by Dudley Pope
“They’ll try to rush us.”
“Yes sir, that’s what I was going to talk to you about. I’ve stopped random shooting. All twenty-five musketeers are aft here, aiming over the taffrail and the quarter. They’ll all fire at once, which should stop any charge. Then the pistoleers are amidships: if any of Stevens’ men get through, the pistoleers will hop on to the jetty and wait until they can shove the muzzles into the mouths of these Roundheads. Then we should start collecting a pile of noheads.”
“That black cloud is building up,” Ned commented. The dark bulging mass was rising higher and getting nearer.
“Too much rain and no one’ll be using wheel-locks or matchlocks: it’ll be cutlass and swords, and that’ll give us an advantage.”
“The devil take it – just look at that cloud!”
It was boiling and swirling over the land, part lit by the moon, part in black shadow. A sudden flash across a quarter of the horizon was followed almost instantaneously by an echoing crash of thunder.
“’Ere they come!” yelled Bullock. “End of the jetty – scores of ’em!”
Saxby put the speaking trumpet to his lips. “Musketeers!” he bellowed. “Make sure your pieces are spanned and cocked… Steady now, I’ll give the word to fire. Try and pick your target – men on the starboard side look after the left side of the jetty, those to larboard to the right.”
Ned watched fascinated and hurriedly snatched up a cutlass which, until yesterday morning, had been in use at Kingsnorth for cutting cane.
The landward end of the jetty was black with men: Ned was reminded of maggots in rotten meat. Then he could hear the thudding of their feet on the planking. Saxby sprang up on to the bulwarks and then down on to the jetty, standing crouched, straining his eyes and trying to estimate the distance. Thin cloud was crossing the moon like gauze curtains flapping in the wind.
Ned saw the speaking trumpet go up to Saxby’s mouth.
The thudding of feet, the wavelets hitting the hull and sounding like a mill stream, the chill on his face as the breeze sprang up, pushing the Griffin away from the jetty until her mooring lines began to creak…he seemed helpless, a spare man clutching a cutlass.
“Stand by!” Saxby yelled. “Now boys – fire!”
All the Griffin’s muskets except one fired simultaneously, flame spurting up from twenty-four muzzles. The twenty-fifth fired two or three seconds later and the others in the ship gave the man an ironic cheer.
“Gawd…gawd…gawd! Just look!” A shocked Bullock perched up in the shrouds was talking to himself and Ned cleared the bulwark to land on the jetty beside Saxby without conscious thought.
“There’ll be no work for the pistoleers this time,” Saxby said grimly. “Twenty or more cut down. Almost blocking the end of the jetty!” He aimed the speaking trumpet aft. “Come on you dreaming lechers, get those muskets loaded!”
He turned to Ned. “They’ll regroup and try again, sir,” he said. “Just listen to the moanin’ and screamin’. That won’t inspire the second group!”
“If they’ve any sense they’ll wait for this cloud and rush us in the dark!”
“If Stevens had any sense he’d have sent the second group along the jetty before our lads have time to reload. It’s too late now; I can hear the spanning keys turning.”
Ned watched the cloud. A distant curtain hung down from it: driving rain that would last perhaps twenty minutes, buffet house and shutters with gusty winds, and disappear to the westward, leaving a few gallons caught in the cisterns and refreshing the cane. These night-time tropical showers and not the soil were what made the islands so fertile.
Was Stevens watching that cloud? It was coming up behind him but he must have heard the thunder; it would have been enough to make him look over his shoulder.
Bullock called down: “Men are spreading out along the water’s edge both sides of the jetty!”
“Damnation take it,” Saxby swore. “They’ll be shooting at us from both sides.”
“Fifty paces at least: their shooting won’t be very accurate.”
“Thirty or forty men getting one lucky hit every fusilade will soon whittle us down,” Saxby said calmly. “He’s spreading ’em out to maintain random fire so we keep our heads down. Then he sends his main force along the jetty to board us!” Saxby spoke with certainty and Ned did not doubt him. Still, heavy rain fell equally on the just and the unjust and soaked their priming powder.
