Chapter 15
A Narrow Escape
†
Jack, eyeing the small cannon his brother had bought, had to admit he was not as impressed as he had hoped he would be. He had expected something larger, and the stubby bombarde was no more than two feet long with a large muzzle opening just over a hand’s width across. To add to his disappointment, the piece was old, mounted on a very worn and rickety wooden frame and was filthy and blackened.
It was, however, heavy, and it had taken four of them, all staggering under the weight, to lift it from the back of the wagon.
Scranton had watched them heave it from the cart from the comfort of the back of his horse. As they had laboured to bring it safely to the ground, he had offered a continual stream of unhelpful comments. Once it was on the ground, the little man slithered from his saddle, cast the reins in Marc’s face without even looking at him and advanced on the bombarde.
“I will need it cleaned, and all this framework here…” Master Scranton pointed at the aged wooden mount, “will need replacing as well.”
The men just looked at him and it was Andrew, stepping forward, who spoke first. “I am sure we can get that organised. Pierre helped build the tilt yard and he’s some skill with wood. I am sure we can make a sturdier framework to house it in.”
“Good. I shall supervise, and make sure you build it to my specifications. I shall have the drawings to you in the morning,” Scranton provided.
Pierre shot Andrew a filthy look, the thought of having to work with Master Scranton appealing not at all.
Then Scranton, looking directly at Froggy, added, “And I want it cleaned, inside and out, top and bottom.”
“Aye, sir,” Froggy acknowledged.
Scranton walked around the antique, his fingers tugging at his chin thoughtfully. “On second thought, leave it until I return tomorrow. I would rather make sure you do it right.”
Froggy was standing behind Scranton. He swore silently and looked skyward.
Pierre turned his head away hiding a smirk.
“First we need to build a secure place to keep the powder,” Scranton decreed.
Scranton fussed over the powder endlessly. Richard gave him Froggy and Marc to labour for him to build the store he wanted, and Pierre to build the framework for the bombarde.
Powder was not only a volatile commodity, it was also highly valuable, and Scranton insisted that a guard was kept on it at all times. Andrew was in complete agreement with this and a roster was devised to keep a guard on the store, day and night. For reasons of safety, it was located some distance from the main camp but remained within sight .
Scranton’s design necessitated building a store that was part underground to keep the powder cool. The ground was dry and hard and the work backbreaking as they took it in turns to dig out the pit which would form the store. When the square was as deep as a man’s waist, much to their relief, Scranton declared it to be deep enough. After that, a framework of hazel was erected and the whole top covered with cut turf, the thickness of the turfs keeping the interior cool from the sun.
“It’s not to scale!” Pierre complained for the third time. “Look at that cross brace there…” his stubby fingers jabbed at the drawing Master Scranton had given him for the framework he wanted making for the bombarde, “it’s the same length at this one across the front.”
Dan took hold of the drawing and turned it to view the tangle of lines and measurements that Scranton had provided for Pierre. “Which is the top?”
“Give it back here. You’ve no clue what you are looking at either!” Pierre snatched the plan back.
“Make whatever it is he wants. If it works then it will be his triumph and if it doesn’t…”
“… yes, I know, it will be my fault,” Pierre interjected moodily.
“Master knows what Scranton’s like. He’ll not hold you to account over it,” Dan tried to placate Pierre. The son of a Master carpenter, he had more than enough skills to produce what was needed to hold the bombarde, Scranton’s treatment of him, however, had been little better than if he had been a stray dog in the street and Pierre’s professional pride was somewhat dented.
“Aye, well you’ve got the Master’s ear. Let him know what I think of the damned plan, will you?” Some of the anger had left Pierre’s voice.
“I will, don’t worry about that,” Dan laid his hand reassuringly on Pierre’s shoulder.
Jack finally found Richard. He was sitting in close conversation with Froggy over the mould they had made, and they were re-examining some of the latest shot it had produced. He was forced to wait until they had finished, and Froggy, mould under his arm, left.
“I can see from the look on your face something is not pleasing you,” Richard enquired.
“How much did you pay for it?” Jack asked, dropping into the seat just vacated by Froggy.
“For what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Jack shot back quickly.
“Oh, the bombarde?”
“Yes. How much?” Jack put the question again.
“Does it matter? We need it to test Scranton’s worth.”
“So it was expensive then.” Jack didn’t like at all that their joint worth had been reduced to buy something that was as antiquated as the bombarde.
“It’s all relative, and if Scranton’s theories are shown to work it will have been well worth it,” Richard replied in a manner aimed to calm his brother.
“And if it doesn’t?” Jack asked .
“Then I was wrong, and I’ve wasted our money. That is what you want me to say, isn’t it?” Richard replied wearily.
