The Shoot - out
Title: The Shoot-out
Rating: Gen (gasp!)
Summary: Crossover with O’Brian that takes place in my LKU. This is the version as told to Hornblower’s official biographer; after reading it, please go to just_jac7 to find out the shocking reality!
Notes: This is what happens when you are mad, middle aged and have access to MSN.
No claim made on or profit made from these characters.
The Shoot - out
“Gentlemen, the honour of the squadron is at stake.” Pellew’s voice rang out over Culloden’s quarterdeck, making every man stand that little bit straighter and look that little bit more righteous. “We will have this one chance to prove our superior gunnery and while some would say that a ship of the line should not lower itself to take on a mere frigate, I say that no opponent is below consideration. Captain Aubrey proved himself a worthy adversary harrying the shipping in the Mediterranean and along the Channel. I will not have it said that I was afraid to take him on. Nor will I have it happen that he beats me. We must give them a right hammering, gentlemen, a complete turning over. ”
The cheers rang loudly throughout the ship, the thought of extra gunnery practice being no great imposition to men who were part of a successful crew, part of a squadron that was having such an impact on protecting their country’s trade that insurance companies were considering dropping their rates. Captain Aubrey might well have a reputation, but he was small fry compared to their beloved Sir Edward and deserved to be swallowed whole by the bigger fish. They would swab every speck of dirt from their guns, chip every imperfection from the shot, make Mr Cattermole smoke a cigar all the time the contest went on in case the slow match got put out. The lad would turn green of course and probably puke up over the leeward rail, but the honour of the squadron took precedent over all matters of mere personal comfort.
Worthy adversary was not quite the term Pellew had used in his great cabin when first he discussed the match with his officers. Young whippersnapper had been the line taken, all mouth and trousers and by reputation plenty of the latter. The nerve of the man to put such a thing forward - albeit he had been the Admiral’s guest at table at the time and they had all been in their cups, but to suggest that the gun crews of Surprise take on those of the flagship had been the most enormous presumption. Pellew had been obliged to accept the challenge or else he would have appeared a scrub or worse. And so the ‘shoot-out’ had been arranged for two days hence.
Pellew had immediately decided that he wanted absolutely his best men about him and if one or two of the Culloden’s less efficient gun crews had to be replaced by ‘ringers’ from Priam and Cassandra or one of the other ships, so be it. All was fair in love and war, they said and this was certainly war. The planning of strategy had begun immediately after the meal had ended and Aubrey had been poured back into his gig, his coxswain Bonden looking very prim and proper, but already fully appraised (by his usual undisclosed methods) of what had been said over dinner. The Admiral had taken Pearce and Southgate - Culloden's first and second lieutenant - to one side, along with any of the fleet's commanders who still remained on board. He had one or two ideas to discuss that were not to go beyond his cabin...
Jack Aubrey had no idea what could have possessed him. Perhaps it was the wine - a potent and distinctly superior brew that had gone to his head and certainly to his tongue - and now he was having to explain to a rather puzzled looking Tom Pullings exactly why the gun crews were going to have to practice double and treble over the next thirty-six hours.
Pullings’ open, trusting face showed no doubt over his Captain’s announcement - if Captain Aubrey arranged something then it must be right and proper - but the thought of pitting his men against those of the flagship was a more than daunting prospect. They were well prepared already, any crews on a ship led by these two experienced and exceedingly competent officers were sure to be, but to be up against the Admiral himself…
“And I do not trust him Tom, the Admiral, I mean. Sir Edward Pellew is as fine a man as ever walked a quarterdeck and I would never like to have to face him in battle, but as sure as eggs are laid in the bush, he will be trying to pull a fast one on us. And he has a few gentlemen in his squadron who could hatch a plan or two.” He tried to make a joke with the eggs and the hatching, but the thought of the contest ahead had, he felt, dulled his razor wit. “You have met young Kennedy I believe, Tom?”
“I have indeed sir and I would make so bold to say that I don’t believe he’s made his way due to his father’s influence, as some say.”
“I believe you’re right. And from what I hear he would be capable of anything - he and that Hornblower chap have been in some pretty interesting scrapes and extricated themselves commendably well. They will be filling Sir Edward’s head with scurrilous notions, in course - bringing ringers into the gun crews for a start, I’ll wager. There will be some rough work pulled in that match, Mr Pullings and we need to be up to matching it.”
