Page 79 of Rears & Vices

Through the port Everard watched the horizon rise, the San Telmo and her gun ports upon it. Now, now, now⁠—

“Fire!” He slid clear of the last gun.

Two dozen wicklights came down; the second gundeck went bright with sparks; sleds creaked and rumbled with kickback.

Everard picked himself up and breathed deep. He hadn’t been this close to burning sulfur in years.

“Sponge!” he called, in cadence just the same as he’d said a hundred times in battle, but never here. “Shot your guns! Fast as you can go, boys; again!”

Miracle of miracles, they listened. The Sévère had no gunner, nor formal gun crew. She was no longer a warship, but a pirate, half-merchant. She had almost nothing left in the way of orderly procedures of warfare.

What she did have was the bones to support the machine of war: 110 named cannon, shot, powder, and plenty of skilled crew.

Everard, too.

“Run ’em out!”

Suppressing fire, Vitaliy had ordered—told—him. Keep them outrange. Aim as high as you can.

Everard sighted just one gun this time. High, all right. “Fire!”

Sparks lit the deck into firework orange and smoke and shadows, and another volley was let free.

He didn’t know why Vitaliy wanted high suppressing fire when he had initially refused to tack and flee; nor why he was tacking and fleeing now, and risking being overtaken with raking fire from the San Telmo if they were unable to complete the turn.

But he wasn’t captain. It wasn’t his place.

“Sponge! Shot!”

He did wonder how much of the cargo Vitaliy was interested in keeping dry and intact. A man concerned for his profit—and his crew—would have fled long since.

Above them, the mizzen and main yards creaked as they were braced to larboard; feet stomped and ropes sang in their blocks. The Sévère began to heel less and less, levelling; they were almost directly in the wind now and would soon lose their broadside.

“Run out, run out!”

In guns, the Sévère had the advantage of numbers over the San Telmo, 110 to seventy-four; but as it had stood with the wind and the heeling, her third-deck ports had been nearly in the water, making their numbers skirt equal. Now, however… there was an opportunity.

“Fire!”

As the smoke streamed, Everard barely waited for the kickback to settle before he threw himself down the hatch.

“Third-deck larboard-aft battery, run out your guns!” he bellowed; there was a flurry of activity as the order was repeated. He thought he could time the cadence so that there was hardly a pause between the second and third decks’ firing. He hadn’t controlled a three-deck gun crew before, much less a three-deck not-gun-crew, without subordinates; but he was damned well going to try.

Beneath his feet he could feel her begin to heel starboard, which meant she was really tacking. It was excellent news, but it also meant now or never, if he wanted to utilise the third deck broadside⁠—

“Fire!”

She was really turning now. He stomped back up the ladder.

“Second battery, secure larboard guns and run out to starboard! Third battery, sponge and ready once more!”

Everard stomped back down. He needed a subordinate. Three. But third deck’s guns were pointed; good.

“Fi—”

“Belay that!” came a snarl just in time. Vitaliy came down the ladder, eyes wild. “For fuck’s sake! I said aim high, top decks only, matelot!”

Everard’s built-and-tested cadence died to a whimper, beats of a failing heart. He had never seen Vitaliy quite so angry.