“I just wished I’d known that was what you were buying. I think Scranton’s old but for God’s sake, Richard, that bombarde is ancient enough to have been at Agincourt!”
Richard grinned. “It probably was, I agree. I know it is not perhaps as impressive a piece as you might have hoped, but Scranton is sure it will serve his purposes and he will be able to show us just how much more effective his powder process is than the conventional method.”
“I’ll just make sure I’m standing behind him when he lights it.” Jack did not sound amused.
†
As it turned out, Scranton refused to light it. That, he argued, was too lowly a task for such a man as himself, plus the bombarde on the new wooden framework crafted by Pierre was far too low for him to reach with his aged back.
There had ensued a swift argument between the men, none of them wanting to be standing too close to the aged cannon when it was fired. Lizbet, sitting on the grass someway distant, the Alaunt’s head in her lap, was enjoying the discord. The Master and Jack were standing on opposite sides of the cannon and, from the looks on their faces, they were not as amused by the situation as she was. Eventually, losing his temper, Froggy snatched the glowing taper from Marc’s hand .
“Get out of the way. The lot of you are cowards to a man.” And he advanced on the bombarde and reached down to press the lit taper to the fuse.
The others took several steps back to safety. If Froggy had anticipated that the fuse would give him a little time to retreat, he was wrong. As soon as he had straightened from his task, the powder charge ignited and Froggy disappeared from view in a cloud of smoke.
There was a fairly strong breeze and the grey smoke from the powder was quickly whipped away to reveal a shocked Froggy looking down at the remains of the wooden framework. The carriage that had held it was splintered and the cast iron of the cannon was buried in the soft earth with only a foot’s length showing above the grass, residual smoke still rolling from the muzzle.
Jack quickly caught his brother’s eyes where he stood on the opposite side of the bombarde.
“Master Scranton, a word if I may,” the Master announced loudly before turning to leave, an equally shocked elderly powder manufacturer stepping quickly after him.
†
After the morning’s mishap with the bombarde, Froggy was happy to return to the training he was providing with the flintlock, and was glad he was no part of the group busy under Scranton’s direction repairing the carriage for the cannon. His afternoon group had already assembled and were waiting for him when he arrived. Over his shoulder he carried a hessian bag containing the flintlock they would train with. His group that day consisted of Andrew, Thomas, Jack and Marc. Pierre should have been with them but his services as carpenter were in demand elsewhere. The smaller groups were working well. It meant each had more time with the weapons, and their aim was improving consistently. Loading the flintlocks was not quite second nature but their actions were becoming smoother and quicker the more they practised.
“I hope you lot will be better than the lot I had yesterday. Pierre must have had a quantity of ale. His hands were shaking like a leaf in a gale. I thought he was aiming for the pigeons, not the target.” Froggy swung the bag from his back onto a trestle table that he had set up near the practice range.
“Pierre’s hands always shake,” Marc laughed. “It’s your fault, Froggy, you make him nervous.”
“I’ll make you nervous in a minute,” Froggy chortled as he laid out the flintlock, powder and lead balls.
Lizbet, a water jug on her hip, and cups in her hand, walked over and joined the group, Kells trailing close behind. “It’s a hot afternoon. I thought you might like a drink.”
“I hope that’s ale you’ve got in there.” Jack leant to sniff the jug.
“If it is, Lizbet, you can take it back again. I’m having none of this lot taking shots with fuddled brains.” Froggy admonished.
“It’s well water, cold and fresh,” she advised, dropping the jug onto Froggy’s table. The weight made the table tip and Froggy’s row of neatly lined up musket balls began to roll towards the edge.
“Shift that, woman.” Froggy began to quickly round them up before they rolled off to be lost in the grass. “You know yourself how long it takes to make the damn things.”
Lizbet retrieved the jug and balanced it on her hip again.
“Right then, who’s first?” Froggy announced, satisfied that he had everything laid out on the table again to his liking.
Nearest to the table and the flintlock was Thomas, and he automatically reached for it.
It was Andrew who stopped him, saying, “Let Jack go first. He’s itching to show us how much he’s improved.”
“When you are that bad to start with, it’s not hard to show an improvement,” laughed Froggy.
Jack reached for one of the cups Lizbet had brought and held it out for her to fill. “I’ll let someone else set the standard today. Go on, Marc, you go first. Let’s see if you can hit the target today.”
Marc, of all of them, had the worst aim, it had seemed. Froggy suspected his eyesight was not as good as it could be, but Marc argued hotly that he could see just as well as the rest of them, which had led to his being presented constantly with a series of eyesight challenges which he invariably failed.
Marc, grumbling, pushed past Thomas and began to load the flintlock under Froggy’s watchful gaze.
“I’ll stand behind you. I think that will be the safest place,” Jack jibed .
