"Load the guns! I shan't give in without a fight, Mr Pullings. We have some chance yet."
"As you say, sir," said Tom, automatically grabbing a glass from the hands of a midshipman (who, to Tom's horror, said: 'Oi!' and was ignored) and squinting at the French privateer. It was decidedly small: probably a sloop and only that by courtesy since it only had two masts.
The merchantman's crew was better trained at gunnery than Tom had expected: when he had been aboard a merchant vessel, he had had to lick his gun crew into shape, but here they had loaded with a speed which wouldn't have discredited a Navy ship excessively.
"I understand Captain Aubrey is keen on gunnery, so I follow his example as best I can. Pray God it does us some good at least."
Tom smiled despite himself. The likelihood of a dispatch vessel outgunning a privateer was so small Dr Maturin wouldn't be able to find it with a magnifying glass, and Captain Layton was well aware of it.
"You are an experienced gunner, are you not, Mr Pullings?"
Tom grinned. "If there is any way in which I can assist, I should be delighted, sir."
"Then I can leave you in command of the guns? I fear I must go below. There are a great many dispatches which can't fall into the hands of our French friend."
Tom nodded. "Sir."
"Mr Hewitt take the deck!"
"Aye, sir!"
Tom watched the grey-haired figure retreat down the hatchway.
"Run out the long nines," yelled Tom.
"The long nines?" someone said.
"Aye, the long nines! Jump to it now, lads. While we have the weather gauge!"
"The wind's changing," said Layton's first mate. Tom nodded. "About tack!" yelled Hewitt.
As the ship came about onto the starboard tack, Tom vaulted himself off the quarterdeck.
There was a distant thundering.
"Cannonfire!"
"Steady!" yelled Tom, as some of the merchantmen gave each other hesitant glances. "Courage now, we're not in range yet!"
Tom felt himself flinch even as he said it. For all he knew, they could be in range. The privateer likely had bigger, more powerful guns than the Persephone.
The balls splashed into the water metres out of range, but close enough that the sea sprayed up onto the deck. The Persephones gave him admiring looks. It had been a blind lucky guess, but he had their confidence now at least.
"Gun captains stand by!" he yelled, standing behind the two long nines on the quarterdeck. "On the roll! …Here it comes! Fire!"
One ball fell wide, but the other slammed into the privateer's helm, sending a shower of splinters over the deck. There was a ragged cheer.
"Well done!" said Tom. "We seek to injure her. Aim for her masts and her bowsprit!"
"Aye, sir."
"Aye!"
"Reload!"
Tom hurdled back off the quarterdeck. There were six guns each side. There was crew enough for just one side. The gun captains watched him expectantly.
"Stand by on the starboard side." Tom turned to Mr Hewitt. He wasn't exactly in a position to order the man around, but… "I want you to set tops'ls when I give the word, and lift them again when I give another."
Without thinking, he saluted, said 'Aye-aye, sir' and sent a group of men up to see to it. Then he said: "Hey!" but a moment later thought better of what he was going to say and gave a shrug. It was because at times like these, you didn't question what you were told to do. You did it, and if you lived through, then you could question it. Not before.
"Fire!" yelled Tom at the long-nine captains. This times both balls struck; one skimmed across the deck, and the other tore through the bowsprit ropes.
He glanced up at the rigging. Five obedient little figures were silhouetted against the blue-white sky.
He nodded to Hewitt. "Now! Starboard broadside, prepare to fire!"
The tops'ls came down, the ship yawed and spun around.
"Fire broadside!" yelled Tom. It thundered out, and Tom felt the little ship straining under the effort.
Splinters flew aboard the privateer, and the little black dots that were its people seethed with activity.
"Mr Hewitt up the tops'ls again!"
Tom saw the flash a moment too late.
A moment later the air was thick with splinters. He felt his hair swept to the side as bits of the ship swept past. And a sudden cold on his forehead. He put up a hand to stem the cascade of blood into his eyes.
"Oh hell! Sixteen pounders!"
Hewitt, who had been staring at the other ship through his own glass, turned to him.
"They're catching up."
