part0011

Froggy stood in the Master’s room where he had been summoned. Richard wanted to know if he had the skill to make the lead shot for the flintlocks or whether he would need to buy it in. They had some ammunition already, but not enough to cover the training Richard had proposed. Froggy was confident, that, with a little practice, he was equal to the task.

“I’d rather do this on my own first. It’s been a while since I last did it and there’s a knack to it as well.” Froggy turned the musket ball mould over in his hand as he spoke.

“Agreed. Find out then if you can still make them, before you show the rest. Lizbet will help you.” Richard took the mould back from Froggy and flipped the catch open examining the inside.

“The woman!” Froggy exclaimed.

“Well, she’s not likely to stand and criticise your every action, is she? And I’m assuming you’ll need a fire? Do you want to carry your own wood?” Richard held Froggy’s gaze until the other backed down.

The next morning Froggy, with Lizbet in tow, went to find a suitable spot to set up a fire to craft the musket balls. Froggy told her he wanted the fire enclosed in a ring of stones, scraping a rough shape on the ground with the toe of his boot to show where he wanted them. He then tramped off leaving Lizbet to heft stones and collect a pile of dry wood.

It had rained hard over the past few days and finding wood dry enough to take a flame took her longer than she anticipated and necessitated walking further into the forest than she wanted. By the time she had enough wood and kindling, her skirts were soaked to the knee from the bracken and wild garlic leaves which all still held unshed raindrops. Her wool-lined clogs were also uncomfortably sodden.

When Froggy returned, a hessian sack over his shoulder, Lizbet was rolling the last of the stones into place to make the hearth.

“Well, you timed that well, didn’t you?” Lizbet complained, rising and dusting her hands off on her apron.

“That would depend on your point of view,” Froggy said, grinning. He dropped to his haunches and set to lighting the fire.

Having worked out the direction of the prevailing breeze, Lizbet sat on the forest floor next to him and watched, avoiding the smoke that snaked its way silently though the trees. From the sack Froggy produced another smaller one containing charcoal. When the wood on the fire was burning well, he used a stick to part the burning logs, revealing the glowing centre. He threw in several handfuls of the charcoal that he covered over again with the burning wood.

“What’s that for?” Lizbet asked, pointing at the sack Froggy had taken the black coal like lumps from.

Froggy rubbed his blackened hands on the sack to remove the worst of the dust. “Charcoal. It burns slower and hotter than logs and we need it to get very hot to melt the lead.”

Lizbet settled back, enjoying the silence of the woodland and the warmth from the blaze. Froggy pushed the burning logs away to reveal the glowing charcoal and Lizbet felt the wave of heat on her face.

“I’d say that’d do us.” Froggy used his stick to make a dent into the charcoal and then from his sack he pulled a broad ladle with a spout on one side and a short handle. The handle was hollow and, trimming one of the sticks from Lizbet’s woodpile, he fashioned it to fit inside, making the handle twice as long and heat proof.

Froggy had another bag with what looked like grey pebbles, and one of these he dropped into the ladle and placed it in the delve in the charcoal. As soon as the ladle heated through, there was a wisp of smoke from within and then, as quick as butter melted on warm bread, the pebble turned into a liquid silver bubble. Froggy, satisfied with the temperature, added half a dozen more pellets to the ladle and they both watched as they melted.

“Now this is the tricky bit, lass,” Froggy said, producing the final part of the process from his sack. “This is the mould. We need to pour the lead in there.” Froggy held it out, showing her the small, conical spout the lead would need to enter. “Spill it on the flames and it’ll spit like a bantam at a cock fight. Do you have a steady hand?”

“Right then, get round the other side of the fire and hold the mould like this, nice and still.” Froggy demonstrated before handing it to Lizbet.

It was hinged and had a long handle to keep her hands away from both the lead and the flames. Lizbet took up a position opposite and held the mould ready. Froggy slowly tipped the ladle’s spout towards the opening in the mould. Lizbet was amazed at how mobile the liquid lead was; it seemed to move quicker than water. Froggy poured it carefully in and there was another small plume of smoke from the inside of the mould.