“Take no notice of Jack.” Lizbet moved round to stand a few paces from Marc. “He just can’t stand Froggy telling him what to do.”
Marc, intent on his tasks, ignored them all. The ball rammed home, he laid the rod on the table and hoisted the flintlock to his shoulder. Screwing his eyes up and holding his breath, he levelled the barrel towards the target. Marc pulled the trigger, and the gun misfired.
Marc was enveloped in a cloud of smoke as the powder flashed back. Screaming, he dropped the flintlock.
The powder had burnt the right side of his face and his right hand as well was scorched.
“Lizbet, the water,” Jack shouted at her.
Lizbet didn’t move.
“Woman, the water, pass it here!”
Jack, turning towards, her saw why she didn’t move. Part of the shattered wooden stock was impaled in her left arm. Blood poured from the wound and her face was the colour of flour.
†
Lizbet, her face white, clutched the bleeding arm to her chest and shook her head.
“Lizbet, please, just drink this,” Jack tried again, holding the cup to her lips.
Lizbet twisted her head away. “No, not that, please. I saw what it did to Colan.”
Jack sat back down heavily. Mat watched from behind Lizbet but kept his mouth shut .
“Alright then,” Jack reassured, his voice still calm and even, “just let me look, lass, please. One of us needs to see what needs doing, you know that, don’t you?”
Lizbet sniffed loudly but didn’t move.
“It’ll be alright, Lizbet, I promise you,” Jack smiled. On the table already was a bowl and cloths. “I will get rid of all of this lot.” Jack put them down the other end of the table. “Now all I want to do is look, Lizbet, that’s all. I won’t touch you, I promise. Look, I’ve got my hands on my knees. Now just put your arm on the table, lass, and let’s have a look. It might be it’s not that bad at all, a bit of blood always makes things look ten times worse.”
Jack was still smiling, his voice gentle, calming.
Lizbet relented. Letting go of her arm, shakily she laid it on the table.
“Well done, lass. Now then, you don’t need to look it. That’s right, you look over there at the fire. You just keep your eyes on the flames.”
What Jack saw was not as bad as he had first feared. The powder had flashed back and burnt the material of her sleeve to her skin, and, when the stock of the flintlock had exploded, it had embedded two shards of wood in her arm. They hadn’t gone in too far and the material, although burnt, had shielded the skin from the worst of the powder burn.
“Good lass, Lizbet, you keep looking at the fire.” Jack raised his eyes quickly and looked at Mat stood behind her. Mat knew what Jack wanted him to do, and he quietly stood ready.
There was a nod from Jack and Mat had firm hands on her, one hand on her wrist pinning it to the table and another on her waist holding her fast. She screamed and pulled against his hold but couldn’t free herself and was left sobbing and breathless.
Jack, a knife in his hand, appearing unconcerned by the noise from his patient and, completely absorbed in his task, began to carefully cut away the material, and piece by piece peel it away from the cut.
“Lizbet, please lass, have a drink of this. It will make it so much easier for you.” Jack picked up the cup again but Lizbet’s mouth was firmly closed and the eyes that held his were full of fear. “I’ll be as kind as I can.”
When Richard and Dan entered the room, Lizbet’s protests had stopped and her head lolled against Mat’s shoulder.
Jack was still talking to her quietly, his voice level, and his tone didn’t change when he spoke to Richard. “Just keep the noise down. I’ll be all done here soon. Right then, Lizbet, that’s the last piece out.” There were two cuts that had closed now the shards of wood had been removed. Jack squeezed the cuts together. Lizbet flinched, and Jack’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think I need to stitch those, they’ll close by themselves. You’ve been lucky, lass.”
There was a mumbled reply, that Jack couldn’t make out. Closer to Lizbet’s mouth, however, Mat’s ear picked up the words, and he grinned. “Lizbet doesn’t feel she’s been that lucky,” he supplied.
The burn from her wrist to her elbow, though, he knew would probably be more painful than the cuts. Jack applied the same balm he had used on his brother and sat back. “Mat, you can let the lass go. Lizbet, can you hear me?”
Mat released her and she slid from his hold face down on the table. It was Jack who picked her up and carried her to the bed in his brother’s room. Laying her on the bed, he looked at her face. Her closed eyes were swollen from crying, her cheeks tear-streaked and still spattered with her own blood. An exchange of coin secured the services of Emile, the landlord’s daughter, to sit with her during the night.
Emile felt sorry for the girl, and quickly had Lizbet stripped to a shift and bundled beneath the covers. She made sure Lizbet finished the drink which the man who had carried her in had provided. He assured the girl in the bed that it was only aqua vitae, and soon after drinking it, she was soundly asleep.