Flashes rippled down the beach to the south and Ned gave Saxby a push: “Quick, back on board!”
He followed with a leap over the bulwark but Stevens’ men were firing at the after part of the ship: he could hear the shot thudding into the hull, ricocheting off metal and some, aimed too low, hitting the planking on top of the jetty. A few moments later more red flashes along the beach to the north, followed a moment later by deep popping, warned that the men to the north had fired their fusilade. A cry from the Griffin’s taffrail showed that someone had been hit.
Saxby ran aft, warning Ned to watch the end of the jetty. He was back within a couple of minutes to report one man dead and two wounded, the last one, who cried out, unlikely to live.
Ned continued watching the cloud: it had suddenly increased speed and was swirling, torn and twisted by the gusts of wind it was bringing with it. Stevens would send his main group racing down the jetty the moment the cloud blotted out the moon and stars. The cloud was moving like blackberries stirred in cream; the sharp outline of the moon was blurred and, as the whole mass of cloud suddenly began moving seaward and picking up speed, the breeze was chilly on his face.
That sheet of rain, which he could hear driving down on the trees inland with a venomous hissing, would be on them within a couple of minutes with powerful gusts of wind that would try to tear the Griffin from the jetty.
Saxby said quietly: “Any minute now!”
The men along the beach to the south began firing slowly, carefully aimed shots which thudded into the taffrail, which was where they guessed the Griffin’s musketeers would be crowded to cover the jetty.
Then that popping that seemed too light, too harmless, to come from muskets began along the northern end of the beach. Suddenly it was almost pitch black as a particularly thick cloud slid over the moon and almost at once both Ned and Saxby heard the drumming of feet at the far end of the jetty.
Saxby lifted his speaking trumpet. “Ready musketeers – fire!”
It is never quite dark in the tropics and Ned could just make out the line of the jetty. There was a bulge on top of it halfway between the Griffin’s stern and the shore; a bulge which moved towards the ship.
“Pistoleers stand by!” Saxby bellowed.
Then Bullock called a warning as Ned spotted the movement. “The men on the beach are running to the jetty!” he warned Saxby.
“It’s cutlasses now, then,” Saxby said calmly, “and I’d like to shake your hand, sir: we nearly got away.”
Ned felt his hand grasped and returned the squeeze, conscious that the hissing sheet of rain was only a few yards away and the wind was increasing, at first in gusts but quickly steadying into almost gale force. It would last half an hour; these night squalls usually did.
The black bulge was now moving slowly along the jetty, obviously waiting for the men on the beach to catch up and knowing the Griffin’s muskets could not be reloaded in time.
“Musketeers, grab cutlasses; pistoleers, make sure you have a cutlass in the other hand!”
The gusts were blowing the Griffin away from the jetty, but her mooring lines took the strain and kept her within two or three feet.
“Must be a hundred men on the jetty!” Bullock yelled.
“Funny they’re not making a dash for us,” Saxby said.
“They’re planters and apprentices,” Ned said. “They’re not used to trot
ting along a narrow jetty in the dark. And it’s wobbling as the Griffin moves in the wind. Ah, the rain!”
The raindrops hit like small pebbles just as he realized what he had said. “Saxby!” he yelled, “hoist the mainsail! Get the ship moving! Hurry!”
“But sir, we’re still secured!”
“Exactly! Don’t cut any mooring ropes, just get the sail drawing!”
Saxby swung round and shouted orders into the speaking trumpet. There were flashes and bangs as the pistoleers fired at the approaching men before running to the halyards and sheet.
The men were five yards from the Griffin as the mainsail began crawling up the mast and bellying out: Ned could see a mass of men on the jetty but the sudden thumping of the sail filling startled them so they stopped for a moment. Someone – probably Stevens – bawled an order and the phalanx began moving again. It did not now have the sureness with which it began; many of the men in front seemed to be being pushed by those behind.
