by Smith, Skye
"My name is Colonel Thomas Lunsford, and I thank you for saving me,” the officer told him, expecting an equivalent introduction in return. Daniel kept quiet. There was no way on earth he was going to tell his name to an English officer. In truth, he would rather kill this officer than have him know his name, or that he was an Englishman riding with the Scots.
The young Highlander had walked over to the English infantryman who lay just beyond Lunsford, the lad who Lunsford had shot in the back. He called something to his brothers-in-arms, and they all laughed. Daniel laughed with them out of relief from defusing a tight situation, and even Lunsford smiled. The translator sneered at the both of them and called them fools.
"They have accepted your decision, Daniel, that they as Scots cannot harm Lunsford, but they point out that the English lad is still breathing. They intend to continue with Highland justice. They are going to sit the lad up, put Lunsford's pistol in his hand and aim it at Lunsford. If the lad pulls the trigger and does for Lunsford, then the fates will have spoken."
"You can't allow it!" Lunsford shouted to Daniel in a renewed panic.
"I don't see that I have much choice,” Daniel hissed at him. "The Highlanders will have followed my orders to the letter."
"Be warned that I side with the Highlanders in this," the translator told Daniel, "so don't count on my help if you try to stop them." The others of the flying squad confirmed the translator's call.
Daniel stood back out of the line of fire and walked towards the English lad. He was barely conscious, barely breathing, and his homespun was sticky red with his own blood. "Who are you, lad?"
"Jack Tanner of the Somerset Trained Band,” the lad replied in short halting breaths.
"Do you wish to shoot the Colonel for trying to convince his infantry to stand their ground?"
"If it takes my last breath,” the lad moaned. "He shouldna shot me in the back. I stood with him longer than any of my mates." One of the Highlanders had heaped Lunsford's fine cloak to create a mound to support the weight of the pistol. The lad might have had enough strength to pull the trigger but he certainly didn't have the strength to hold the barrel up.
"Aren't you going to stop this?" Lunsford called out hopefully.
"Nay, I can't. If I were you, Colonel, I would think of this as the last shot of a duel. You had your shot and it will soon kill your opponent, but your opponent still has his shot to take."
"That is complete crap!" Lunsford yelled out, but already the translator had told Daniel's words to the Highlanders and they were all nodding at the wisdom of comparison. As he was speaking, the translator was handing his own pistol to the young Highlander who had been ready to do the scalping.
"He is the Tanner's second in this duel,” the translator explained to Lunsford. "If Tanner's shot misses you because you moved out of the way of it, then he will put his own ball through your head." Lunsford began to argue, a long-winded argument. Eventually the translator told him to shut up, and to sit up straight and still like a man, for it was obvious that the Colonel was arguing only to waste time in hopes that Tanner would die before he could take his shot.
There was a crack of a pistol, and a lot of smoke, and both Tanner and Lunsford fell backwards with moans and grunts. The Highlander who had been helping Tanner stooped over the lad and then looked up and shook his head. The lad was no longer breathing. Meanwhile Daniel had run to Lunsford and knelt beside him. The man was weeping and holding the left side of his head with both hands. Daniel pulled his hands away so he could see the wound.
There was no blood, but there was a black smudge that was glowing in the middle and a stench of burning flesh. The pistol ball had missed Lunsford, but not by much, for his left eye and temple had been hit by the burning soot of the powder and cloth. "Quickly, a canteen!" he yelled out to the translator. As soon as he had a canteen in his hand he poured water over the still glowing particles in and around the eye.
Lunsford stared at him through his tears, and then raised a hand, not to cover his injured eye, but to cover the other one. "Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, "the worthless peasant has cost me an eye."
It was over. The Highlanders were satisfied that the Wyred sisters that wove the fates of men together had chosen to take an eye but save the man. Through the translator, Daniel told them, "Go and hunt down some of the king's mounted dandy boys, and be quick about it before they all escape you."
