Jackson gave another signal, and as Rossi and Gilbert stepped clear and Stafford cocked the lock, Ramage realized that Jackson must have been almost ready to fire before Cargill interfered.
The American went down on his right knee, with his left leg stretched out sideways to its full extent. Slowly he tightened the firing lanyard, his eye still along the sight. The anchor cable and the spring held the Calypso steady, with little more than a hint of a pitch and a roll. Jackson was obviously waiting a few moments for the combined pitch and roll to bring the target precisely into the sight.
Then in one flowing movement the lanyard went tight, the gun leapt back in recoil, spewing a flash and a stream of black smoke from its barrel and giving an enormous grunt which half deafened Ramage.
As men began coughing from the coiling smoke which the wind swirled across the deck, the rest of Jackson's crew moved with the speed that came from constant practice. In went the mop, the "woolly 'eaded bastard" as it was more familiarly known, sopping wet and both extinguishing and cleaning out any burning residue left in the barrel. A powder boy ran up with the new charge which Louis grabbed and slipped into the gaping muzzle, standing to one side as Albert thrust it home with the rammer. Gilbert stood by with a wad, which was rammed down, and Louis lifted up the cylindrical grapeshot, starting it off down the barrel. Albert's rammer thrust it down on to the wad and powder charge, and then rammed home the final wad.
Gilbert gave a bellow and the men grabbed the tackles on each side of the gun and hauled, running the gun outboard again. The ship was rolling so slightly that there had been no need to hold the gun inboard with the train tackle while the men reloaded.
By now Stafford was ready: he thrust the thin, skewer-like pricker down the vent to make a small opening in the cartridge to expose the powder; then, seeing that the loaders were clear of the gun, he pushed a quill - a tube of fine gunpowder - down the vent, shook priming powder into the shallow pan, and then turned to Jackson.
The American had seen that the first round had missed by about ten feet: all the grapeshot had spattered round the frigate's quarterdeck just forward of the boat hanging in the quarter-davit.
Ramage, who had come down to the gun with his telescope under his arm, examined the frigate. Yes, one accurately aimed round of grapeshot would do it. The first round, hitting just forward of the boat, had sprayed the hull planking and every one of the shot showed up in the telescope as a rusty mark. There was no need to say anything to Jackson: the shower of dust which had been flung up (the splinters moved too fast to be seen) would have shown the American just the correction he needed.
Jackson looked across at Ramage, who realized that the American was worried in case Ramage let the other guns begin firing. Was it pride or concern over spotting the fall of shot? Ramage nodded reassuringly, and in that nod Jackson read all the message he needed. The captain understood the need for a sighting shot: now for the correction.
Jackson's gesture with his left hand set Rossi and Gilbert to work with the handspikes. Under the carriage went the shoes and both men heaved down on the opposite ends to lever the carriage sideways an inch or two. Both men watched the crouching Jackson as once again he peered along the sight. A small, impatient gesture to the left, as though the movement of his hand would be enough to train the gun the slight amount necessary. Gilbert and Rossi gave the carriage little more than a nudge and, as Jackson shouted, they leapt back and Stafford cocked the lock before he too jumped smartly back.
The firing lanyard twitched - Jackson had tautened it the moment he saw Stafford had cocked the lock and stepped clear -and again the gun erupted flame and smoke, leaping back in recoil as it gave a loud, asthmatic grunt.
This time a random gust of wind swirled some of the oily smoke back through Ramage's port and, by the time he had finished coughing, number four gun had been loaded again and run out, with Rossi and Gilbert busy with their handspikes, pausing at the end of each thrust to look at Jackson. Stafford had his tin of quills open, ready to take a fresh one and then push it down the vent, and the powder horn from which he took the priming was slung round his neck.
But Rossi and Gilbert seemed to be taking a long time with the handspikes. By this time Ramage had at last cleared his throat and his eyes had stopped watering so that he could look across at the frigate. No wonder it was taking time to train the gun - the quarterboat hanging in its davits was now a shattered shell, a few thin frames sticking out from the keel like the ribs of a crushed skeleton, the remaining planking sprung and jagged, instead of swelling round in a smooth curve from bow to stern. It was as though, Ramage thought inconsequentially, a banana had exploded, opening up the segments of skin.
Two rounds at a range of a couple of hundred yards . . . one ranging shot and then a direct hit. Well, the Calypso was hardly rolling and pitching and, with a gun captain like Jackson, one could take bets that he would do it inside half a dozen rounds.
Ramage realized that smashing the two remaining boom boats might be more difficult. Their name came from the fact that they were stowed amidships on top of spare yards and booms, which were kept lashed down over a large hatchway and made a good platform for the boats. From there it was easy for the stay tackles to hoist them up and out over the side when needed.
Ironically, the wreckage of the main and mizenmasts was now giving them some protection: a couple of slewed yards, a bundle of thick cordage, a smashed mast two or three feet in diameter - all would be enough to make the grapeshot ricochet. But there were nine grapeshot in each round, and every one of them weighed a pound. Give Jackson enough time!
Ramage went back to the quarterdeck, where Aitken and Southwick stood talking to Sir Henry.
The admiral glanced aft and Ramage walked with him until they were out of earshot of both officers, the quartermaster and the men at the wheel.
"The general - what happened?"
"I told him to go up to the fo'c'sle or down to his cabin," Ramage said in a flat voice. "He refused: said he wanted to watch the shooting and report to the Board of Ordnance."
Sir Henry nodded. "And then?"
"My lieutenant of Marines warned him he was disobeying the lawful order of the captain of the ship. The general found this amusing. I told the Marines to take him below."
"Under arrest?"
Ramage shook his head. "No, sir; I didn't feel inclined to give him that satisfaction."
"Very wise, very wise," Sir Henry said. "I didn't interfere because - well, you seem to be able to take care of yourself. I'd be inclined to treat him like a naughty boy."
"Indeed sir, he behaves like one," Ramage agreed, pausing as Jackson fired again but fighting down his curiosity and not looking where the shot landed. He was thankful that Sir Henry was, very tactfully, giving advice, and even more thankful that the advice coincided with what he had already decided to do.
"Trouble with arresting people," Sir Henry said conversationally, "is that to set 'em free again, you've either to charge 'em or climb down, which is bad for discipline."
"That's what I had in mind, sir," Ramage said. "And I wasn't quite sure what the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions had to say about travelling generals."
"Ha!" Sir Henry said contemptuously, "the Articles of War are all you need, particularly with the ship in action against the enemy." He looked squarely at Ramage and smiled. "Why the devil d'you think I'm so well behaved, eh?"
Ramage laughed, and took the opportunity of turning so that he could spot the fall of shot. "I'd put it down to your natural kindness towards young captains at the bottom of the Post List, sir."