Then the mainsail was full and Saxby was giving orders for easing away the mainsheet and the mooring ropes were creaking as the Griffin tried to break away from the jetty. Gust after gust hit the ship as Saxby bawled at the men to make fast the mainsheet.
A great creaking began as though the largest door in Christendom was being pushed open on rusty hinges; then through the ship’s deck Ned felt the snapping of wood. It seemed more like the kitchen noise of a cook breaking crisp rhubarb but as he swung round to have a better look at the jetty he heard scores of men screaming and as a sudden brief thinning of cloud let a beam of moonlight sweep the shore, he saw that the beach was already a hundred yards away and the jetty tilting like a mill grain platform collapsing in a flood.
Secured alongside the Griffin like a raft the jetty was being pulled seaward, but as the ship gathered speed the jetty heeled more and more, and in the distance he heard Saxby’s hoarse shouts to the men to grab axes and cut the mooring lines to free the ship.
The men were quick and Ned was thankful Saxby had been very strict about ensuring that there was an axe secured inside the bulwark every ten or twelve feet. The strain on the mooring ropes was enormous; as the axe blades bit into them the strands unwound like suddenly-released springs.
Then he felt the Griffin surge forward like a good horse starting a gallop, and Saxby, now standing beside him, said: “I’m glad I mentioned the need for mending the jetty! We owe you our lives.”
An embarrassed Ned said: “I led you into this mess. I’m glad that…well, anyway, it was a close run affair. And there’ll be enough wreckage for those men to hold on to as they paddle back to the shore.”
Saxby snorted and said with genuine regret in his voice: “This squall’s blowing itself out so they won’t drift far. A hundred yards to paddle…I’d like to use them for target practice.”
Chapter Six
The Griffin had run into Falmouth Bay at Antigua, passed the reef which almost closed its circular shape like a lid on a pot, and anchored inside close to a sandy beach. Yorke could see two batteries perched like pelicans’ nests, one on a small cay just inside the bay, the other on a cliff opposite, and the guns were all trained on to the ship.
The voyage from Barbados had been good, the Trade winds blowing steadily. With the Griffin’s heavy mainsail drawing well they had first sighted Guadeloupe, and then Antigua just north of it. Now, as he waited for a boat to be hoisted out so that he could go over to report to the Governor, Yorke felt nervous. Falmouth looked busy – courthouse in the north-east corner, and other scattered buildings. A few men were walking about – but the men at the batteries were Roundheads: that much was clear from their hats and jerkins.
Still, the brief voyage had done them all good. Saxby knew his seamanship, and he was a good leader of the men. Mrs Judd was very different from the plump and cheerful person who had been the housekeeper and head woman at Kingsnorth: now she was twice as cheerful and if it had been the custom for a ship to have a mistress as well as a master, she would have qualified for the job. She kept the six women busy so that meals were served on time; she found jobs for any man who had managed to evade Saxby’s sharp eye. As soon as the flying jib developed a tear she had her women standing by with needles, thread and the four sail palms that were on board, and in spite of Saxby’s protest that it was seamen’s work, had the tear repaired – and reinforced half a dozen other seams whose stitching to her sharp eye seemed doubtful.
However, she had not understood why the repaired jib, when rehoisted, had not filled with wind like the mainsail and had promptly turned on Saxby, accusing him of being a poor sailor. It had taken him half an hour to persuade her that with a following wind the mainsail took all the breeze, keeping it from the jibs like a shut door stopping a draught, but all the women and many of the men had benefited from Saxby’s lesson in seamanship.
Aurelia had been fascinated by it all. At first, soon after dawn and before Barbados had dropped below the horizon astern, still being outlined by a rising sun, she had appeared on deck wearing a pale green dress with a full skirt, the neck cut higher than was fashionable, presumably because there were so many men about. She had walked over to Ned, a wan smile on her face but admitting she had slept well once she had become used to the ship’s rolling, but as she spoke she broke off, staring forward, wide-eyed, and Ned had turned hurriedly, suddenly alarmed, to find that she was looking at Mrs Judd and the woman following her.
