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

five seconds, by Charles’s watch. Better.
    As the morning warmed, all of the gun crews competed shirtless, some tying their kerchiefs around their heads to keep the sweat out of their eyes. The third set of guns competed, then the fourth. The fastest times were within seconds of five and a quarter minutes for each group.
Thunderbolt
and
Naughty Nancy
were added to the list of winners.
    “Each of the crewmen who have made it this far,” Charles said, “will receive an extra half-ration of spirits with this evening’s supper. The victors in the next round will receive an extra half-ration both tonight and the night after. The crew of the champion gun will get a golden guinea from my own pocket. That’s two shillings a man.” He held the coin up above his head. There were good-natured cheers and a generally enthusiastic atmosphere, while the four remaining gun crews huddled around their captains to plot strategy with grim seriousness.
    Instant Death
surprisingly defeated
Dorothy,
with a time of five minutes flat, while
Thunderbolt
lost by a hairsbreadth to
Naughty Nancy
in five minutes and two seconds, members of both crews gasping for breath after they finished. Charles gave the winning crews a few moments to drink some water and collect themselves before the final. When he thought they were sufficiently recovered, he had the marine drummer tap out a long roll.
    “Are you ready?” he called out. The men nodded, and the captains responded, “Yes, sir,” and “Aye, we are, sur.”
    “Remember, a guinea to the winner.” Two of the men on the receiving tackles spit on their hands and rubbed them together; others shuffled their bare feet on the deck for better traction. “Steady.” He signaled to the boatswain.
Tw-e-e-e-e-e-t!
    The men fell furiously on the relieving tackle of both guns, yanking them back where the wormers, spongers, loaders, and rammers worked as fast as they could at the muzzles. Back and forth, in and out ran the guns. The noise from the onlookers increased, cheering and clapping, urging the men on. The two guns moved in perfect unison as if they were somehow connected.
Instant Death
and
Naughty Nancy
lunged into the open gunports up to their carriages and withdrew two times, three times.
    On the fourth repetition, Charles thought
Instant Death
had gained an infinitesimal advantage. The guns were jerked backward, the wormers, spongers, and all did their work, and all twenty men fell on the tackles as one, even the gun captains grabbing at the lines and lending their weight.
    Thunk-k.
Naughty Nancy
and
Instant Death
slammed hard against the bulkhead. “Clear,” both captains shouted in unison. The lanyards jerked and the flintlocks sparked.
    A silence filled the gundeck, broken only by the ragged gasping of the exhausted men lying or sitting on the deck by their guns. The cannon themselves rested hard against the side of the ship, quiet and unmoving. Charles looked at it a second time to be sure: four minutes and forty-five seconds. That would be—what?—fifty-seven seconds per firing. That was more than satisfactory.
    “Well,” Charles said, addressing the gun crews, “two winners, I hadn’t counted on this.” He made a small display of patting his pockets and even turned one out as if to show that he hadn’t any more money. This brought some laughter from the crew. “Ah, here it is,” he said, producing a second coin from an inside jacket pocket. He called
Naughty
Nancy
and
Instant Death
’s captains forward and gave them each their coin. It would be up to the purser to change them into coins of smaller denominations.
    “There is one more thing before you are dismissed,” Charles said, turning serious and addressing the entire assembled crew. “Gunnery is why we exist. From time to time we may be called upon to engage enemy ships larger than ourselves and with more powerful armaments. To succeed, we must service the guns faster and with more effect than our opponents. This is our