Ribbit, ribbit: June 25th

Gunn had something to say in gaelic, but merely muttered it under his breath. He had readjusted his gaiter and stood, semi-bored in his place. Now, they would approach. Slowly. He had checked his flint again. It would spark and he had another one at hand, should it fail him.

What he had said next, would have translated into: "Couldn't we go any faster, could we?" If it had been said in English. It was just a simple complaint, that didn't quite concern others.

MacTavish gave him a quick, fierce grin.

"We could blow into the sails!", he suggested in the same language, but low enough that only those close around him could hear it. Bringing up his musket and aiming it at the small figures on the French ship, he made a whistling sound, ending in "Boom!".

He fidgeded a bit more, then asked:

"How much longer till the guns are in range?"

James looked around and grinned. "Aye, sails, or right on the deck. Will stop them in their tracks. That would." He spoke all that in hushed gaelic. His grin broadened.

He laughed when MacTavish re-enacted a firing. "We'll have our friends there, fire their first. You'll know when it's time. Smoke, splinters and screams." He kept his voice low, knowing that they were pushing it just a little.

MacTavish tried to stand calmly and correctly for another minute before he started fidging again.

"Wish we could sing while we waited!", he muttered under his breath.

"You two, talk English or shut it," Thompson said quietly. They were probably just talking about the damn time it was taking to come up with the French, but they weren't supposed to talk their own language - some ships and some officers would come down hard on anyone who did so, although Thompson personally didn't care. Trouble was, now, he couldn't be seen not to care.

There were downsides to having rank.

"Yes, corporal." James had kept his accent, though it was fully English this time. He did not like it, but he knew it wasn't like anybody cared. His English in comparison was not all that well, and that contributed to the dislike of it too.

It did not stop him however from turning , looking at MacTavish, grinning at him, and then mouthing something, which could be understood if one looked at the way the lips moved, but no sound came from it. "Is long till we fight?" He asked Thompson then.

Thompson shook his head. "Shouldn't be, no," he replied. They were definitely getting closer to the French ship now, but even so he was startled when their starboard bow-chaser fired. He managed not to flinch despite the suddenness and surprise of it.

Springfield's face split into a grin at the bow-chaser's report. "Bloody finally."

Sew, his eyes still on the French ship, waiting for their reply, calmly said:

"Steady, lads!"

Otherwise he pretended deafness. He would of course quietly interject if his new corporal let things slip too far, but he knew the value of light banter before a fight. Actually he understood MacTavish's feelings quite well - he was quietly itching to go into action, too - and only the decorum and levelheadedness expected of an officer (or rather he expected of an officer) kept him from betraying anything of this kind in either speech or behaviour.

Thompson wasn't sure exactly how much he ought to follow Johnson's way of doing things - and as Johnson's way of doing things seemed to require a grumpy outlook on life, he wasn't sure how much he could follow it - and fell back on the example that the Corporals in his previous ships had given. Of course, he'd have to ask Johnson or Quinn for advice on what to do - though that was for later.

Lieutenant Sewell didn't seem to have much of a problem with how he was doing, so far, anyway. He could only hope that if the officer did have a problem, it would be pointed out quietly and in a way that would put him onto the right way of doing things.

He looked down at the flint in his own musket, more to cover his own sudden attack of nerves than for any real concern over whether the flint was loose.

Terelly looked a shade paler, now that the fighting had started, but otherwise all seemed to be in order. Sew allowed his eyes another quick inspection - yes, everyone was really where he was supposed to be, and nobody had lost his musket in the last half hour. Good.

Belowdecks he had retrieved his own musket - he wasn't a particularly good shot, but being able to squeeze in a shot or two might come in handy later, and it was always a good idea to have at least one spare close by. Now he very methodically and slowly checked it over, then slung it over his shoulder. Next came his sword. It was heavier than most men preferred, but sharp and clean - he looked forward to the moment when the enemy was near enough to use it one him.

Smoke erupted on the site of the foreign ship. Sew allowed himself a grim smile: The shot felt short and had a bad angle, but that hadn't been the point. It had been a declaration: They would fight this out - noone was going to surrender easily.

"Come closer. " James had muttered in his tongue, but it was quiet enough, so .. it was not really intentional. He tightened his hold on his musket a bit. They would wait, and when ordered, things would begin happening and it would be easy because they would just follow orders.

"It's begun! They're firin'!" De Guarde exclaimed. The first salvo came short of them, though the splashes of water, where the balls landed, still managed to cast a bit of a spray against the wooden planks.

The first load of gunpowder had been brought and ready. The guns were being loaded, but they would not yet fire. They needed to count, which of course meant waiting just a little longer.

Despite himself, Chase flinched, just slightly. A near miss was still a miss, but the Frogs seemed to have the range. Their next broadside might just find its mark.

"Wait for it!" A quartergunner bawled, forcibly restraining one of the gun captains from tugging at the trigger line of his assigned gun. "Ain't had the word yet!"