“Would you ever be suggesting that I should administer a bolus to the best of their sailors?” Dr Maturin had at last grasped the nature of the event being discussed and had decided that he must offer his support. There was nothing that he could propose in the way of contributing to the excellence of the gunnery, but he might be able to effect something in the nobbling line. “For I am at a loss to know how that could be done. It is not unknown to introduce a certain substance or two into the feed of a prize racehorse to influence its performance on the track, but I could not say how I would be able to gain access to these stables.” He considered for a moment. “I know Culloden’s surgeon tolerably well - perhaps I could engineer a visit to him and slip something into the nosebag of the Admiral himself?”
“Stephen!” Aubrey was aghast that anyone should even suggest assailing the personage of Jove himself. “We will fight absolutely fairly - no resorting to foul play like some Irish rogues might at hurling or curling or whatever the thing is…” He brought himself up short. You’ve laid yourself flat aback again Jack, will you never learn? “Dash it all, I am sorry Stephen.”
Maturin brushed the remark away with a wave of his hand - he had heard plenty similar before from his friend and would do again. “You will tell me if I can be of service, though?”
“There will be plenty of business for you in the way of bruises and burns while we work the crews up to the height of efficiency. Content yourself with getting my best men back to their places and you could not serve Surprise better.”
The rules had been established fairly and squarely between Pullings and Pearce the day after the wager had been made. A battery of half a dozen larboard guns and the same on the starboard side, each in two divisions of three with a midshipman and a lieutenant in charge. Two rippling broadsides to be delivered at the target by Culloden’s larboard six cannon followed by the same from Surprise. This to be repeated by the opposite battery, the frigate taking the first shots for the second run.
Points would be awarded for accuracy of shot and speed of reload and running out again - destructive power would not come into the equation, being regarded as unfair with regard to the Surprise’s smaller guns. The timekeepers and judges would come from the Indiamen’s captains and senior officers, who would ensure that absolutely fair play was observed and would construct and set the target themselves to guard against any jiggery-pokery. For the word was already abroad about the possibility of foul play and it had excited everyone to an enormous degree. Rumours abounded of scouts being sent from one ship to the other to observe the tactics being employed in practice, of sailors being bribed to slightly loosen wheels or fiddle with charges. All lies every one of these stories, a product of the bottle and overactive, underutilised imaginations, but they fired up the feelings of both crews to a fever pitch.
The day of the great contest came and a surprising number of appetites on both ships had been deadened. Even the Admiral himself could hardly manage a second egg and Jack Aubrey observed almost a fast with merely six rashers of bacon. The big day had arrived, when bragging rights would be established in perpetuity - it was very unlikely that any rematch would take place, the squadron due to sail imminently westward and Surprise in the other direction. It was make or break.
The midshipman who helped Pearce with the larboard division had been drafted in from the squadron - probably one of the more mature master’s mates who were to be found on some of the vessels, valued highly for their competence and experience, if lacking in ingenuity or ambition. His fellow on the starboard side was working with Southgate and was not a callow youth either. Cattermole's and Rogerson’s noses had been badly put out of joint when they learned that they were not to be given the privilege of taking part in the fun. It was not fair, they had been murmuring to anyone who would listen, but not when any of the senior officers were about, we are the best of the bunch and we could take anyone on in practice and we know all the crews and it’s not fair. It was not fair; it was battle, in deadly earnest.
Rogerson’s nose was even more disarranged on the day itself because his best coat, the one with the special buttons, had disappeared, the captain’s steward alleging that it had been taken for cleaning because of a nasty greasy stain what Mr Hornblower feels is letting down the appearance of his quarterdeck. It mattered little as the Priam and all other interested parties were kept well clear of the firing zone, merely cheering their colleagues on from a distance. The captain appeared to have gone off to visit his friend Mr Kennedy and they were probably having a little side bet on the outcome, Cattermole was being forced to endure the tobacco torture over on the flagship and Rogerson had the hump.
