Gregory House - The Queen's Oranges

When Ned’s company had been forced to surrender, their arms had been piled up towards the end of the dock, on the eastern side of the warehouse, and under the menacing maw of one of the Great Gonnes. That had been the source of the first disagreement of the evening. This had been between Blackford and Belsom over whose care they were to be entrusted. Ned had felt he’d done a good job by backing Belsom’s claim, quoting the usages of war. Blackford had become quite waspish, reminding his erstwhile partner that the docks and all their accoutrements were under his purview, and it was his Gonnes that effected the capture. Stirring the pot just that bit further, Ned had ruminated upon the fact that the ‘captaine of artillerie’ was entitled to two fifths of captured booty. Of course it went on from there, each man standing stiffly on their rights.

Now Ned was trying to cross the dangerous fringe of battle to gain the weapon horde. Master Sylver, in his lessons on defence, had advocated a less flashy style, leaning heavily on survivability, and when it came to being unarmed in a melee, the suggestion was ‘don’t attract attention’. Ned dropped down to the timber decking of the wharf and scuttled across, using the soggy remnants of Clemmie Watkins as cover. The dead powder sorter was on his back, eyes wide with terminal surprise at his end. Ned tried to avoid crawling through the spreading pool of blood and fragments, while holding his breath and quelling his rebellious stomach. The falconet was considered small in the brotherhood of Gonnes but was certainly still a fearsome weapon. The master of defence’s advice was correct. He made it to the armaments, and while kneeling down, quickly buckled on his sword and dagger.

Once armed Ned reviewed his options. If he charged towards the moored vessel, about ten paces should put him by the barred doorway. Three of Belsom’s men stood guard. They’d obliviously heard the thumping. One was fending off a tentative attack, while his companions braced the wedged door. Ned wasn’t a gallant fool. Since his training he could match one skilled opponent and maybe fend off two. Three wasn’t an option, unless he wanted a quick death. He needed an edge. Inspiration struck-the pistols!

He spun back to the stacked weapons. Those two little beauties had been the start of Blackford and Belsom’s bickering. The Master of Ordinance had a habit of not supervising his underlings’ acquisitions. He didn’t know about that splendid brace of the gunsmith’s art, but Belsom did. The wheellocks had been very carefully placed by the wall, away from tempted fingers and behind the cleavers. Ned had to stretch past chipped edges of the blades, before cautiously pulling them out. Once in hand he rapidly checked the spring, flash pan and the jaw-clamped firestone. All seemed to be fine. Rob had warned that the wheel lock mechanism didn’t take to shocks or staying in tension too long. Ned loosened his blades and made the last of his preparations. He needed to take advantage of the confused melee.

Ned had taken up the offer of defence training on the suggestion of Mistress Black, and as loath as he was to admit it, she’d been right. So far he was still alive to prove the value of the rigorous exercises. However, Master Sylver taught much more than how to use a sword. He delved into the deeper matters of battle, the vital influence of leadership, tactics, strategy and especially how to read a fight as you would a cartographer’s chart. As in his training, Ned gave the combat field a quick survey to fix the locations of friends and foes, before he launched into battle. Then he caught the flicker of movement on the other side of the dock. Someone was standing by the second Great Gonne and they were trying to light the linstock. A sudden flash of sparks illuminated the snarling face and feathered cap of John Edwards. It struck Ned that he had been granted a vision. That single moment in battle all great commanders prayed for, the key to victory! In this instant, rescuing the rest of his company was irrelevant. If the murderous powder sorter got that slow match lit and set off the Gonne, then everyone on the wharf would be dead! He made his decision, dagger in hand, and shoving one of the pistols into his belt, Ned jumped up and ran across the dock.

A battle was never a stationary affair, with both sides locked hand to hand and foot to foot as the poets would have us believe. It was fluid, swaying to and fro, as men shifted and sparred to gain position or recover defence. Ned chose an opening that had briefly appeared and dove through it. He felt his shoulders brush past the sharp edges of blades, and heard the harsh grunts of men trying to kill or be killed. He ignored all that, his eyes fixed on the target. One snarling figure tried to block his way and unconsciously he dropped his body. The blow swung over his head and Ned, still in motion, slashed the blade in his left hand across the back of his opponent’s thigh. His enemy dropped to the ground, cursing with hands wrapped around the bleeding leg. Two paces to go and the dagger was knocked from his hand. Rather than recover it, Ned threw his body forward, tucking his head in and landing under the snarling mouth of the Gonne in a roll.

It hurt. It hurt a lot, especially when his shoulder hit the iron shod wheel. Pushing past that, Ned clambered up using the spokes as a ladder and beheld the most terrifying sight. Johnnie Edwards was blowing the match into a furnace bright glow, and as Ned emerged on the other side of the Gonne, he was in the act of applying it to the Gonne’s powder train. Ned didn’t flinch. He lunged across the barrel of the Gonne, left hand outstretched, and scattered the pile of black powder. The fiery end of the match seared into the back of his hand and Ned cursed at the pain.

“Damn y’ Bedwell. I’ll teach y’ to meddle!” Edwards dropped the linstock and drew his dagger. It was one of those northern style blades, long and tapering. The edge glittered wickedly in the lantern light. It was the sort of weapon used to eviscerate a bear in one blow. Edwards looked like he knew how to use it and gave an experimental slash that ripped a piece off Ned’s outstretched sleeve.

The powder sorter gave an evil grin and snorted with anticipation. Ned, however, was getting angry. This red handed bastard had created all this mess, the murders, the Gonne powder, the ambush and a disappearance. Originally Ned had planned to capture the treacherous powder sorter and put him to the question. That consideration evaporated before his wrath. As Edwards lunged over the Gonne, Ned pushed himself backwards, swung up his right hand and pulled the trigger. The wheellock spun. The jaw dropped the firestone onto the wheel sparking across to the open flash pan, and the advancing face of Edwards disappeared in a cloud of fire, smoke and brimstone.

Ned hit the opposite wall as the smoke cleared. Rob had been right. They were a very good set of pistols, and at less than five feet, deadly accurate. The powder sorter’s body was sprawled over the carriage of the Gonne, slumped face downwards. The back of Edwards head was missing. The ball had removed it and the contents leaked over the dark timber, dripping onto the floor. Ned cautiously swallowed. He did not want to see anymore.

Despite his heroic effort the battle on the dock was still raging, and Ned was in a quandary as to how to stop the mayhem. He couldn’t use Edward’s plan. That was just the wholesale removal of everyone, though without the reminder of the threat of the Gonne, more would fall. He pulled out a kerchief and used it to wrap his burnt hand, and as he cursed the now dead powder sorter, he had an idea. Could it work?

Ned grabbed the powder horn and poured a heavy trail along the barrel of the Gonne, especially in any crests or the snarling figures of beasts. He made sure it stopped a good foot or so from the touch hole, then standing well back, he touched it off with the tip of the slow match. The mouth of the Great Gonne flashed in a spout of flame and sulphurous smoke, and the combatants recoiled in shock.