Jacques tried to roll a third cannonball into the barrel of the Demi-culverin, but it slipped from his increasingly numb fingers and thudded down on the wooden deck an inch from his foot, splintering the wood.
"MERDE!" He snarled, before snatching the bottle of rum off the cannon mount and striding somewhat unsteadily back across the deck. Leaning against the landward gunwale, he stared at the camp in brooding silence and took another deep swig. In this dark mood he surveyed the line of dead, covered bodies, and noticed one that had been unceremoniously dumped and set on fire. Idly he wondered who it was, but then decided it made no difference to him. They'd all be just as dead in a few decades anyway, if they didn't tear each other to pieces in the next week first.