The time came for the target to be towed into position - a well built and substantial target, not just the usual barrels and gratings, for this would have to survive quite a drubbing. Culloden made ready to line up for a slow sweep past, the larboard guns already run out, tompions discarded and gun crews glistening with sweat and zeal. Pearce was an officer as fierce in battle as he was comradely out of it, equally adored and feared by his men on whom he would not spare the use of a broadside of his honest opinion, should he feel they warranted it. This flaying would be delivered in cold and measured tones, making it all the more chilling and every one at whom it was aimed would renew their efforts without grumbling. His fellow officer looked as if he would take no nonsense, either - his rugged jaw set firmly in anticipation of the crucial few minutes that would make or break people’s reputations for years to come.
They had been allowed no ranging shots, being expected as part of the test to be able to instantly calculate stage of the roll, elevation and powder required. Four of the first six shots hit fair and square, the others being fractionally short. Sponge, load, run out in one minute forty seconds flat, the fair haired master’s mate screwing up his eyes and licking his lips in nervous concentration. A second rippling broad side with five good hits now, only one passing fractionally wide. A cheer from the flagships' men was instantly silenced by the Admiral - a good performance so far, he felt, but not yet enough to guarantee a win. Pearce shook his fellow officer's hand and clapped his back, both men removing their hats and mopping their sweaty brows with their sleeves, the master's mate wincing as one of the buttons on his cuff caught a scar on his forehead.
The Surprise ranged up now, slipping through the water like a swan, elegant and strong. Tom Pullings had her larboard battery under his wing; he had seen the Culloden’s success through a port hole, had it reported to him in minute detail from the deck and he was determined to show the buggers what his ship could do. And show them he and Midshipman Babbington did, scoring five hits in the first volley and running out again in one minute and forty-two seconds which they assumed was unbeatable.
The second assay scored another five corking hits, the sixth heading over the target due to an error in elevation. Pullings’ handsome face was suffused with joy, and he clapped little Babbington on the shoulder again and again until the lad was sore. On his quarterdeck Aubrey beamed with joy. He knew that they were one hit up although he had no accurate comparison on the times - all he knew was that it was a damn close run thing.
Surprise turned gracefully and came back for her second run. No-one on Culloden or in the judges’ boats would have any notion that Messrs Pullings and Babbington had simply moved to the starboard side, taking two of the gun crews with them, including Bonden’s, whose shots had been the most accurate of any seen so far in the contest. Tom’s conscience was at ease, as it had never been specified in the rules that this was not allowed - he had been very careful in his discussions with Pearce that certain things were left as ambiguous as possible.
The starboard broadside rang out, rippling along the ship beautifully and with perfect cadence and intervals. Aubrey’s chest swelled with pride in his men - especially in his faultless first lieutenant - and he kept the target clearly in view, beaming as he saw another five perfect hits and one that fell mere inches, it seemed, short. Run out again in one minute and thirty-nine seconds - he was sure that swine Pellew would not be able to trim any time off that - and another five shots into their intended goal, the very last shot missing the edge by what Jack judged was a hare’s whisker.
He shook Pullings’ hand heartily as the man came on deck to view the deciding run. “Twenty clean hits, Tom and such a speed in the turnaround. They’ll never do it now, never.” But he secretly scratched a stay and crossed his fingers as he said it…
Sir Edward Pellew lowered his telescope and grimaced. Twenty shots in total to his team’s nine so far. He would not blame the officers in charge of the larboard crews - they had been at a distinct disadvantage going first and he would have been delighted with their score had Aubrey’s men not…Well, at least he was confident that their time to reload and run out had been a fraction better than Surprise’s - he had set his flag captain with the three most accurate chronometers in the squadron to monitor the timings. Still, twelve out of twelve to win was a tall order, despite the supreme confidence he felt in the officers on the starboard side.
Southgate was a steady, reliable officer - not particularly imaginative, but competency itself and he complemented Pearce excellently. The master’s mate at his side stood tall and firm but seemed to exude an aura of nervous energy, like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. Both the men understood the burden of expectation upon them and neither wanted to be the one who failed the admiral.
The first broadside exceeded all hopes, every single shot hitting the target and sending splinters flying in all directions. Cheers were stifled among the flagship’s men, groans among the frigate’s. But there was still hope, the reloading and running out being noticeably slower this time, due to one gun having fouled its ropes. The Culloden’s other crews stood by anxiously as their colleagues desperately worked to bring the canon to bear, the master’s mate being extremely relieved that it was not the crew from Priam who had spoiled the manoeuvre.
