TSA: 027 - Fish in a Barrel (Patreon)

Petty Warfare

• [25.03.1624]

Emerging from the path that lined the riverbank came the vanguard of the Lion’s host, their vast banners unfurled in the breeze like proud sentinels of war. Each standard bore the hues and sigils of noble houses Levi scarcely recognised, fluttering in the wind as heralds of their advent to the realm.

Behind the mounted vanguard at the forefront of the host came the bulk of the armoured cavalry atop mighty destriers; a few dozen men strong. Beside them marched archers, and footmen followed clad in links and leathers, bearing blazoned shields. Their spears and halberds were aloft, their garb worn from the road's long travail. Most were sellswords, and more still were pressed conscripts—cannon fodder, if you may. 

Amidst the knights, only a few gleamed like the storied champions of old. Most were sturdy men-at-arms, their armour practical and well-used and their weapons worn of frequent use. A congregation of seasoned slayers the host proved it was; they moved with purpose, faces set in grim resolve as they pressed forth.

Behind the soldiery trailed the baggage train, a sprawling mass of carts and wagons laden with the necessities of war. Each cart bore its burden: powder, shot, barrels of water and ale, sacks of grain, crates of weapons and armour, and coils of rope. Tethered to the wagons plodded the beasts of burden—mules, oxen, and steeds—their loads carefully arranged to ensure they could keep pace with the army.

Amongst the baggage train could be seen the camp followers, a motley band of women and non-combatants who journeyed with the host, rendering essential services such as cooking, whoring, blacksmithing, laundering, and tending to the wounded. They too bore the marks of the road, their visages weary, their raiment stained with sweat and grime.

The artillerists trudged along in their wake, dragging along the siege guns requisite to breach Faywyn’s walls. And in the very rear was the rearguard as lightly armoured as their kin at the fore. Before Levi lay no romanticized vision of medieval warfare, but rather the harsh verity of an army on the move, its triumph hinging not just on the strength of its soldiers, but on the efficiency of its supply lines and the resilience of its auxiliaries.

“How close do we have to get?” inquired Levi, setting down his seeing glass to regard the knight beside him. The Codfather swayed along with the Strega’s current, bobbing along menacingly towards their quarry. The invading army, likely just discerning the ship's outline, slowly began the arduous task of halting its advance as a detachment from the vanguard sped forth to investigate. 

Beside the earl, Ser Mannon stood garbed in a gambeson and helmet like the other knights, to better conceal the presence of the duke in their midst. The stout man appeared somewhat queasy, yet he stifled his discomfort as valiantly as Levi did his. Neither possessed the sea legs to match the nonchalant demeanour exhibited by the crew gathered for today's task, but neither would stoop so low as to embarrass themselves in the presence of their subordinates.

"...About a hundred paces more, My Liege," responded Mannon to Levi's inquiry. "We may loose our shot from this distance, but our aim shall likely be dismal."

Levi nodded understandingly. "How many do you reckon we may fell this day?"

The Captain of the Watch pondered the distant mass of tightly packed figures for a moment before replying. "Considering all forty-four of our cannons have been primed with grapeshot and incendiary, it should be substantial," he said. "Yet, I doubt the Lion and his company would be foolish enough to tarry in the open for us to close upon them; we’ll have to wait and see, my Liege.”

…

Verily, the Codfather drew nigh at a leisurely pace, whilst the Lion’s host struggled mightily to move the cumbersome baggage it bore. Carts and wagons laden with implements of war cluttered the wayside, deserted as their handlers fled into the forest to escape the worst of the Codfather’s ire. Some pack animals, still tethered to their burdens were similarly condemned, yet what captured Levi's gaze most keenly were the siege guns left abandoned. 'Twas plain to see the artillerymen had begun the assembly of one such gun, perchance to dissuade an assault from the brig. Alas for them, siege engines, though potent, were ill-suited for battle in the field. Aye, 'twould take near an hour to erect one; yet the enemy's artillerist had less than half that time.

Nonetheless, their misfortune proved Levi's boon.

“Fire!”

BANG 

Eleven guns sang in concert, hurling ruinous shrapnel and red-hot debris at the abandoned weapons. The distant guns rang like gongs as they were assailed by the fusillade.

“Fire!”

BANG 

Again, eleven cannons thundered, bombarding the artillery anew. "Weigh anchor!" shouted the helmsman of the brig as he spun the helm, steering the Codfather into the current to present her other broadside to the foe.

“Fire!”

BANG 

“Fire!”

BANG 

Twenty-two more shots were discharged at the artillery, to ensure their destruction. Unable to disembark to verify the efficacy of the assault, nor to ascertain if all the guns were vanquished, Levi could only command his men to fire for effect.

“Raise anchor!”

The helmsman turned the vessel about for another pass, whilst the gunners hastened to reload. On the second pass, Levi commanded they target the powder barrels and grain sacks. The initial salvo merely obliterated a few carts and oxen, yet the second ignited a powder barrel, setting ablaze a wagon which in turn ignited a barrel of powder. Thus, a chain reaction ensued, and a great portion of the baggage train was consumed by a conflagration of searing flames and explosions

Another volley was launched at the battered artillery, then another aimed at the forefront of the baggage train, to ensure none of the beasts of burden escaped with their load

On a subsequent pass, Levi spied the men lurking amidst the treeline, deeming themselves safe from the Codfather's guns. Swiftly, the earl disallowed them of such folly, commanding a simultaneous broadside aimed at the nearest patch of forest. Shrapnel rent through the foliage with deadly effect, yet alas, the damp weather meant no fires started.

With one final broadside at the artillery and what remained of the baggage train, the Codfather smugly departed the battlefield.