delicate niceties.

“Second motion, prime your piece.”

Priming was not difficult to imagine. Brush the frizzen forward, shake in the priming, shut it again.

“Third motion, charge your piece.”

Take the remaining cartridge powder and ball, and insert it in the muzzle. Ram it down with the wooden rammer.

“Present your weapon.”

Lock to full cock. It took a moment to realize that the words meant to aim the musket – present the muzzle end to the enemy.

“Fire!” The finger drawing at the trigger, never jerking – a satisfying metallic clack and momentary spark.

“Rest.” The Master-at-Arms seemed content. “By numbers, one, half cock.”

They went through the drill again and again until it was reflexive, the fugleman never varying in his brisk timing.

Finally the order came. “Issue five rounds ball cartridge!”

The cartridges felt ominously heavy, a dull lead ball with a wrapped parchment cartridge. Kydd put them in his pocket. Nervously he gripped his weapon and waited for the word to fire.

“First six! You, to you with the red kerchief – step over here to wind’d.”

Kydd stepped over as number three.

“Face outboard – number one, load yer weapon.”

The first man went through the drill. The man bit off the top of the cartridge and spat it out. The rammer did its work. A quarter gunner inspected his priming, making sure the powder grains covered the pan but no more, and the man looked at the Master-at-Arms.

“At the ’orizon – present!”

The musket rose and steadied.

“Fire!”

All within a fraction of a second – a click, fizz and bang. Gouts of whitish smoke propelled outward to be blown back over them all before clearing.

Roars of laughter eased the tension. As the smoke cleared the man was to be seen picking himself up from the deck. He had not been prepared for the mule-like kick. Kydd resolved to do better.

“Number two!” The man next to Kydd loaded his weapon. He was clearly nervous, and twice made blunders.

“Present!”

The barrel visibly trembled as it was trained, and the man unconsciously held the thick butt away from his shoulder, anticipating the recoil. Cruelly the Master-at-Arms affected not to notice.

“Fire!”

The musket slammed back and with undamped impetus caught the man’s shoulder a savage blow.

With a cry of pain the man dropped his weapon, which clattered noisily to the deck.

“Now you all knows to hold the butt tight into yer shoulder. Number three!”

Kydd loaded his musket, carefully looking to the priming, ramming the ball vigorously down.

“Present!”

He raised the barrel and tucked the butt firmly into his shoulder. The tiny crude foresight settled on the horizon, but without a backsight or other cues Kydd decided to ignore it.

“Fire!”

Leaning into it, he pressed the trigger. The ear-ringing blam of the discharge sounded peculiarly less for his own piece than it had when he was standing sideways from the others, he noted. The recoil was heavy, but under control, and he lowered the musket with a swelling satisfaction.

The drill continued until every man had fired two rounds, after which half a dozen of them were called forward, the remainder relieved of their weapons.

“These men will fire at the mark.”

This would be a round cask end dangling from the fore yardarm and steadied with a guy. The men took position on the poop.

“Number one, three rounds!”

At a range of a couple of hundred feet it was not surprising that there were no hits. Disappointed, the man stepped down.

“Number two!”

His first ball took the target near its edge, and it kicked spectacularly. A buzz of excited comment, and the next shot. It missed – the man reloaded quickly, blank-faced. Carefully he brought the musket up and squinted down the barrel. He left it too long – the muzzle wavered with fatigue, and after the musket banged off, the cask end still hung innocently.

There was a shout of derision and the man stepped down disconsolately.

Kydd moved forward. There was an undercurrent of muttering and he guessed that wagers were being taken. He loaded, took position, and the chattering died away. He took a long look at the cask end and brought the musket up, sighting along the barrel. The three-feet-wide target seemed to have shrunk in the meantime, for the merest quiver set the muzzle off the mark. Kydd tried to make sense of the single foresight, then remembered his recent experience and abandoned it. The sighting picture blurred, but in an act of pure instinct, he focused only on the target and let his body point through the gun at the mark.

He drew on the trigger – he heard the distant thock before the smoke cleared to reveal the target swaying from a solid hit. He was more surprised than elated.

A buzz of excitement went through the spectators, which died away to silence when he reloaded and took aim once more. He repeated the unconscious pointing and miraculously the target took another hit.

“Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared, in the sudden commotion.

There must be more to it than this, thought Kydd, and at his last shot he tried to put more science into his aim. The little foresight settled on the target, Kydd finding it difficult to focus on both at the same time.

He knew immediately he pulled the trigger that he had missed, and a spreading sigh from the crowd confirmed it was so.

“Well done, lad – two of three is better’n most,” the Master-at-Arms said.

At conclusion of the exercise Kydd was called over. “M’duty to Mr. Tewsley, and you are to ’ave an extra tot at seven bells.”

“Nasty piece o’ work, them muskets!” Claggett muttered.

“Why’d y’ say that?” Kydd asked.

“If you was in a frigate, yer wouldn’t ask!” Claggett replied with feeling. “You’s servin’ the upper deck midships guns with yer mates, all open t’ the sky, an’ it’s a right smashin’ match, yardarm ter yardarm. Then yer see that yer mates are gettin’ picked orf, one after the other as they’re busy workin’ the guns. You wonder when it’s goin’ to be your turn next. An’ it’s all ’cos they have these buggers with muskets in the tops firin’ down on yer ’n’ you can do nothin’ about it – a-tall.” He drained his pot and glared at Kydd. “Ain’t fer sailors!” he said forcefully.

“Bear away, shipmate,” Doud said. “Kydd may get to settle a Frenchy or two fer you in a couple o’ days!”

In the dog-watches the novelty of imminent action ashore lifted spirits and animated conversations. But it also generated nervous energy that found its release in yet more drill – close-quarters combat.

Kydd realized that this was a totally different affair. Instead of action at a distance, as with any gun, this would be a matter of man to man. The first to make a mistake would surely find himself choking his life out on his own blood. He wondered if he could stand up against some fierce bull of a Frenchman violently intent on his destruction. His imagination produced an image of a big sans-culotte, mustachioed, face distorted with hatred and closing in to batter down his guard and hack him to pieces. Kydd tried to focus instead on Lieutenant Lockwood.