The flagship had hardly any way on her, matching the slow speed at which the target itself was being drawn along, so the loss of time could just about be compensated for. “Fire!” The voice of Southgate rent the air and his three guns let loose a perfect series of shots, each one blasting away part of a floating goal that was by now looking very sorry for itself.
“Fiyah!” The master’s mate’s tones echoed along the deck. His first two guns succeeded beautifully but the third had worried him all through practice and again this day. It was handled by the unlucky crew who had already delayed the starboard reloading; they had hit the first time but only just and they now seemed nervous and uncertain. If the match were drawn on hits, the speed of running out for a second time would likely be the deciding factor and there was no guarantee that the squadron were ahead on that score, after the second run. This last shot had to count.
All these thoughts flashed through the officer’s brain in a split second and he made what he believed was a bold but crucial decision - pushing one of the crew out of the way he pulled the line himself to fire the canon. It was probably against the rules but none of the swabs on Surprise would know. Pellew would certainly find out - and he would approve.
The short time it took for the ball to reach the target seemed an eternity. Every man on both ships held his breath and waited. A huge cheer from the men of the flagship - not silenced this time by the admiral, who was joining in himself - announced that the ball had demolished what was virtually the last piece of the target. They were still not home and dry - the timing between broadsides would still have to be taken into account - and they anxiously awaited the signal from the judges’ ship. The roar that greeted the appearance of a red flare leaping into the sky made it plain that Culloden was victorious.
On shore, a tavern, winners and losers drinking together, all rivalries forgotten. Aubrey’s face beamed red - almost as red as Pellew’s - and those two worthy officers were happily reliving all their past victories against the French and Spanish, in laborious and not strictly accurate detail. Kennedy, Hornblower and the other captains were there, listening to Pearce and Southgate’s blow by blow description of the contest and asking for elucidation of every point. The two master’s mates had presumably gone back to their ships and were entertaining their colleagues in the same manner.
In a corner, Stephen Maturin was chatting to Culloden’s surgeon, a secretive little grin occasionally appearing on the Irishman’s face. If he had not been able to contribute to a win for Surprise, he had hoped that he would at least be able to make amends afterwards - so when he had found the admiral’s drink left unattended he had grasped the opportunity. Sir Edward might be enjoying his victory now, but wait till the medicine took effect….
Rating: Gen (gasp!)
Summary: Crossover with O’Brian that takes place in my LKU. This is the version as told to Hornblower’s official biographer; after reading it, please go to just_jac7 to find out the shocking reality!
Notes: This is what happens when you are mad, middle aged and have access to MSN.
No claim made on or profit made from these characters.
The Shoot - out
“Gentlemen, the honour of the squadron is at stake.” Pellew’s voice rang out over Culloden’s quarterdeck, making every man stand that little bit straighter and look that little bit more righteous. “We will have this one chance to prove our superior gunnery and while some would say that a ship of the line should not lower itself to take on a mere frigate, I say that no opponent is below consideration. Captain Aubrey proved himself a worthy adversary harrying the shipping in the Mediterranean and along the Channel. I will not have it said that I was afraid to take him on. Nor will I have it happen that he beats me. We must give them a right hammering, gentlemen, a complete turning over. ”
The cheers rang loudly throughout the ship, the thought of extra gunnery practice being no great imposition to men who were part of a successful crew, part of a squadron that was having such an impact on protecting their country’s trade that insurance companies were considering dropping their rates. Captain Aubrey might well have a reputation, but he was small fry compared to their beloved Sir Edward and deserved to be swallowed whole by the bigger fish. They would swab every speck of dirt from their guns, chip every imperfection from the shot, make Mr Cattermole smoke a cigar all the time the contest went on in case the slow match got put out. The lad would turn green of course and probably puke up over the leeward rail, but the honour of the squadron took precedent over all matters of mere personal comfort.
Worthy adversary was not quite the term Pellew had used in his great cabin when first he discussed the match with his officers. Young whippersnapper had been the line taken, all mouth and trousers and by reputation plenty of the latter. The nerve of the man to put such a thing forward - albeit he had been the Admiral’s guest at table at the time and they had all been in their cups, but to suggest that the gun crews of Surprise take on those of the flagship had been the most enormous presumption. Pellew had been obliged to accept the challenge or else he would have appeared a scrub or worse. And so the ‘shoot-out’ had been arranged for two days hence.