“Right, lass, let’s see what we have.” Froggy held out his hand for the mould and taking it, unclipped the slides and opened it.

Inside, the chamber was only half full; the lead had solidified in the spout and the mould had not been completely filled.

“I was too slow. Look, it’s set before I got it in and it’s blocked the mould. Let’s do it again.”

Taking a knife he flicked out the still hot lead from the mould back into the ladle and the pair watched it return to a molten form for the second time.

“Here we go. Keep your hands steady.” Froggy poured the lead, but the spout overflowed, molten lead dripping onto the charcoal.

Lizbet dropped the mould in the fire and jumped backward.

Froggy swore. “For God’s sake, you are supposed to hold it still!” Froggy complained as he fished the mould out of the fire with a stick once the lead had stopped spitting at them.

“You poured it too fast. It wasn’t my fault,” Lizbet replied defensively.

“Let’s do it again. Hold it to the left of the fire then if it drips it won’t be trying to burn holes in us,” Froggy instructed, returning the ladle for the third time to the charcoal.

It took three more attempts before they had the measure of it, getting the liquid metal into the mould at the right speed and enough of it to form the musket balls.

“There we go.” Froggy opened the mould and the silver ball fell to the earth next to the fire.

“It’s so shiny, not like the stuff you melted.” Lizbet reached for it, but Froggy battered her fingers away with his hand.

“That’ll burn you still. Let it cool a while before you pick it up. They start out shining like buttons but in a day or so they dull and go the colour of pewter,” Froggy said, rolling the musket ball over with a stick .

“What about that bit sticking out of the top of it like an apple stalk? Surely that’s not supposed to be there.” Lizbet pointed to the lead that had solidified in the neck of the mould and was still attached to the ball.

“That’s called the sprue. When it’s cool enough,” Froggy touched it tentatively, “which it isn’t yet, we can snip that off. In the middle of the mould there’s a clipper you use to take it off. I’ll show you in a minute when it’s not trying to burn the skin off my fingers.”

When it cooled and the sprue was clipped off, Froggy rolled the musket ball between his fingers, smiling.

“Here we go.” He passed it over to Lizbet for her to admire and she took it from him.

“Just another five dozen to make and we’ll be finished,” Froggy said catching her eye and grinning.

It took all afternoon. After the first few were made, Froggy melted enough to make five balls at once, pouring it into the mould, and Lizbet quickly releasing it to the earth. Then the next was poured quickly in. With their sprues removed, Froggy lined them up in rows of one dozen.

Lizbet asked why they needed so many. Froggy told her that a dozen balls gave each of them twelve shots, which was not so very many for target practice. Apparently the Master wanted each of them to be experts with the muskets before they reached wherever it was they were going.

“We’ll make a target out of straw at the front, with clay at the back a hand’s thickness deep. That’s enough to capture the balls, and if you keep the clay damp you can get the balls back out and re-use them so long as they don’t hit another already lodged in there,” Froggy explained. “We’ll lose a fair few as well if they miss the target, so making musket balls, lass, is something we’ll be doing quite often.”

A day later, happy with their skill at making the musket balls, Froggy Tate was, for once, in his element. None of the others, apart from Richard, had seen the process and the rest of the men sat quietly and watched Froggy’s alchemy, with Lizbet’s steady helping hands, as he turned the molten lead into the small spherical musket balls.

Froggy picked up one of the round finished balls and passed it to Jack. “What you cannot see, and I’ll show you tomorrow, is what happens to this wee fella when it hits something. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that it would punch a hole straight through and pop itself out the other side, but it’s not like that,” Froggy said, shaking his head.

“What’s it do then?” Mat asked.

“Like I said, I’ll show you.”

Hung by a foot and blessedly upwind, the ripe carcass of a sheep, its eyes already picked out by the birds, swung from a tree. Froggy had positioned a second target fashioned of straw and backed with clay, to the left of the unfortunate beast. The centre of the target was picked out with a disc of dark brown leather. Froggy had one flintlock musket, the musket balls, paper, and a flask of powder.

