Lieutenant Rowley had the gundeck, and stood impassive at the fore hatch. Kydd noted the puffs of white lace that emerged at each sleeve and the luxuriant hair, carefully styled in the new Romantic vogue. His fashionable cynical mannerisms gave the impression of hauteur, heightened by the faultlessly cut uniform. His orders were resonant enough, however. 'Exercise of the great guns — gun captains, in your own time . . .'

Stirk mustered his gun crew. His previous ship experience had ensured a rate of gun captain, and with Kydd and Renzi there were three other Royal Billys, Wong, Pinto and Doggo.

That left two of the original frigate crew on this gun -Gully, a bushy, round-faced man, and Colton, the second gun captain, a shrewish man with an uneven temper.

The twelve-pounder was only belly-high where the great thirty-two-pounders aboard the lower gundeck of Duke William were chest-high. Other than that, the cannon were nearly identical, and Kydd saw that the only real difference was in the number of men. Up to twenty men were needed to serve the big guns. Here, there were but three, together with a gun captain and his second, and the powder monkey.

Stirk was equal to the challenge. 'Right — different ships, different long splices. This barky likes it b' numbers, so 'ere's how we go.' He considered his men. 'Doggo, you're number one, load wad an' shot. Kydd, number two, want you to sponge 'n' ram. Renzi, number three, get the wad an' shot to number one. Gully, is it? Number four on the side tackle, please, mate, with Pinto an' Wong as number five 'n' six on the tackle. Oh, yeah — five an' six as well works the handspike, 'n' everyone bears a fist on the tackle falls runnin' out the gun.'

'An' me, Mr Stirk!' called the gangling boy at the hatch gratings amidships.

'An' Mr Luke, 'oo'll be doin' the honours with the powder,' he added gravely.