Pellew had immediately decided that he wanted absolutely his best men about him and if one or two of the Culloden’s less efficient gun crews had to be replaced by ‘ringers’ from Priam and Cassandra or one of the other ships, so be it. All was fair in love and war, they said and this was certainly war. The planning of strategy had begun immediately after the meal had ended and Aubrey had been poured back into his gig, his coxswain Bonden looking very prim and proper, but already fully appraised (by his usual undisclosed methods) of what had been said over dinner. The Admiral had taken Pearce and Southgate - Culloden's first and second lieutenant - to one side, along with any of the fleet's commanders who still remained on board. He had one or two ideas to discuss that were not to go beyond his cabin...
Jack Aubrey had no idea what could have possessed him. Perhaps it was the wine - a potent and distinctly superior brew that had gone to his head and certainly to his tongue - and now he was having to explain to a rather puzzled looking Tom Pullings exactly why the gun crews were going to have to practice double and treble over the next thirty-six hours.
Pullings’ open, trusting face showed no doubt over his Captain’s announcement - if Captain Aubrey arranged something then it must be right and proper - but the thought of pitting his men against those of the flagship was a more than daunting prospect. They were well prepared already, any crews on a ship led by these two experienced and exceedingly competent officers were sure to be, but to be up against the Admiral himself…
“And I do not trust him Tom, the Admiral, I mean. Sir Edward Pellew is as fine a man as ever walked a quarterdeck and I would never like to have to face him in battle, but as sure as eggs are laid in the bush, he will be trying to pull a fast one on us. And he has a few gentlemen in his squadron who could hatch a plan or two.” He tried to make a joke with the eggs and the hatching, but the thought of the contest ahead had, he felt, dulled his razor wit. “You have met young Kennedy I believe, Tom?”
“I have indeed sir and I would make so bold to say that I don’t believe he’s made his way due to his father’s influence, as some say.”
“I believe you’re right. And from what I hear he would be capable of anything - he and that Hornblower chap have been in some pretty interesting scrapes and extricated themselves commendably well. They will be filling Sir Edward’s head with scurrilous notions, in course - bringing ringers into the gun crews for a start, I’ll wager. There will be some rough work pulled in that match, Mr Pullings and we need to be up to matching it.”
“Would you ever be suggesting that I should administer a bolus to the best of their sailors?” Dr Maturin had at last grasped the nature of the event being discussed and had decided that he must offer his support. There was nothing that he could propose in the way of contributing to the excellence of the gunnery, but he might be able to effect something in the nobbling line. “For I am at a loss to know how that could be done. It is not unknown to introduce a certain substance or two into the feed of a prize racehorse to influence its performance on the track, but I could not say how I would be able to gain access to these stables.” He considered for a moment. “I know Culloden’s surgeon tolerably well - perhaps I could engineer a visit to him and slip something into the nosebag of the Admiral himself?”
“Stephen!” Aubrey was aghast that anyone should even suggest assailing the personage of Jove himself. “We will fight absolutely fairly - no resorting to foul play like some Irish rogues might at hurling or curling or whatever the thing is…” He brought himself up short. You’ve laid yourself flat aback again Jack, will you never learn? “Dash it all, I am sorry Stephen.”
Maturin brushed the remark away with a wave of his hand - he had heard plenty similar before from his friend and would do again. “You will tell me if I can be of service, though?”
“There will be plenty of business for you in the way of bruises and burns while we work the crews up to the height of efficiency. Content yourself with getting my best men back to their places and you could not serve Surprise better.”
The rules had been established fairly and squarely between Pullings and Pearce the day after the wager had been made. A battery of half a dozen larboard guns and the same on the starboard side, each in two divisions of three with a midshipman and a lieutenant in charge. Two rippling broadsides to be delivered at the target by Culloden’s larboard six cannon followed by the same from Surprise. This to be repeated by the opposite battery, the frigate taking the first shots for the second run.
Points would be awarded for accuracy of shot and speed of reload and running out again - destructive power would not come into the equation, being regarded as unfair with regard to the Surprise’s smaller guns. The timekeepers and judges would come from the Indiamen’s captains and senior officers, who would ensure that absolutely fair play was observed and would construct and set the target themselves to guard against any jiggery-pokery. For the word was already abroad about the possibility of foul play and it had excited everyone to an enormous degree. Rumours abounded of scouts being sent from one ship to the other to observe the tactics being employed in practice, of sailors being bribed to slightly loosen wheels or fiddle with charges. All lies every one of these stories, a product of the bottle and overactive, underutilised imaginations, but they fired up the feelings of both crews to a fever pitch.
