3 June 1666
3 June 1666‘Fire!’
As the g*n captain shouted and plunged the slow match into the top hole, William Coke stepped to the side, turned away and, taking a deep breath, shoved his fingers into his ears.
The culverin roared, lurching back on its carriage, the breeching ropes straining to their limits. Smoke poured from the muzzle, obscuring everything, but Coke did not need to see, so often had he done this now. As other cannons followed, firing the length of the g*n deck, he grabbed the pole, stepped up to the cannon’s mouth, shoved the stick and its wet cloth up to its limit and swabbed it up and down. After the ceaseless broadsides of the last two hours, there was so much powder scattered over the deck that one spark could be a disaster.
‘Load again!’ yelled the g*n captain,