Jack ran his bloodstained hands through his hair and resolved very much that he needed a drink. Walking into the inn proper, he found Froggy Tate at a table, the split and tattered remains of the flintlock in front of him and, helping him dissect and analyse the damaged gun, were Andrew, Thomas and Scranton.
“What a day.” Jack dropped heavily onto the trestle next to Andrew.
“The lass, is she alright and Marc?” Andrew asked quickly, concern in his voice.
“Lizbet will be fine. She’s asleep in Richard’s room. The cuts are not deep, but the burn she has will hurt for days. Marc’s lost half his beard! I think he is suffering more from that than the burn he got. What the hell happened, Froggy?”
The little man shook his head. “I don’t know. Look here, the pan and the frizzen have been blown off the side and half the wood from the stock has been torn apart.”
Andrew reached over and pulled the remains of the gun towards him. “Maybe Marc rammed the musket ball in too firmly and then when it fired it blocked the barrel?”
“I watched him and what he was doing was fine.” Froggy sounded puzzled.
“Were you using the musket balls from the new mould?” It was Scranton who chimed in now. Froggy nodded. “I told you they were misshapen. The sprues were too large. Chances are the ball got stuck in the barrel.”
“That’s what’s worrying me,” Froggy’s said, lines creasing his brow. “I’ve never seen anything like this happen before.”
Andrew leaned over the table and clasped Froggy’s arm. “It’s not your fault. We can do some tests with the other flintlocks and the new musket balls and find out if that’s the case, but you mustn’t blame yourself.”
Froggy smiled half-heartedly at Andrew. “Easier said than done. I’ve a liking for the lass, and I’m sorry for what has happened.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Scranton. “Look, look!” Scranton, his eyes wide, was holding up the end of the flintlock. Although part of the stock had been blown apart, the butt remained intact and there, in the metal engraving at the end was a clearly hammered cross.
Jack ripped it from Scranton’s hand, his mouth open in disbelief. “Christ! How did this one end up in use? It’s one of the ones Richard said had been taken apart and were never to be fired.”
Jack found Richard descending the stairs from his own room where Lizbet was now in his bed watched over by Emile.
“I’ve seen it. It’s as plain as day. The flintlock that exploded is marked, like the ones you showed us.” Jack, already three steps up, stopped his brother’s progress.
For a moment only, Richard looked confused. “Those ones are locked away. It can’t be.”
“Well then, show me them,” Jack demanded, taking another step up the stairs.
“They are locked in the coffer in my room.” Richard quickly turned, retracing his steps. “Be quiet though, Lizbet is in there.”
Both men entered the room and under the disapproving gaze of Emile, Richard produced a key and unlocked the coffer. Inside wrapped in cloth was the pistol and the flintlock.
“I told you, they are both locked in here,” Richard said under his breath.
Jack, not satisfied, lifted the flintlock out and unrolled it from the cloth wrapping, exposing the stock. Where there should have been a neatly hammered cross, there was none.
“How the hell did you mix them up?” Jack blurted loudly .
“Please, some quiet for the girl?” Emile had a disapproving look on her face.
Richard took the gun from Jack, and stared at the stock. His eyes met Jack’s, his voice serious. “I don’t know. They have not been out of here since the night I showed them to you all.”
“That’s not true though, is it? One of them is in pieces downstairs after it blew up in Marc’s face!” Jack’s voice was angry.
“Please! Some quiet,” Emile chastened them again from the chair where she was seated, and Kells, laid across the bottom of the bed, his head on Lizbet’s feet, emitted a threatening growl.
“Come on, out of here.” Richard took the flintlock, dropping it back none too gently into the coffer and locking the lid. Then taking Jack’s elbow, he propelled him from the room.
†
Andrew and Richard were at Froggy’s range. The table was still there. The musket balls had all rolled into the grass when Lizbet had dropped the jug onto the table. A dried bloody handprint showed where she had leaned on the boards for support.
“It’s a terrible thing what has happened, and I know you are suffering for it,” Andrew said quietly, coming to stand close to Richard.
“I don’t know how it happened,” was all Richard said in reply. “The coffer is locked, I have the key, and they have never left it since the night I showed them to you all. Never. ”
Andrew sounded sad when he spoke. “Sometimes what can seem impossible becomes very probable. Did you ever lend anyone else the key perhaps?”
Richard shook his head.
“The woman, Lizbet… she is often in your room. Could she have had access to them?” Andrew continued to question.
“It wasn’t Lizbet.” Richard sounded distracted.
Andrew laid a hand on Richard’s arm. “Leave this with me, please. I will find out who has had their hands on them and switched them over. One of them will turn out to be the son of a locksmith. We will find out how this happened.”
Andrew’s diligent enquiries however took him only to a host of dead ends. There was only one person who had access to them, and that was the man who held the key to the coffer – Richard.