Chase gripped his sponge rod and wished the order to fire would come. What was the captain waiting for, then?

De Guarde glanced towards Chase. That man had a steady disposition. It was a calming aspect, even if there was a slight flinch here or there. They would have to brace themselves when the next broadside came. He turned to look along the line of cannons one way and then the other.

Not everybody would survive it. that was a fact. Well, if they were lucky, most would. He steadied himself. What were they waiting for? If the French came just a little short, then in the time that they were standing here waiting, they must have come in range. He felt the adrenaline rush, but for the moment, it helped him focus and feel strangely excited.

A midshipman came hurtling down the aft ladder, his face alight with eagerness. "Fire!"

It was the order they'd all been waiting impatiently for. The middie had barely uttered the word before the gun captains, almost in the same instant, jerked hard at their trigger lines and the gundeck erupted in deafening noise and choking powder smoke.

Commands were being bawled from quartergunners and other midshipmen, these serving to regulate the process of reloading the great guns.

Oxley nearly went headlong in his dash down to the gundeck to take up his role as powder monkey. Thankfully his gun wasn't all the way for'rard so that he had to run the entire length of deck besides getting down to the messdeck to drop off his drum and then get back to the gundeck.

"It's that Frog frigate we seen a month back," he announced to anyone who would listen, just before the first gun went off.

Guus knew his task well enough, but that didn't mean he was devoted to it. Indeed, any task given he did with just the right amount of effort to not be punished. But this was different. For the first time, he had witnessed the ship being cleared for REAL action. He had awed at the men heaving the great guns forward, at the men pushing him aside to go wherever their business took them, and he was almost proud at his, though small, responsibility in it.

He was standing at the back, trying to work out how the guns were loaded and worked, and he had just worked it out before one other boy said something to him. He understood a few words. "French?" he replied in his accented English. He thought for a moment, and wanted to say something more, but suddenly there was a shout and then...the biggest noise De Jonge had ever heard.

Guus had been born in one of the biggest harbour cities of the world. He had heard cannonfire before, even from close, but that had been saluting, or parading. It was nothing compared to the bangs and coughs which seemed to shiver the ship. Guus almost threw himself back, bumping into the other boy. Some Dutch curses escaped his mouth.

Oxley rolled his eyes. "That's what Frogs are," he said, as his gun-crew worked to reload their gun. "C'mon!" he added, turning to dash for the companionway down - he'd need to be back with a new cartridge as soon as he could.

A frog? Wasn't that a small, slibbery, green animal? What did that have to do with all this? Guus was trying to formulate the question, but the other lad shouted something and turned away, and Guus decided to follow him - If anything, he appeared to know what he was to do, while Guus suddenly had no idea where the big cartridges were. He might have forgotten it because of the excitement, or he just might have not paid attention when someone explained it to him.

Was the other boy stupid or something? Oxley nodded, then shrugged.

"Yeah - the French is Frogs. 'Cause they eat frogs' legs, don't they?" Not that he'd ever seen it, but the older Marines and sailors said so, so it must be true.

Down to the magazine, where he grinned at the Marine on sentry before opening the wooden cartridge case he was carrying so that the gunner or his mate could slip a cartridge - in the Navy's case, a cylindrical fabric bag filled with powder - into it. He made sure the top was properly secured before indicating that the other boy should copy him and get a cartridge of his own.

Guus kept following the boy, who seemed a bit older then his own 15 years. His voice was just one of those many accents Guus had heard on this ship, and it was hard to understand him - aside for the obvious problem of barely speaking English.

Guus had been explained by simple dumb-play what he had to do, and he had even done it ones during a drill, but he was glad he had followed the other lad. He carefully aped him, putting the cartridge in the wooden case that had magically re-appeared at his side.
"En nu?" he said, not noticing he was asking what to do in Dutch.

"What?" Whatever the other boy had said, it didn't sound quite English, and Oxley just shrugged. "C'mon," he said again, and headed for the ladder up. "We jus' keep all-on fetchin' powder till they stop firin', see," he explained. "They can't fire the big guns without powder, after all."

Hopefully, things would become clearer to the other boy simply by doing them.

Again, Guus had no idea what was being sad to him. As the other boy went up the ladder, Guus followed him quickly and found himself staring at his bottom for a second, and he suddenly remembered he was the marine drummer boy. Apparently, his memory only seemed to work when staring at bottoms.

The gundeck stood in direct contrast with the armory. Here, there was just smoke and noise. He again, stood for a second, trying to understand the things happening around him. Where was that his cannon again?

They were getting closer and closer now, and it was almost startling when Thompson realised that they were within musket range. He felt a French musket ball pluck at his sleeve and raised his own musket to return the favour.

His musket wasn't as accurate as he had heard rifles were, but he was a pretty good shot with it - as good as anyone - and the two ships were so close that he couldn't miss.

He pulled the trigger and knelt to take advantage of the bulwark and packed hammocks in the nettings as he reloaded.