D Cornish - Foundling

"Very good, very good-pass on me well wishes. 'E were as fine an excise man that ever served on this river." Poundinch rocked on his heels and, after a pause in which Rossamund swore he could see the rivermaster's thoughts turn like winch gears, added, "Present comp'ny excepted, of course…"

"Of course." Unimpressed, the excise clerk held out an expectant hand. "Now, present your documents and your tallies, and scrutineers will be aboard presently."

Poundinch did as he was bid. The papers were taken through an iron door in the arch's hefty footing. Poundinch perspired, continually pursing his lips and flexing his free hand behind his back. Under the Axle, the Hogshead's master had been as cool as the cold side of the pillow. Here, however, with no secretive conversations or cynical winkings with one of the clerks, he was visibly agitated.

The original excise clerk reappeared, as expressionless as before, followed by three gentlemen heftier of build and bearing heavy, long-handled cudgels-the scrutineers. With them came a quarto of musketeers, all uniformed in black with trimmings of white. In two ranks they lined up-five at the front, five at the back-on the stone pier.

The excise clerk held up his right hand and took a breath. "By the declaration of His Grace, the Archduke and Regent of Brandenbrass, and through the ratification and execution thereby of his Cabinet of the Charters set upon the sanctity of our borders, and its Ordinances concerning the same, you are presently ordered to allow to board, and then to be boarded by and searched by, Officers of the Sovereign State of Brandenbrass, and to declare upon a solemn 'aye' that you bear no contraband or other illicit articles upon or within this vessel, whether by hold or other conveyance, and that you regard inviolate the law and assertions of the State of Brandenbrass and that State's authority. How say you?"

Rossamund had no idea what had just been said, although it sounded extremely important and gravely impressive.

It seemed that Rivermaster Poundinch had not understood either. His squint grew more furrowed. "I… uh… aye, if it's comin' aboard ye wants, then"-he bowed low with a glance to his boatswain-"by all means."

The scrutineers and the excise clerk stepped across from the pier and tapped about the upper deck for a good long while. Poundinch hovered nearby, answering the curt quizzing of the clerk with affected politeness. Rossamund stayed by the tiller as instructed, heart knotting and unknotting alarmingly. It was a gloomy afternoon made gloomier under the shadow of this arch.

Eventually the search moved to the hatch. "What a horrendous stench coming from below, sir!" called the clerk.

"Why aye, sir." Poundinch made to look chastened. "I intend to 'ave 'er in ordinary this winter, to give 'er a thorough swillin' in and out. 'Tis th' pig fat ye see-good for th' purse but 'ard on th' nose."

The clerk put a foot on the top step and the scrutineers moved to follow. He paused and half turned. "Are your limbers still turning, sir?"

"Well…"

"Pray still them at once! You are committing a grave breach, sir!" The clerk made to mark an entry in a large ledger.

Just for a moment Poundinch looked like a cornered cat. Then, with a "We'll not be 'avin' that!" he shoved the excise clerk down the ladder and struck the nearest scrutineer right in the jaw with one of the thick wooden pins that were used to hold the mast.

"Let fly, Mister Shunt!" he bawled. "Let fly!"

With this the chaos began. Everyone but Shunt hesitated. The Hogshead lurched forward and people sprawled, Rossamund with them. Poundinch leaped into the hold. Two scrutineers pounced after him over their fallen comrade. Hiss-crack. The boatswain felled one with a pistol shot to the neck as the other disappeared below.

On the pier the musketeers presented their firelocks, their officer crying over the din. "Hold fast-or be slaughtered where you stand!"

The crew of the Hogshead just jeered as their vessel sheered away.

"Do yar worst, ya prattling hackmillion!" cried one.

"Hold yerself, chiff-chaffing lobcock!" screeched another.

"Go lay a muck hill, Mary!" and many worse things other bargemen returned.

The quarto of musketeers fired a rattling volley that brought several to their end, while someone ashore shouted, "Grapnels! Grapnels!"

The crew returned fire with pistol and blunderbuss, their shots having little effect as the musketeers' proofing proved its quality. Only one of the soldiers fell, simply sagging where he knelt, shot through the head. Amazed at how suddenly and matter-of-factly the violence had begun, Rossamund froze first with disbelief, which quickly dissolved into utter terror. Cold nausea griped in his guts and set his fingers tingling.

The steerboard bow struck the farther wall of the arch as the boatswain was surprised by the heavy lurch and failed briefly to keep the vessel under control. The ironclad hull ground with loud metallic groans along the stone and the Hogshead lost speed. The boatswain struggled for a moment, and then reasserted his will on the vessel. Under his now sure hand, the Hogshead went out the other side of the arch. Grapnel hooks were thrown to ensnare the cromster but none held. The Hogshead was clear.

"All limbs to the screw, Shunt!" the boatswain cried into a speaking tube to the organ deck. "Git us out of 'ere!"

Below a great contest thumped and bellowed. Poundinch and whatever crew had descended to aid him tackled the excise clerk and the doughty scrutineer. The sounds they all made gave no indication of who was winning, but as the cromster gained speed it was obvious that Shunt was not involved.

Rossamund was shocked into self-preserving action as muskets fired once more and the balls panged about them. One sent some poor chap toppling into the Humour. Another struck the balustrade near Rossamund's head, scaring him mightily, and as he struggled to find a refuge, a musket shot clouted him upon his chest.

It hit harder than the hardest thump in harundo and sat him down with a tiny, audible huff! For a flash his whole existence was an intense agony right next to his heart. His eyes bulged, tears streamed. It hurt too much to breathe. He shook with terror as he thought he had gasped his last. How could they shoot at a small lad like him? What had he done that they should hate him so? Then breath returned. He was winded and certainly bruised, but he was not badly harmed. The proofing Fransitart had provided had done its admirable work. Wiping away the tears and mucus, Rossamund marveled: he had been musket-shot and had survived.

The cromster gathered more speed and made for the middle of the river, putting a hundred yards between her and the Spindle. The vessel shuddered mightily as the gastrines were strained. The crew would do all they could to make their escape: only a gallows or worse awaited otherwise.

It was then that the great-guns started.

Boom! was the first and only warning. No range-finding splash, no whistle of a shot just missing overhead: the cannon of the Spindle were too well sighted and their gunners too well practiced. The very first shot hit the stern plate, which, being the only unclad part of the hull, was one of the weakest parts of the vessel. It was a fine hit that sent wood splintering and water spraying and shook the cromster to its ribs. The next two shots struck ironclad plates along the hull, each with a dull stentorian ring. Return fire was offered by the gunners of the Hogshead, but what good are twelve-pounders against the Spindle's thick walls of slate and close-packed earth? The balls just bounced on the fortifications and plopped uselessly into the river. Whether it was the fourth, fifth or sixth shot of the great-guns none could tell, but one of them removed the boatswain without a trace and left the tiller as nothing more than a shattered, unusable stump. The Hogshead veered crazily.