The clansmen looked around, not just to see in which direction the cavalry was fleeing, but at the rest of the flying squad of pistoleers who were now riding towards them. The eldest of the Highlanders gave the colonel one last half-hearted boot, as he called to the other Highlanders to follow him. And so they all did, at a run in the direction of some English cavalrymen who seemed to be lingering on the edge of the battlefield, probably scouts.
By this time, Leslie's other captains had crossed the bridge and were coming through the ramparts towards Daniel. Daniel was eager to pass on the task of organizing the army that had captured the earthen works and the culverins. Let Scots lead their infantry along the riverbank to capture the ferries and their docks. He was literally sick to death of this battle field. If this was the kind of madness that an incompetent king could cause, then for sure he would move his village to the New World.
There was nothing to stop his clan from doing so. The Swift Daniel was theirs, free and clear of any more obligations to Admiral Tromp. A fast ship and with enough cannon to defend itself against pirates. This was as good a time as any to leave Leslie's army. He would take back his four six-pounders, and his gun crew from Ham and lead them back to the ship.
He waited, surrounded by his flying squad and the English prisoners, including Lunsford, until they were noticed by the general's party. Once Alex Leslie and Alex Hamilton had finished their inspection of the butchery at the culverin breech, they rode towards him. When Leslie was close he called out, "You see, Danny. Our tactics have saved thousands of lives."
Again Daniel felt like puking. The man was actually proud of how he had blown good men into bloody lumps of meat. He called back, "I was trying to make a count of how many lives it did cost, but I was never much good at adding fractions." It would have been witty if it weren't such a grim truth.
Leslie looked around, appraising the bloody remains of the slaughter. He had lived through thirty years of such battles and knew too well how to add fractions. "There are less than a hundred in the breech, and another hundred in the ford. Considering that all totaled on both sides there were as many as thirty thousand men involved in this battle, then a few hundred dead is far better than I had hoped for. I will pray to the good Lord to thank him for keeping the number so small."
It was then that Leslie noticed the captured English colonel, and yelled at an aide, "Give the colonel your horse! Colonel Lunsford is it not? Come Lunsford, climb into the saddle and tell me which of your officers is doing that." He pointed towards the edge of the battlefield towards Newcastle.
Once Lunsford was in the saddle, he looked over to where the General was pointing. A troop of English infantry were running along the Newcastle road and in front of them there were horses hauling away the smallest of the English cannons. "That is a scoundrel called George Monck, just back from the Dutch wars. They say he is still wanted for murdering a deputy sheriff in Devon. Many of the king's officers have similar stories for the king offered us pardons if we would come home from the continent and help him."
"Well, that particular scoundrel is saving your field guns from capture. I wanted those guns for myself,” Leslie was stepping his horse onto slightly higher ground so he could see where else the English were making a stand. "Only this man Monck is still thinking like a soldier." He called to two of his scouts, "Ride and tell Colonel Fraser to cut off those field guns before they reach the ferry to Newcastle. And tell him to recruit their captain even if it costs us gold."
Leslie stared at Colonel Lunsford and told him, "If you please, Colonel, there are still some pockets
of resistance. Ride with me and help convince them to surrender before even more lives are wasted. If you will do that for me, then I will set you free so you can take my terms of surrender to the fortress and town of Newcastle."
As Leslie rode away, he turned his head and called out, "Danny boy, don't you be disappearing on me now. I may need your help to secure Newcastle."
Daniel cursed under his breath, for disappearing was exactly what had been in his thoughts. He stooped and picked up Lunsford’s sword and pistol and then called out to the half blind man who was riding away in Leslie's company, "What about your things, Lunsford?"
The colonel turned his horse and came back. He was holding Daniel's dampened kerchief to his bad eye as he looked down through his one good eye. "If you will allow me my sword, I would be thankful." With a sniff of the tears from his still hurting eye, he glanced around at his things. He would not be allowed his pistol. His cloak and hat were laying in a pool of Tanner's blood. His chest armour and purse were gone with the Highlanders. "The rest is yours in trade for this kerchief. A reward for saving my life." Once he had his sword, he kicked the horse to catch up to the general.
