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for powder. In a small ship on such a long passage Griffiths refused to keep his guns loaded, considering the morning discharge practised on so many ships to rid the guns of damp powder as a quite unnecessary extravagance. The two powder monkeys serving the larboard battery emerged to scamper across to the nine six-pounders trundled inboard. The charges, wads and balls were rammed home and the gun captains inserted their priming quills as Rogers barked out the ordered steps. ‘Cock your locks!’ The crews moved back from the guns as the captains stretched their lanyards. Each raised his free hand.
    ‘Larboard battery made ready, sir!’ reported Rogers.
    ‘You may open fire,’ ordered Griffiths.
    ‘Fire!’
    The rolling roar that erupted in a line of flame and smoke along the brig’s side was matched inboard by the recoil of the squealing trucks. Daily practice had made of the broadside a thing of near unanimity.
    ‘Fire as you will!’
    For the next two minutes the larbowlines, watched critically by the idlers on the starboard side, sponged and rammed and hauled up their pieces in a frenzy of activity.
    ‘Numbers two and eight are good, sir,’ shouted Drinkwater above the din.
    ‘Let’s wait until we are becalmed and try them at a target Mr Drinkwater, then I’ll be looking for accuracy not speed.’
    Number eight gun was already secured, its crew kneeling smartly rigid but for the panting of their bare torsos.
    There was a scream from forward. In their haste not to be last Number Four gun had been fired too early. The recoiling truck had run over the foot of the after train tackle man. He lay whimpering on the deck, blood running from his bitten tongue his right foot a bloody mess. Drinkwater ran forward.
    ‘Mr Q, warn the surgeon to make ready, you there, Stokeley bear a hand there.’ They dragged the injured man clear of the gun and Drinkwater whipped his headband off, twisting it swiftly round his ankle. He had fainted by the time the stretcher bearers came up.
    ‘Secure all guns! Secure there!’ Rogers was bawling, turning the men back to their task. As Drinkwater saw the casualty carried below, the guns were fully elevated and run up with their muzzles hard against the port lintels. The lids were shut and the breechings passed.
    ‘Both batteries secured, sir,’ reported Rogers, ‘bloody fool had his damned foot in the way
    ‘
    ‘That will do, Mr Rogers,’ snapped Griffiths, colour mounting to his cheeks and his bushy white eyebrows coming together in imperious menace across the bridge of his big nose.
    ‘Secure from general quarters, Mr Drinkwater.’ The commander turned angrily below and Rogers looked ruefully at Drinkwater for consolation.
    ‘Stupid old bastard,’ he said.
    Drinkwater regarded the young lieutenant and for the first time realised he did not like him. ‘Carry on Mr Rogers,’ he said coldly, ‘I have the deck.’ Drinkwater walked forward and Rogers turned aft to where Midshipman Dalziell was gathering up his signal book and slate. ‘I have the deck,’ mimicked Rogers and found Dalziell smiling conspiratorially at him.
     
    The sun went down in a blaze of glory. As it set Drinkwater had the deck watch check the two boats that hung in the new-fangled davits on either quarter in case they were needed during the night. They also checked the lashings on the four long pine trunks that were secured outboard between the channels, as there was no stowage elsewhere. Briefly he recalled the depression he had suffered earlier and found its weight had lightened. He tried to divine the source of the relief. Guiltily he concluded that the injured man and Rogers’ lack of compassion had awoken him to his duty. He recalled the words of Earl St Vincent: ‘A married officer is frequently lost to the service
    ‘
    That must not be the case with himself. He had a duty to the ship, to Griffiths and the men, and especially to Elizabeth and the child growing within her. That duty would best be