Mrs Judd had the kind of figure that would immediately remind a miller of upper and nether grindstones: wide shoulders and enormous breasts seemed to move one way when she walked, and a large stomach and generous buttocks moved another, giving the impression that the two sections of her body were only loosely joined at the waist. But what fascinated Aurelia, who knew Mrs Judd from Kingsnorth, was the fact that she was now dressed as a man: black breeches, obviously too tight for her, did their best to contain the lower half of her body, down as far as stockings, which were probably her own; above, a man’s jerkin had no chance of enveloping her and her bosoms strained the wooden buttons, one of which had already broken in half.
The woman with her, young and with a good figure, was also dressed in men’s clothes and Ned noted appreciatively how the breeches and jerkin displayed advantages in her figure which were usually hidden by the folds of a dress.
More obviously, though, was that the both women moved about the Griffin’s decks easily, unhampered by skirts and petticoats when a sudden extra roll sent them lurching to leeward, grasping at a rope or reaching for the bulwark.
Mrs Judd, seeing Aurelia in a dress, had greeted her cheerfully and then declared: “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Mrs Wilson, if you wear those clothes you’ll catch your heel in your skirt and trip and break a leg. Breeches and hose, and barefoot, is safer, and that’s what you need. There’s only one thing more comfortable, and modesty forbids that!”
Both the second woman and Aurelia blushed as Mrs Judd gave a great bellow of laughter at her remark, and Ned saw Aurelia watch fascinated as the big woman’s breasts bounced up and down, straining the buttons.
“Mr Yorke’s brought a good wardrobe, ma’am,” Mrs Judd added. “Otherwise, if you want a better fit, I’d be only too glad to make you a pair of breeches.”
Aurelia nodded helplessly, for the moment unable to think of an appropriate comment in English, and Mrs Judd, misinterpreting the nod, said breezily as she walked away: “Right, ma’am, you’ll have the breeches by noon.”
As soon as she was out of earshot an embarrassed Aurelia turned to Ned. “But I cannot wear breeches! How do I tell her?”
“Why bother?” Ned said cheerfully. “They’ll suit you well. And she’s quite right about them being more practical.”
“But all the men…”
“My beloved, you must forget masters, mistresses and servants for now; we’re all just the crew of the Griffin. She’s our only hom
e; she may remain so for months. And in the meantime, if in an emergency you are needed to haul on a rope would you sooner be wearing a dress or breeches? And she’s quite right about the danger of you catching a heel on your skirt.”
“What did Mrs Judd mean,” Aurelia asked cautiously, “when she said ‘only one thing is more comfortable’?”
“Put modesty to one side and think,” Ned said with a grin.
“Oh – she meant that?”
Ned nodded. “But I am glad you don’t see me like that!” Aurelia said.
The tone of voice startled Ned. This was the woman he dreamed of marrying, the woman he dreamed of naked in his arms. And here she was… “Why?” he asked flatly.
She turned away but was not blushing, so he guessed that whatever the reason it had nothing to do with normal modesty.
“Aurelia,” he said, almost pleading, “answer me.”
“Ask me again in a few weeks’ time,” she said in a whisper he barely heard above the hissing of the waves sluicing past the hull.
“Will the answer be different?”
Although when she nodded he felt relief, he could not avoid asking bluntly: “Why, beloved?”
“Mrs Bullock would know…”
Then suddenly he realized. “You are still bruised?”
Again she nodded. “It will go.”
“It will never happen again!”
She shrugged her shoulders as though indifferent to the past and Ned felt himself swept by a warm wave of love. That shrug – so typically French and so reassuring.
Then she turned to face Ned squarely, as if wanting to use this moment right at the beginning of the voyage, and said: “Ned – do not think too bitterly about him…”
“What – when he used to punch you as well? That bruise on your face, the whippings…”