* * * * *
Four days later, an English lateen-rigged galliot out of Bridgewater sailed between two handfuls of anchored colliers, dropped its sails and began to row with the tide up the Tyne. To the harbour master, Daniel told the truth that he was looking for cargo going south. The aging harbour master stared at him in astonishment as if he had two heads.
"Don't you realize that Newcastle is under siege? Why would you risk your ship by docking here? Are you mad?"
"But I have a load of powder and shot aboard to deliver to the fortress. Where else would I land it?"
When gossip reached the fortress that an English ship full of powder and shot had been seized by General Leslie, it was the last straw for the English garrison holding the fortress. They had been stripped of many of their best cannons by Conway, who used them at the English ramparts at Newbourne. Those same cannons had been captured by Leslie before they could be spiked, so now they were being positioned to be used against the fortress.
Almost as soon as news of Conway's defeat at Newbourne reached Newcastle, Lord Strafford and his noble officers had fled the fortress under the cover of darkness. To top it all off, now the Scots had captured a shipload of powder, and there was nothing to stop them from hiring the local coalminers to tunnel under the fortress walls, mine the tunnels with the captured powder, and then blow down the walls. Prudently, to save the town folk from such a horror, the garrison surrendered the fortress.
Only when the gates of Newcastle were manned by Scots did Leslie agree to release the Swift's gunners and their four six-pounders from his service. He and Daniel's subtle ruse about delivering powder had cheated the grim reaper of another vicious battle, and for this Alex Leslie was so grateful that he turned a blind eye to Daniel's theft of a few of the Dutch cannon bombs that he had delivered with the Dutch cannons.
"I thank ye, Danny, but more importantly, the folk of Newcastle thank ye. It has been less than four years since this town was ravaged by the plague, and they have still to recover. A brutal siege would have finished them."
"Do us a favour, Alex." Daniel replied with a chuckle, "and forget to mention my name in your reports. The last thing I need is for some English spy to find out that it was my ship that brought you Dutch field-guns and Dutch bombs, and my ship that tricked the fortress into surrendering."
"Why Danny, if it's revenge from the English king that you are fearing, then you are very welcome to move to Scotland. I'm sure there is a glen somewhere in Argyll's holdings that would suite your clan's needs."
"Scotland, nay, Alex. True, I plan on moving my clan, but certainly not to the North. Never to the North."
"Are you sure? With me holding Newcastle and the River Tyne, and with coal not getting through to London, well it's only a matter of time before Charlie must sign a peace treaty with the Covenanters and pay a fat ransom to convince us to march back to Scotland. It will be a sum large enough to make the bankers drool. Perhaps a quarter million. A fertile glen would be little enough for parliament to offer you."
"Next time you see me you can pay me in coin, but for now I want only to be away from here before me or my ship can be remembered to the English navy." Daniel turned to leave, but then stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Remember our pact, Alex. If either of us have the chance, we must capture the king and hold him safe until all of the land that has been stolen by the aristocracy over the centuries is returned to the common."
"Changing the laws of inheritance is the only way,” Alex Leslie agreed. "But there's not much chance of that ever happening whilst every politician is a landlord or is working for a landlord." In a quieter voice he said, "In the olden days I would have been crowned the King of Northumbria for winning the battle and the fortress,” and then in a whisper, "instead I am still just an aging general in the pay of some knuckle-headed lords."
Daniel laughed and grabbed the general's hand to shake it. "Then throw your lords into a dungeon and claim Newcastle's ransom for yourself. With you ruling Scotland there will be peace. A long peace. Everyone wins when there is a long peace."
