A Shot Rolling Ship by David Donachie

neutral, and Pearce was sure that could the lieutenant come up with his intended quarry, he would want his guns run out to demand that she do so, or take the consequences.
    The man ropes they had rigged were taut life savers, something to keep a grip on as the deck canted and pitched, tipping the bowsprit into a wall of icy green water that turned white as it was smashed asunder by the prow, sending a mass of flecking foam into the faces of those manning the deck. The tap on his shoulder from the sailor Littlejohn, followed by the jabbing finger, was an admonition that he should get below out of the wind and water till the call came for another change of course. Pearcewas about to follow when he saw the powder monkey go by on the opposite side, a boy practically crawling, one hand using the man rope to make progress, the other clutched to his shirt to keep dry the cartridge he had stuffed inside. Looking to where he was heading Pearce saw a gun crew struggling to lever round one of the forward cannon so that, when Griffin tacked once more, instead of pointing towards the empty sea, it would be aimed in the general direction of the chase.
    Curiosity overcame any discomfort – not that there was much comfort to be gained on the lower deck amongst a crowd of dripping, shivering souls – the only benefit being a momentary release from the wind’s howl which assaulted their ears, precious minutes before they would be called on deck again to once more change tack. How in the name of perdition could they even contemplate firing a cannon in such a sea, with so much spume, let alone the scud of the sea itself swirling around their feet? Arm hooked round the stay, eyes slitted to keep out the stinging salt water, Pearce watched as the men worked with their levers, jamming them under the trunnion wheels and pushing to gain an inch at a time, then holding hard as the deck pitched and threatened to undo their efforts.
    Colbourne had also made his way past on the opposite side, not a blue-coated popinjay now, but swathed from head to toe in oilskins and foul weather hat, head down and canted forward, that being the only way he could make progress, and never once without a hand to secure himself. Pearce saw the nods and jerks of communicationeven if the words were lost to him, saw the gun captain cradle the cannon touch hole to protect the powder in the quill, ready for the charge that another rammed home down the barrel, the ball and wad following quickly to act as a barrier to the seawater that would surely invade. His wonderment as to how they proposed to spark the flint was met by the knowledge that somehow, someone had got a length of burning linstock to the gun.
    He did not hear the orders, but all his companions had been called on deck again. Michael was beside him to throw him a bewildered glance, and Littlejohn was slapping each of them to take their place on the rope they had so recently secured. Now they would need to hold it steady once it was released, paying it out, working in tandem with those on the other side of the deck as they hauled, so that it came round steadily, with enough restraint to ensure it was not blown uselessly away. There were no games to play now – things had to be done right or they would be in serious danger. Leaning backwards as the rope slid round the cleat, Pearce saw the gunport opened, watched as the gun crew used the forward pitch of the deck to run the cannon out, tried to follow the track, which was surely coming close to aim as Colbourne, arm raised and bent over, looked down the barrel seeking the point at which it would bear. Something was whipped off the touchhole, perhaps a piece of oiled and waterproof canvas, the quill full of dry powder jammed into the slot as the lieutenant’s arm dropped and he jumped sideways. The slowmatch had to be cupped to keep it dry, the man applying it relyingon the mates who had hold of his clothing to keep him on his feet as he carried out his task. As