The day of the great contest came and a surprising number of appetites on both ships had been deadened. Even the Admiral himself could hardly manage a second egg and Jack Aubrey observed almost a fast with merely six rashers of bacon. The big day had arrived, when bragging rights would be established in perpetuity - it was very unlikely that any rematch would take place, the squadron due to sail imminently westward and Surprise in the other direction. It was make or break.
The midshipman who helped Pearce with the larboard division had been drafted in from the squadron - probably one of the more mature master’s mates who were to be found on some of the vessels, valued highly for their competence and experience, if lacking in ingenuity or ambition. His fellow on the starboard side was working with Southgate and was not a callow youth either. Cattermole's and Rogerson’s noses had been badly put out of joint when they learned that they were not to be given the privilege of taking part in the fun. It was not fair, they had been murmuring to anyone who would listen, but not when any of the senior officers were about, we are the best of the bunch and we could take anyone on in practice and we know all the crews and it’s not fair. It was not fair; it was battle, in deadly earnest.
Rogerson’s nose was even more disarranged on the day itself because his best coat, the one with the special buttons, had disappeared, the captain’s steward alleging that it had been taken for cleaning because of a nasty greasy stain what Mr Hornblower feels is letting down the appearance of his quarterdeck. It mattered little as the Priam and all other interested parties were kept well clear of the firing zone, merely cheering their colleagues on from a distance. The captain appeared to have gone off to visit his friend Mr Kennedy and they were probably having a little side bet on the outcome, Cattermole was being forced to endure the tobacco torture over on the flagship and Rogerson had the hump.
The time came for the target to be towed into position - a well built and substantial target, not just the usual barrels and gratings, for this would have to survive quite a drubbing. Culloden made ready to line up for a slow sweep past, the larboard guns already run out, tompions discarded and gun crews glistening with sweat and zeal. Pearce was an officer as fierce in battle as he was comradely out of it, equally adored and feared by his men on whom he would not spare the use of a broadside of his honest opinion, should he feel they warranted it. This flaying would be delivered in cold and measured tones, making it all the more chilling and every one at whom it was aimed would renew their efforts without grumbling. His fellow officer looked as if he would take no nonsense, either - his rugged jaw set firmly in anticipation of the crucial few minutes that would make or break people’s reputations for years to come.
They had been allowed no ranging shots, being expected as part of the test to be able to instantly calculate stage of the roll, elevation and powder required. Four of the first six shots hit fair and square, the others being fractionally short. Sponge, load, run out in one minute forty seconds flat, the fair haired master’s mate screwing up his eyes and licking his lips in nervous concentration. A second rippling broad side with five good hits now, only one passing fractionally wide. A cheer from the flagships' men was instantly silenced by the Admiral - a good performance so far, he felt, but not yet enough to guarantee a win. Pearce shook his fellow officer's hand and clapped his back, both men removing their hats and mopping their sweaty brows with their sleeves, the master's mate wincing as one of the buttons on his cuff caught a scar on his forehead.
The Surprise ranged up now, slipping through the water like a swan, elegant and strong. Tom Pullings had her larboard battery under his wing; he had seen the Culloden’s success through a port hole, had it reported to him in minute detail from the deck and he was determined to show the buggers what his ship could do. And show them he and Midshipman Babbington did, scoring five hits in the first volley and running out again in one minute and forty-two seconds which they assumed was unbeatable.
The second assay scored another five corking hits, the sixth heading over the target due to an error in elevation. Pullings’ handsome face was suffused with joy, and he clapped little Babbington on the shoulder again and again until the lad was sore. On his quarterdeck Aubrey beamed with joy. He knew that they were one hit up although he had no accurate comparison on the times - all he knew was that it was a damn close run thing.
Surprise turned gracefully and came back for her second run. No-one on Culloden or in the judges’ boats would have any notion that Messrs Pullings and Babbington had simply moved to the starboard side, taking two of the gun crews with them, including Bonden’s, whose shots had been the most accurate of any seen so far in the contest. Tom’s conscience was at ease, as it had never been specified in the rules that this was not allowed - he had been very careful in his discussions with Pearce that certain things were left as ambiguous as possible.
