Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall

five times, quick as you can. We’re not going to fire off any powder, but each action that you would normally take—worming, sponging, loading with powder, shot, and wad, priming, and sparking—must be clearly performed. Lieutenant Talmage, Lieutenant Winchester, and Sergeant Cooley of the marines will be watching to see that every step is executed properly.” He paused to look at the assembled men watching him expectantly. They had all practiced at the guns many times before and knew how it went.
    “We will begin with three guns competing against each other,” he explained, glancing at some notes he had written. “First will be guns two, ten, and eighteen—I’m sorry.” Charles remembered that he had allowed the crews to paint names for their weapons in discreet lettering on the sides of the carriages. He’d had to countermand only one of the names chosen:
Bend Over, Frenchie,
which he thought inappropriate. He smiled. “The crews for
Smasher, Instant Death,
and
Hellfire
will compete first. The gun that goes fastest through the motions five times will advance to the second round. Is everyone ready?” He saw the men assigned to the selected guns poised expectantly at their stations. The three gun captains raised their hands.
    “All right, open your gunports, out tompkins. When the boatswain blows his whistle, you may begin.” Charles checked his watch, then nodded to Keswick, the boatswain, who raised his call and puffed his cheeks:
Tweeeeet!
    Instantly, the men on the receiving tackles heaved, and the three guns, squealing on their trucks, rolled forward until they bumped against the bulwark almost as one. Two of the three gun captains made a show of sighting along the barrels before stepping back and jerking the lanyards, which would have caused the flintlocks to spark the priming powder, had there been any.
Smasher
’s captain merely yanked his firing mechanism the second his gun was run out and thus was fractionally ahead of the others. Since there was no recoil, the men leaped to the ropes to drag the guns inboard.
    Charles watched closely as the cannon were run in and out, in and out, their crews heaving and grunting while those not engaged yelled out encouragement for their particular favorites.
Smasher
had taken an early lead, but slowly, turn by turn,
Instant Death
closed the gap. In the end it was
Instant Death
that bumped against the ship’s side for the fifth time, half a gun barrel ahead of the others. The delighted crew thrust their fists into the air and jumped up and down in victory. Charles looked at his watch and noted the time: five minutes and fifteen seconds, near enough. That would be one minute three seconds per firing, he calculated. Of course, there had been no recoil, and the guns had to be withdrawn manually, which added some time. But then there had been no actual cartridge, shot, or wad, and only the slightest nod at aiming. The net might be just over a minute per evolution under normal conditions. That was good, for some good enough, but not spectacular.
    Charles stepped forward and held up his hand for silence. “
Instant
Death
will move on to the second round,” he announced loudly. “Now, the crews of
Black Bess, Dorothy,
and
Rose Marie
—ah, the three sisters— will please man their guns.” There was laughter among the onlookers and much excited chatter. “Be ready! Steady!” he shouted out, glanced again at his watch, and signaled to Keswick.
    In and out the guns ran, the trucks screeching in protest. The gun crews, mostly barefoot on the dampened and sanded deck, and many stripped to the waist, heaved with purpose. Not even a gesture was made to aim or transit the weapons this time, only a grim determination to pull them out, pull them in, simulate cleaning and loading, and pull them outboard again. “Heave, you buggers, heave,” one captain kept shouting. “Home, heave, clear!”
Dorothy,
with the most loquacious captain, won by a clear margin, five minutes and