"Not everyone, Danny,” he replied while holding the man's hand hard in his grip. "Not the weapons merchants, or the bankers that supply the coin to buy their weapons. All wars are banker's wars, Danny. Remember that and you may live long enough to spoil your grandchildren. I wish you well and hope that you find a paradise island for your clan."
The two men stared at each other, and then hugged each other long and hard. The last man who had hugged Alex Leslie with such feeling had been the King of Sweden in Lutzen on the day before he had been killed in battle. They parted without another word; Alex Leslie to take charge of the fortress of Newcastle and to send messengers to Parliament in Edinburgh, and to King Charles in York, Daniel Vanderus to sail the Swift back to Ely and to tell Oliver Cromwell the extent of the king's losses at Newbourne so that Oliver could pass the news on to John Pym and the other Reform politicians in London.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14
Chapter 7 - Storm along East Yorkshire in September 1640
"See," Cleff sniffed, "she's a collier just like I told ye an hour ago." He hated having his judgement questioned. Though he was just the helmsman on the wheel of this galliot, in his long lifetime he had commanded ships a'plenty. The wisdom of a village elder should never be dismissed lightly and certainly should never be laughed at. He pushed the shoulder of the lad at his side. "Go and wake Daniel."
Daniel fought to hang onto his cherished sleep. He hadn't had much since the Battle at Newbourne, and he was using this run down the coast of Yorkshire to catch up. "Bugger off,” he growled at the hands shaking him, and then pushed his new book, a gift from Alex Leslie, back into place as his pillow.
"Cleff says he needs you at the wheel,” the lad said as he shook him again and then leaped out of range of a kick. "We've been running with just him and me at the wheel and Anso on bow watch so that everyone could get some rest. Now we need help." His own job was to keep Cleff awake, because a ship with no helmsman was a ship racing towards disaster.
Daniel rolled off his reed sleeping mat in a hurry and stood to his full height. "Ow,” he howled and held his head to ease the pain. In this small cabin even a man less than six feet had to duck. "Ow,” he howled again as his ducked forehead hit the low beam above the door. He made it out onto the main deck without further injuries and finally could stand his full height and stretch out the cold stiffness from his back and neck.
"It's dark. Did I sleep through my watch?"
"Naw, it got dark early 'cause there's a storm brewing,” the lad replied. "A nor'easter. Cleff says it looks bad enough for us to take shelter in the Humber."
As Daniel climbed the stairs to the steering castle he was scanning the horizons. There w
as a chop in front of them, but standing horses building behind them. The storm was almost on them. There was also a ship in front of them, or rather, a sailing hulk. She was wallowing like she was half sunk with the weight of her cargo, and she was plowing through the chop at less than half of the Swift's speed.
He looked with pride along the length of the 'Swift Daniel'. She was a fine fast ship, but better than that, she was agile and versatile. An increasing wind had her triangular sails swollen to the point of bursting and the brass hoops that held the diagonal yards to the masts were grinding into the wood of the masts. Immediately he knew why he had been woken. They had to shorten sail before the wind caught up to them. Even now this might take some muscle. "Please go and wake the crew,” he told the lad.
The lad ran back down the steps and then disappeared down a hatch to the big cabin beneath the commander's cabin where most of the crew slept. This ship was so much finer than their last ship because everyone aboard could sleep out of the weather.
"Where are we?" he asked Cleff as he stepped up to stand beside him.
"Still north of Easington." Cleff pointed to the ship ahead of them. "She's a collier. An old one by how she sits so low in the water."
"Old or new, they allow the seams to seep. The seawater keeps the coal from catching fire. It can catch fire all by itself you know, if there is enough of it in one pile." Daniel shook his Dutch 'kijker', his 'looker' out of its cover and adjusted the length of the looker's pipes to focus the spectacle lenses at each end to use the magnification to scan first the horizons, and then the collier. "She must have been one of the last colliers loaded before Alex Leslie laid siege to Newcastle and shut the Tynemouth keelsmen down. She hasn't got very far, and her Navy escort have left her behind. I wonder if she is in trouble?"