“This is going to take all bloody day if we’ve only one between us,” Mat complained, already looking bored.

“Well, there’s more, but today I’m not willing to let any of you loose with them before you’ve had some practice. I’ll not be stitching your head back on for you when you’ve blown it off your shoulders, and I’ll not be fishing musket balls out of Dan’s arse when you’ve shot him by accident either,” Froggy reprimanded.

“If Dan gets a musket ball in his backside, there’ll be no accident about it,” replied Mat mischievously.

Richard’s voice cut through the laughter. “It will indeed be a long day if you don’t shut up and listen.”

The rebuke was enough to silence them and Froggy had their attention again.

Andrew’s sensible voice spoke in agreement with the Master. “Come on, lads. We are here to learn. Let’s show Froggy here some respect. He’s far more skill here than we have.”

An appreciative grin split Froggy’s uneven features at Andrew’s words.

Froggy spent a long time, too long for Jack who was impatient to actually fire one, explaining how they worked. Starting at one end, he named every part and made them name them back to him. He took apart the firing mechanism and showed them how it screwed back together and how tight it needed to be. Finally, they moved on to how to fire one, going over and over the process without actually adding the gunpowder, but just dry firing the gun.

“So,” Froggy announced at last, “who’s first?”

Jack stepped forward, and the rest were forced to defer. Dan glanced at Mat who raised his eyes to Heaven. Dan grinned back. Despite Jack’s outspoken dislike of the flintlocks, he still wanted to be the first to try them.

“Right then, let’s see if you were listening then, shall we?” Froggy announced, and everyone watched as Jack prepared the musket.

The charge went in the barrel first, then the ball surrounded by paper, was rammed home down the barrel next. Then the hammer was half-cocked, the charge added to the pan, and the hammer fully cocked.

“Right then, aim at that sheep and let’s see if you can hit it,” instructed Froggy from where he stood next to Jack.

Jack took aim and squeezed the trigger. As he did, the barrel dipped and they all saw the plume of dust some ten feet in front of the dangling sheep where the ball hit the earth. There was a round of jeering laughter. Jack scowled.

“What did I tell you? Hold it true. When you pull the trigger, hold your breath and don’t let your trigger hand pull the barrel down,” Froggy said. “They are heavier than you give them credit for and the barrel will drag itself downwards.”

Jack’s second shot hit the sheep .

From the impact the woolly carcass swung wildly on the rope as the lead ball ripped through the flesh.

“You can’t see where it went in,” Froggy said, advancing to the stinking animal, “but you can certainly see where it came out.” With a stick, he rotated the carcass and on the reverse was a reddened mess of ripped flesh and splintered bone poking past the fleece where the ball had left the body. “So it’s not what it does to you on the way in but on the way out that makes the bloody mess.”

All of them were fighting men, and looked with new respect at the flintlock; it was a weapon that seemed able to blow a man apart from the inside.

Froggy was still talking. “A leather jack will give you no protection against one of these at all, and plate, well at thirty paces it will go straight through. Even at a hundred paces, it’s still likely to punch a hole in the armour.”

“What about the pistols? They take the same shot. Are they just as effective?” Dan asked, watching Mat who was next in line to load and take a shot.

“They are for bloody show if you ask me. The barrel is too short. Anything more than ten paces and it will be down to luck if you hit anything.” Froggy, his arms folded, watched intently as Mat used the rod to push the ball down the barrel. “Not so hard, otherwise it will stick,” he warned.

“So at close range, it would still go through a cuirass?” Dan asked, then laughingly added, “I just want to be sure what to wear when Jack here gets hold of one again.”

Jack shot him an evil look. “Carry on like that and you’ll be inviting a shot in the arse.”

“Well, before we finish with these, the Master suggested we gauge their effectiveness, so we will set them up against some armour and find out what they can do.” Froggy received the weapon back from Mat, who had just made two respectable shots, and offered it to Andrew.

Froggy watched with dark beady eyes as Andrew efficiently loaded and primed the weapon. His first shot went wide of the mark, the lead shot scoring the bark from the tree trunk where the sheep was tied. The second shot went through the side of the dead ewe’s head, taking with it most of its teeth and leaving an ugly gaping hole through the side of the jaw.

