P. Chisholm - A Surfeit of Guns

“I’m very sorry, my lord,” he said, swirling them about and wincing. “But that caliver’s faulty.”

“It is no’,” roared Maxwell. “It’s brand new.”

“If you fire it again, it will burst in your hand,” Carey said stolidly, stripping off his gloves and examining his fingers.

“It willna.”

“It will. I’ll bet a hundred pounds on it.”

“It’s a new weapon fra…Ain hundred pounds?”

The Courtier hasn’t got a hundred pounds, Dodd thought; as far as I know he hasn’t got ten pounds at the moment, bar the travelling money.

Maxwell’s eyes had lit up at the thought of the bet.

“On the next firing?”

“The next firing. If you’ve fired it once already.”

“Ay, that’s what had ye jumping about and pulling out yer blade.”

“True. Nevertheless.”

“Ain hundred pounds? English or Scots?”

Carey shrugged. “English, of course,” he said, with the irritatingly self-satisfied air that Dodd had noticed he also wore when he was playing primero. Betting in English money had just raised the stakes by a factor of ten. Each Scots pound was worth only two shillings thanks to repeated debauchings of his money’s silver content by the impoverished Scottish King. “If you’ve got it, my lord,” he added, sealing his fate as far as Dodd was concerned.

Maxwell drew himself up and beckoned a servant over. Unlike Sir John Carmichael, he was a powerful magnate with ample funds from legal rents, blackrent and various other criminal activities. The servant went scurrying off and came back with a bulging leather purse. Maxwell counted out the money in good English silver.

“What about ye?” he asked insolently. “Have ye got it?”

Carey took off his largest ring, the one with a ruby the size of his finger nail in the middle of it and thumped it down on the table.

“I think that’s worth about a hundred and fifty pounds, English,” he said with fine courtierly negligence. “The Queen of England gave it to me.”

Maxwell smiled wolfishly, picked up the ring and examined it closely. Like most noblemen he was a good judge of jewels. He smiled again and put Carey’s ring back on the table where Dodd mentally bade it farewell.

They tied the caliver to one of the benches with rope, cleared the bowling alley of all hangers-on, servingmen and children. Lord Maxwell refilled the caliver with a full charge-though Carey offered to permit a two-thirds charge, so confident was he. At last Maxwell leaned over from behind the upturned table to put the slowmatch to the pan.

Dodd was already squatting down behind the table with his fingers in his ears. There was a different timbre to the cracking boom of the gun and the patter of metal hitting the wood in front of him. He thought he saw a bit of the stock go sailing up onto the roof. It had a cross scratched in it, which finally made sense of the Courtier’s actions.

Maxwell stood up to look at the remains of the caliver and the hollow it had made in the bench, with a face gone paper white.

“Holy Mother Mary,” he whispered. “Will ye look at it.”

Carey stood, picked up his ring. “My lord?” His hand hovered over the Maxwell side of the bet.

Maxwell was still examining the remains of his new gun, while servingmen went running for stronger drink than early-morning beer and like Lord Maxwell some of them crossed themselves. Their lord looked up at Carey abstractedly. Maxwell was still pale as a winding sheet, a sheen of sweat on his nose as his imagination caught up with him, and small blame to him, thought Dodd. Carey had just saved at least his arm, perhaps his eyes and probably his life.

“Ay,” he said in a shaky voice. “Ay, take it, it’s yours, Sir Robert. Jesus Christ. Will ye look at it. Jesus.”

Carey swept up the money with a happy grin, poured it back in the purse and hung it on a thong round his neck under his shirt. He waved over one of the servingmen who had been peering bulging-eyed at the remains of the gun. One piece of barrel was stuck firmly in a beam, gone as deep as an arrow.

“Aqua vitae for my Lord Maxwell,” he ordered. He had found the goblet of wine and was swirling his scorched fingers in it again.

A servant in Maxwell livery brought the aqua vitae which Maxwell and Carey both tossed off like water. The Maxwell then came over to Carey and solemnly gave him his right hand.

They shook on it, and Maxwell clapped Carey on the shoulder. “That’s one in the eye for the Johnstones,” he said triumphantly. “Cunning bastards.”

“My lord?” asked Carey cautiously.

“Ye’ll eat wi’ us, of course. And yer Sergeant and yer men?”

“I’ve only got a boy who’s with the horses at the moment. The others are with Sir John Carmichael,” Carey explained innocently, to Dodd’s horror.

“Ye brought nae men wi’ ye?” asked Maxwell, puzzled at the idea of riding anywhere with fewer than twenty men behind him, and quite right too, thought Dodd, it was indecent.

“The bare minimum, my lord. Short of an English army complete with horse and ordnance it seemed safer to rely on good faith. Sir John has been most hospitable.”

“Och, no,” said Maxwell. “He’s resigning the day and I’m Warden now. Ye’re my guest, Sir Robert, my friend and guest. Ye’ll sleep here tonight, by God. That was well done wi’ the slowmatch, man. Is yer hand sore? Will I get the surgeon to it?”

Carey was examining the blisters and blowing on them before dipping them back into the wine to cool them.

“No, it’s only scorched.”

“How did ye ken sae fair the gun was bad?”

“I have a feel for weapons, my lord,” lied Carey gravely. “And there are a number of faulty firearms somewhere around the Border at the moment.”

“Where from?” Maxwell demanded, his eyes narrowed suspiciously again.

Carey shrugged. “I’d give a good deal to know that myself. They’re not English make, nor Scots I think. One of my men was killed by one a couple of days ago.”

Maxwell was staring at Carey. “Killed?”

“Blew his hand off and he died of it.”

The Maxwell’s jaw set. Carey was looking at the blisters on his fingers again while Dodd stared at the painted walls of the bowling alley and thought of Long George showing him the gun when they waited to go out on patrol, and how he had been envious at the man’s good luck. Carey smiled at Lord Maxwell.

“Perhaps the Italians know something about it?” he ventured.

“Nay…I doubt it. Jesus,” swore Maxwell again. “Jesus Christ. I wonder…”

Carey sauntered to the silver plates of tidbits laid out on the table for Maxwell’s refreshment, took a small flaky pie and bit into it.

“A number of them?” repeated Maxwell.

“Yes, my lord.”

“All bad like that?”

“Some of them worse. Some burst on the first firing.”

“How d’ye know?”

Carey swallowed, drank some wine, winced and coughed. “A couple of them came into my…er…possession and Sergeant Dodd did the same good deed for me that I did for you, my lord. I took another apart and there’s no doubt of it: the forge-welding’s faulty.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Maxwell monotonously. He was twiddling his moustache around his fingers and tapping his fingers nervously on his empty cup. “But they’ve the Tower mark on them?”

Dodd was having difficulty keeping a straight face and by the grave impassivity of his demeanour, so was Carey. He shrugged.

“It’s a famous mark and I’m sure it’s no more difficult to forge than any other.”

“A number of them?”

“A couple of hundred, my lord. I hope you’ve not been persuaded to buy any weapons for which you do not know the provenance.”