Black platoon needed no prompting. An enemy lying invitingly on the ground, his back exposed to the point of a sword or the blade of an axe, was the very enemy a man might wish to encounter. Even if he had wanted to, Charles could have held them back no longer. They leapt out of hiding and ran past the redoubts, screaming their battle cries and raising their weapons to strike.
‘Thank God I’m on their side,’ Thomas said out loud. The nearest of the crawlers did not even have time to roll over and face them before being skewered and sliced, and the ones who did simply had a better view of their own ends. Black platoon, Charles Carrington at its head, moved so fast that it sped right around the house killing worms before any could escape. If the first strike did not kill, the second did. In no time, the ground had turned red. Butchered bodies lay everywhere; some lacked limbs or heads, others had been filleted.
But kneeling musketeers were still firing from the tree line and two swordsmen went down. Mary and Thomas ran out of the house towards one of them. Musket fire whistled around them and Adam shouted at them to get back. They ignored him and dragged the man by his arms to the safety of a redoubt.
They returned for the second man. Again they took an arm each, but this man was bigger and heavier and Mary was struggling. Musket fire rang out and she went down. Thomas immediately dropped the wounded man’s arm, picked her up and staggered back to the house. Blood from her right thigh was soaking her dress and Thomas feared an artery wound.
‘Thank you, Thomas,’ she whispered, ‘my brother might have helped but I daresay he’s busy.’
‘Ssh, Mary. You’re losing blood. Lie there and Patrick will see to you.’ Thomas left her to Patrick and went back outside. This time, the enemy were waiting for him and he was met by another volley of musket fire. Crouching low, he turned himself into as small a target as he could, made it to the wounded man, grabbed his legs and tried to pull him back to the parlour. Until then, Thomas’s raw hands had stood up well. But this man was too heavy, and Thomas could not move him. He was a sitting duck. He was about to abandon the attempt when Patrick appeared beside him and took hold of the man’s leg. Together, they managed to drag him to the safety of the house, made him comfortable and went over to Mary who was lying in a corner.
‘If you will permit it, Miss Lyte, I’ll take a look at your wound,’ said Patrick. Mary said nothing, but reached down and pulled up her skirt and petticoat. Patrick wiped away blood from her thigh and peered closely at the injury. They were in a battle and there was no embarrassment.
‘A musket ball has gone straight through, Miss Lyte. There’s cloth from your skirt around the wound. I’ll have to make sure there’s none inside before I clean it.’
‘Is there any sign of bone?’
Patrick peered again at the wound. ‘No, but this will hurt.’
Mary sighed with relief. A shattered bone or a pierced artery could kill her. ‘Then thank God it’s you, Patrick. Sprot would have had my leg off as soon as look at it. Take my hand, Thomas, if you please. I’m ready. Now do it quickly.’
With a silver salt spoon Patrick probed the wound and extracted two small pieces of cloth. Her face ashen and her teeth clamped around her knuckles, Mary uttered no sound but low groans of pain. She squeezed Thomas’s hand until it hurt.
‘It’s done,’ said Patrick at last. ‘Lie still please and I will clean and bandage it.’ Mary opened her eyes and nodded. Then her grip slackened and she passed out. Patrick wiped the sweat from her face and bound the wound. They would soon know if it was poisoned.
Thomas returned to the window and watched the trees. Having despatched the wriggling worms, Charles and his platoon had launched themselves at the rest. The rest, however, were rather more numerous than expected. When Thomas saw a dozen men, again a mixture of white and black, emerge, he shouted an alarm.
These men were led by a flame-haired giant wielding a long-handled axe. Good God, he thought, Africans and Irishmen and now Vikings. The devil alone knows where he came from. Then he remembered the huge Irishman from the ship, the one whom the guards had pulled off Thomas. Not only had he survived, he was intent on revenge.
While black platoon, now reinforced by red and green armed with swords or using their muskets as clubs, cut, stabbed and swung at the enemy, Charles had decided to make the Viking’s acquaintance. He spotted a sword impaled in the stomach of a dead slave, tugged it out and advanced upon the Viking with a blade in each hand.