Andrew hefted the weapon in his hands before handing it back to Froggy.

“There’s a bit of kick from them when they fire.”

Froggy said, smiling, “That’s why you need to brace it against your shoulder. If you don’t, it’ll buck and the shot will go wild every time.”

After an hour they had all hit the sheep, and Froggy was satisfied that all of them could safely load the muskets, prime them correctly and fire them safely. The shooting now moved to the straw target ranged further back.

They had varied degrees of success. Jack planted his first shot a hand’s width from the centre, however his second went wide, the shot disappearing in the undergrowth – predictably he blamed the failure on the flintlock. Mat placed shots next to each other on the right side of the target, receiving praise from Froggy which delighted him and earned him a weary look from Jack.

Richard who had been watching the proceedings quietly, sitting on a fallen branch behind them, spoke then. “It will be a little hard to sell them unless we can make a good account of them, so when we are finished we will know exactly what they are capable of.”

“Are you joining in?” Jack invited.

All of them had now taken their first few shots at the target.

Richard dropped from his perch lightly and held out his hand for the flintlock.

He loaded it smoothly and quickly. The shot was a good one, just to the left of the centre of the target. Loading a second ball he hoisted the flintlock to his shoulder. They all held their breath with him. The shot was near as made no difference through the middle of the target.

Froggy nodded with approval.

“And that, you lot, is what you will all be doing with a bit of practice,” Froggy said, satisfied with his Master’s performance.

Jack, on the other hand, wondered just when Richard had got some practice in. He very much suspected that his brother’s performance was down to training and did not owe a lot to natural talent.

When the firing was finished, without asking, Scranton took the powder flask from Froggy’s hands and poured some into his palm. Taking a pinch between his finger and thumb, he rolled it between them. “It’s a little too coarse if you ask me for flintlocks,” he said then. Dusting the powder from his fingers, he sniffed at the residue it had left. “And definitely not the best mix. If I may say so, someone has sold you poor powder and no doubt at a good price as well.”

All the men heard the slight.

Richard seemed happy enough though and clapped Scranton on the arm. “Well, with your advice, sir, that will not happen again.”

Having used nearly all the shot, Froggy and Lizbet set out again the next day to make enough for a second practice session. There had been little left from the day before and certainly not enough for another round of training.

The breeze sent the stinging smoke straight into her eyes and she flinched, hands tipping the mould just as Froggy began pouring the lead from the ladle.

“For God's sake, woman, I've missed!” Froggy cursed pulling away from the fire.

Lizbet’s eyes, watering, were closed tightly. She heard the lead spitting and crackling where it had been ignited by the embers.

Froggy rocked back on his heels. “It’s a confounded task, and it’s taking too long.”

Lizbet wiped the back of her hand over her running nose and eyes and nodded in agreement .

“It needs to be on a skillet over the fire to hold it still, and if we had more than this one mould, we could set them all up next to each other and make a lot more and a sight quicker as well,” Lizbet observed gloomily.

Froggy pulled the ladle from the fire and breathed heavily. “I’ve been thinking that all morning, lass. We can melt enough lead to fill fifty, even a hundred at a time, but it’s the mould that’s slowing us up.” Froggy pulled his cap from his head, revealing a damp fringe stuck to his brow with sweat. “I’ll go and see the Master. We need a new mould, or at least more of these. One just isn’t going to be enough. It’ll take some money and time to get it made, but in the long run it would be worth it.”

Lizbet, busy removing the sprues from the top of the cooled balls, could not agree more. It was slow work for the results, and there were two burn holes in her dress she could have done without – spitting lead moved faster than she did, it seemed. So far, neither of them had sustained an injury, but the general feeling was that it would only be a matter of time.

“If we had something like this but longer, we could make ten in a strip, and if we had five or even more strips of them attached to each other then we could pour lead into the lot and it would make the task a much shorter one,” Froggy supplied. “I was thinking we could make the mould in layers, and wire them all together, then when the lead has cooled, and that only takes a moment, we unwire it and separate the layers. I can’t see why it wouldn’t work.”