The starboard broadside rang out, rippling along the ship beautifully and with perfect cadence and intervals. Aubrey’s chest swelled with pride in his men - especially in his faultless first lieutenant - and he kept the target clearly in view, beaming as he saw another five perfect hits and one that fell mere inches, it seemed, short. Run out again in one minute and thirty-nine seconds - he was sure that swine Pellew would not be able to trim any time off that - and another five shots into their intended goal, the very last shot missing the edge by what Jack judged was a hare’s whisker.
He shook Pullings’ hand heartily as the man came on deck to view the deciding run. “Twenty clean hits, Tom and such a speed in the turnaround. They’ll never do it now, never.” But he secretly scratched a stay and crossed his fingers as he said it…
Sir Edward Pellew lowered his telescope and grimaced. Twenty shots in total to his team’s nine so far. He would not blame the officers in charge of the larboard crews - they had been at a distinct disadvantage going first and he would have been delighted with their score had Aubrey’s men not…Well, at least he was confident that their time to reload and run out had been a fraction better than Surprise’s - he had set his flag captain with the three most accurate chronometers in the squadron to monitor the timings. Still, twelve out of twelve to win was a tall order, despite the supreme confidence he felt in the officers on the starboard side.
Southgate was a steady, reliable officer - not particularly imaginative, but competency itself and he complemented Pearce excellently. The master’s mate at his side stood tall and firm but seemed to exude an aura of nervous energy, like a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. Both the men understood the burden of expectation upon them and neither wanted to be the one who failed the admiral.
The first broadside exceeded all hopes, every single shot hitting the target and sending splinters flying in all directions. Cheers were stifled among the flagship’s men, groans among the frigate’s. But there was still hope, the reloading and running out being noticeably slower this time, due to one gun having fouled its ropes. The Culloden’s other crews stood by anxiously as their colleagues desperately worked to bring the canon to bear, the master’s mate being extremely relieved that it was not the crew from Priam who had spoiled the manoeuvre.
The flagship had hardly any way on her, matching the slow speed at which the target itself was being drawn along, so the loss of time could just about be compensated for. “Fire!” The voice of Southgate rent the air and his three guns let loose a perfect series of shots, each one blasting away part of a floating goal that was by now looking very sorry for itself.
“Fiyah!” The master’s mate’s tones echoed along the deck. His first two guns succeeded beautifully but the third had worried him all through practice and again this day. It was handled by the unlucky crew who had already delayed the starboard reloading; they had hit the first time but only just and they now seemed nervous and uncertain. If the match were drawn on hits, the speed of running out for a second time would likely be the deciding factor and there was no guarantee that the squadron were ahead on that score, after the second run. This last shot had to count.
All these thoughts flashed through the officer’s brain in a split second and he made what he believed was a bold but crucial decision - pushing one of the crew out of the way he pulled the line himself to fire the canon. It was probably against the rules but none of the swabs on Surprise would know. Pellew would certainly find out - and he would approve.
The short time it took for the ball to reach the target seemed an eternity. Every man on both ships held his breath and waited. A huge cheer from the men of the flagship - not silenced this time by the admiral, who was joining in himself - announced that the ball had demolished what was virtually the last piece of the target. They were still not home and dry - the timing between broadsides would still have to be taken into account - and they anxiously awaited the signal from the judges’ ship. The roar that greeted the appearance of a red flare leaping into the sky made it plain that Culloden was victorious.
On shore, a tavern, winners and losers drinking together, all rivalries forgotten. Aubrey’s face beamed red - almost as red as Pellew’s - and those two worthy officers were happily reliving all their past victories against the French and Spanish, in laborious and not strictly accurate detail. Kennedy, Hornblower and the other captains were there, listening to Pearce and Southgate’s blow by blow description of the contest and asking for elucidation of every point. The two master’s mates had presumably gone back to their ships and were entertaining their colleagues in the same manner.
In a corner, Stephen Maturin was chatting to Culloden’s surgeon, a secretive little grin occasionally appearing on the Irishman’s face. If he had not been able to contribute to a win for Surprise, he had hoped that he would at least be able to make amends afterwards - so when he had found the admiral’s drink left unattended he had grasped the opportunity. Sir Edward might be enjoying his victory now, but wait till the medicine took effect….