Truth to tell, the Viking had not done much so far. He had merely kept an eye on the ebb and flow and looked as terrifying as he could. He had yet to swing the long axe in anger. But seeing a tall dark-haired man with two swords closing at speed, the Viking raised his weapon and let out a blood-curdling battle cry.
Unimpressed, Charles did not check his stride but advanced to duelling distance, shot out his right hand and drew blood from the Viking’s neck. The man let out a howl and brought down his axe with savage force. Charles had stepped deftly back and the axe passed harmlessly by. Before the Viking could recover his balance, he moved in again and this time sliced the man’s right arm with the sword in his left hand. Another howl of pain and fury and another fruitless swing of the axe.
Thomas knew that Charles could finish his man off with ease. Rather than move in for the coup de grâce, however, Charles stepped back to admire his handiwork. Then, to Thomas’s horror, he stumbled on a stone and was down on one knee, knuckles and swords on the ground. He would surely have been up again in an instant but the Viking saw his chance and leapt forward to strike with the axe. One well-timed blow would remove an arm or a leg but he aimed instead for Charles’s neck. That was his mistake. A side-swipe at an arm could not have been deflected, but in raising the axe above his head the Viking allowed Charles just enough time to hop forward like a rabbit and thrust a sword up between his legs. Such was the shock that the Irishman uttered no sound, just fell face forward into the dirt, the sword sticking out grotesquely behind him. Charles scrambled to his feet and, as if to atone for his earlier indiscretion, plunged the other sword into the man’s back.
Absorbed as he had been in Charles’s duel with the Viking, Thomas had not observed progress elsewhere. By the time he looked about, the ground was strewn with the bodies of their attackers mingled with a few of their own, and the battle was over. Any who had escaped the swinging swords and hacking machetes had run for their lives. It was time to count the cost and tend to the wounded, who were already being carried into the house by their colleagues.
‘Well, that presented no great difficulty,’ observed Charles, wiping his sword on his leg. ‘A poorly trained lot, although with an interesting new tactic of advancing along the ground. Might have worked against muskets, but not sharp blades.’
Adam looked about. ‘Irish and slaves, I’d say,’ and seeing Charles’s victim, as large in death as in life and still holding his long-handled axe, ‘and a Viking or two, it seems. What an unholy trinity.’
‘A stupid Viking fortunately,’ replied Charles, ‘or I might have been his dinner. The Vikings did eat their victims, didn’t they? Or was it the Huns? Damned if I can remember.’
‘Neither, I think,’ said Adam. ‘Now we’d better deal with this mess before the dogs arrive.’ He threw up his hands. ‘My God. Mary. She was hit.’
Followed by Charles, he ran to the house. There they found the women and children on their feet, milling about wondering what to do next, and a very pale Mary sitting in a chair in the corner, guarded by Thomas and Patrick who would not let anyone near their patient.
‘My, my. Two more gentlemen to see me. I must be wounded more often.’
Adam turned to Patrick. ‘Patrick, how bad is Miss Lyte’s wound?’
‘A musket ball passed through her thigh, sir. I’ve cleaned and dressed it and Miss Lyte has taken a little brandy.’
‘Her thigh, eh? Wish I’d been here to do the cleaning and dressing.’
‘That would have been a comfort, Charles, but I gather you were
otherwise engaged.’
Adam needed reassurance. ‘Are you sure it didn’t touch the bone, Patrick? And the shot has gone right through?’
‘Quite sure, sir. I removed two pieces of her skirt from the wound. There was no sign of bone but we must watch for poison. Now she should rest. I will clear everyone out.’
‘Good. And please make sure the wounded are taken care of. I’ll come and help in a moment.’
When he had left, Charles said, ‘I do hope Patrick was discreet in his attentions. It must have been embarrassing for you, my dear.’
‘Tush, Charles Carrington. It had to be done and that’s that. Don’t be such an old woman.’
Charles smiled broadly. ‘I know. Merely jealous.’
‘Good,’ said Mary, the brandy bringing colour back to her cheeks. ‘Now, gentlemen, before I go to lie down please give me an account of the affair. I’m sorry that Thomas and I were unable to put our excellent training to good use but I suppose that’s the way of soldiering. You may start from the point at which I was hit. I observed the earlier exchanges.’