“Neither can I.” The Master was smiling, and Froggy, pleased, grinned back in return.

“The other thing is if we make it as a block then we can put it on a skillet or some such. No one needs to hold it and it’ll make filling it a sight easier,” Froggy said, then added, “It was Lizbet that gave me that idea.”

“Indeed! I’d not have credited munitions manufacture amongst her skills.” Richard handed the mould back to Froggy. “Get me some of the flintlock balls so I have the dimensions and I shall get you your mould.”

Due to a lack of shot, the day was taken up with arms training instead. From where they lay on the grass in the shade, Pierre, Mat and Richard watched Jack and Andrew trade blows. Mat was in a sour mood, having been told in no uncertain terms by the Master earlier, that training was a serious matter and under no circumstances was he to start laying wagers on the outcome of the bouts.

“Put more power in your wrist.” Andrew held the pole level so Jack could properly see the hold he had on it. “Hold it like this and you can put more force behind the swing.”

Jack, grinning, stepped back as the end of the pole whistled through the air and harmlessly past his face. He picked up his own staff from the ground again and held it up defensively. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

“Are you sure you want to?” Andrew asked.

The knuckles on Jack’s hands were already grazed and bleeding where he had failed to keep them from Andrew’s well aimed swings.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Jack planted his feet firmly and readied himself for Andrew’s attack that was not long in coming. This time though it was the older man who dropped his staff, clutching a bruised hand to his chest.

“I deserved that, I grant you,” Andrew said, inspecting the damage and pulling away a flap of rent skin from the back of his hand. “I’ll not make the same mistake a second time.”

Jack lowered his staff and, planting it firmly down, leant heavily on it.

“Someone taught you well. You’ve all the basics covered. A little polish is all you need, that and a few tricks in your armoury as well,” Andrew continued. “The Master tells me you were with Harry Fitzwarren?”

“I was a servant in his house, yes. As Richard likes to point out, it afforded me a wide range of opportunities,” Jack replied sarcastically.

“I’ve seen your skill. He is right – you’ve had access to training at a level that not many can aspire to,” Andrew chastised.

“Aye, I thank God daily for being so benevolent.”

If Andrew heard the sarcasm in Jack’s voice, he didn’t acknowledge it. “We have to thank the Lord for all opportunities, even those which teach us difficult lessons. Life is a journey which will end when we kneel at his feet,” Andrew pronounced.

“You missed your calling,” Jack supplied, grinning.

“I didn’t. I like this far too much.” Without warning, Andrew swung his staff through the air neatly knocking Jack’s staff away. His support removed, he staggered forward and a second neat swing to the back of the knees had him sprawling in the dirt.

Rolling to his back, Jack righted himself in a moment, hands dusting dirt from his knees. “Now I know where my brother gained his tactics from.”

“It’s a fine line the one that is drawn between fair play and foul,” Andrew laughed, “and that might have crossed it. We just need to add a few tricks like that to the skills you already have and with your strength there will be few that will be able to best you.”

“Looks like we have food,” Jack said, still brushing leaves from his sleeves, as he spied Lizbet approaching, a basket slung over one arm.

“If this came out of the bake houses near the Thames, people would be asking for their money back, and the baker would be going out of business, I can tell you,” complained Lizbet, banging down the basket containing five freshly baked solid brown loaves. “Look at it! Harder than a rock! It’s good for fishing with and that’s about it.”

Jack tore one of the loaves in half. “Any cheese? Or is this it? ”

“Just wait on, will you? Give me a chance!” Lizbet complained.

“Just hurry up, I’m starving,” Jack said through a full mouthful and slapped Lizbet’s backside, earning him a scowl as she unloaded more provisions from the basket.

Richard came and leant against the stone wall where Jack was standing. “She has still not forgiven you then?” he asked, laughing and taking half the loaf from Jack’s hands.

“The woman who weds me can scold me, but I’ll not suffer it from a woman before then,” Jack mused.

“You? Married?” Richard scoffed.

“I might,” Jack replied, sounding hurt.

“Aye, and what would you marry for?” Richard asked.

“Money, what else,” Jack replied bluntly.

Richard found himself choking on crumbs. “Let me know if you find a rich wench in the hay fields, will you? I’ll have one as well.”

Jack’s face darkened, and he pulled himself up to his full height. “I’m not short of lassies.”

“I know, the stupid kind who are fair taken in with your looks and kind smile. Even Lizbet has turned her back on you,” Richard scoffed.

“Lizbet? What do you mean? She’s not angry with me,” Jack said. He quickly looked in her direction then back at Richard. “Is she?”

Richard just shrugged, saying nothing as Lizbet returned, as promised, with cheese and beer. She put them on the wall between the pair of them, popping a lump of cheese in her mouth before turning to go. Jack caught her round the waist and pulled her close.

“Get off me.” Lizbet pushed him away. “You stink. Keep your filthy hands to yourself.” Pulling free, she turned her back on him and made her way to Froggy and Marc to dole out more bread and cheese.

“Did you put her up to that?” Jack said, looking murderously at Richard.

“Me? What’s between your head is more solid than these loaves Lizbet keeps on complaining about,” Richard replied, rapping his knuckles against the hard crust of the bread he held.

“What do you mean?” Jack sounded genuinely confused.

Richard shook his head. “Do I really need to tell you?” Then seeing the look on Jack’s face, he realised he did. “Lizbet doesn’t like sharing your affections.”

Jack’s eye’s opened wide.

“Perhaps if you are looking for a wife…” Richard added grinning.

Jack visibly paled. “You don’t think she’s thinking I might wed her. Do you?”

“Who knows how a woman’s mind works?” mused Richard. “You could do worse. She’s excellent with a needle, knows how to strike a bargain, and she can put up with your temper, it could…”

“My God! You are not serious, are you?” Jack sounded worried. He cast a glance at Lizbet where she was pouring ale into Marc’s cup. “Half the time she treats me like I’m wedded to her already with her nagging tongue.”

“Well, there you are then, she’s already treating you like a husband. All she’s got to do now is get you drunk and make you into one,” Richard agreed with him, then adopting a serious voice, “Be careful, Jack. We both know that drunk you’ll agree to just about anything. And the law here is different.”

“What do you mean, different?” Jack asked quickly.

“A pledge to wed, even a verbal one, is binding,” Richard lied smoothly.

“No, really?” Jack gasped.

“Aye, it is. As long as she has a witness, it’s as binding as if it was in a church. So be warned,” Richard said managing to keep his face straight.

Thomas Tresham, Grand Prior of the Knights Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem, had been wondering exactly why he had received a visit from a Master Garrett now for several weeks. He’d known the name would be a false one, and the visitor had left little in the way of contact information either.

Master Garrett, it seemed, was an intermediary for a Master who wished to deal with the knights. The matter concerned an arms shipment, that much the man had divulged, along with the subject of the proposed deal which related to an unspecified number of flintlocks. Tresham, newly appointed to his post and eager to impress, had penned a quick message to his counterpart alerting them that a man wished to contact the Order regarding an arms shipment comprising a number of flintlocks.

Garrett had asked for leave to contact the Order and had asked Tresham to contact the Order’s controller in Venice altering them of the possibility of a deal. Garrett’s Master appeared to be aware of the Order’s hierarchy and also its mechanisms for trade, and he knew that the controller in Venice would be the one who could strike a deal for the shipment if they were interested. He’d given them little more information. Only that he would be the contact once he reached Venice and hopefully by then the Order might be interested in opening negotiations.

Richard was well aware of the far reaching and far flung influence the Order had. He was relying on the fact that, with a few clues, they would rapidly find out that he might be the key to uncovering where the lost Italian cargo had gone. This quantity of missing arms would not have disappeared beneath the surface without leaving a lot of ripples, and ripples spread.

He relied also on their greed. If such a shipment was on the open market, it would be one they would very much like to acquire for themselves rather than any of the other European power houses taking advantage. It was highly unlikely they would want to return the shipment to the poor Italian armoury that had lost out so badly on the order Northumberland had placed.