Adam described what he called ‘the worms’ advance’ and the swift work of black platoon, and praised red and green platoons for their steadiness under fire.
‘And you, Charles?’ asked Mary. ‘What did you make of it?’
‘Our troops, as Adam said, gave a good account of themselves and I doubt we need worry ourselves about any more attacks from that quarter. And if there is another, we have plenty of provisions.’
‘And yourself? You were in the thick of it, I’m sure.’
‘As a matter of fact, my dear, I did very little. Hardly needed at all. More of a strategic role, I fancy. Barely wetted my sword.’
‘Or swords, Charles.’ Adam had seen him dispose of the Viking. ‘And you are too modest. That axeman could have caused trouble.’
‘Axeman?’ Mary looked at him enquiringly. ‘I do hope he didn’t inconvenience you.’
‘Oh, not at all, my dear. He was a clumsy oaf.’
‘But not too clumsy to have made a hole in your breeches, I see. I couldn’t but notice it when you turned around. Quite large, I fear, and rather revealing. Perhaps a gentleman should wear undergarments in battle. They might save his blushes.’ Mary smiled but her voice was weak.
Charles, who’d had no idea that part of his backside was on public view, went bright crimson, and retreated briskly towards the wall.
‘Now, Charles,’ laughed Adam, ‘nothing to be ashamed of. It could have happened to anyone and I’m sure you didn’t turn your back on the enemy. Have you counted the casualties?’ he asked when Patrick reappeared.
‘I have, sir. We found eighteen of the enemy dead. No wounded.’
‘None?’
‘None. Black platoon did not care to take prisoners.’
Adam blanched, but, breeches forgotten, Charles was much cheered by this news. ‘Eighteen dead, eh? Out of no more than twice that number. A good day’s work. Unnecessary violence I deplore, but when necessary it should be swift and decisive.’
‘Of our own men, two are dead – the man hit in the head and the sentry – and we have seven wounded. Two from wood splinters, two hit by musket balls and three with slashes from blades. One may lose an arm, another a leg. The others will heal,’ said Patrick.
‘We were fortunate, then. I will arrange for our men to be buried properly and we will dispose of the other bodies. I will come and see the wounded when I have attended to Mary.’
‘One more thing, sir,’ added Patrick. ‘One of the dead is Daniel, the orphan who went missing last month. He must have run off to join them.’
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said Mary. ‘He was no more than a boy.’
‘And I,’ agreed Adam, ‘but it might have been Daniel who led them to us. Now, Mary, I shall take you to your bed and you are to stay there until I say otherwise.’ He picked up his sister very gently and carried her to her bedroom.
Charles, squeezed into a borrowed pair of breeches, assisted Patrick and Thomas with the wounded. Bottles of rum were circulating freely. Already, jokes were being told and stories exchanged. How extraordinary, thought Thomas, listening to them: no more than an hour passed and brushes with death reduced to ribald humour and vain boasting.
The two dead men had been taken to the small graveyard beside the servants’ quarters. Of the wounded, a shin bone had been shattered and an arm badly gashed. The two men struck by flying splinters had suffered the murderous things being pulled out, one from his upper arm, the other from his stomach. The others – one musket ball and two slashes – were not serious. Adam knew that they had escaped lightly.
‘Their women will stay with the slaves, Mr Lyte,’ said Patrick, ‘and I will take care of the others. I fear we shall need Mr Sprot.’
‘I will find him when I ride to Bridgetown to inform the governor of the attack.’
‘You should post sentries, Adam, and keep the women and children here,’ advised Charles. ‘They may come back.’
‘Oh come now, Charles,’ exclaimed Adam, ‘surely we’ve seen the last of them. We gave them a good hiding and they won’t want another.’
‘I daresay. But we don’t know how many more of them there may be. Better to take no chances.’
‘Very well. We’ll post sentries and keep the women and children here tonight. But breakfast first and I’ll do the cooking.’
Half an hour later, the three men were seated around the Lytes’ table with plates of bread, eggs, cold chicken and mutton chops, and big wooden tankards of beer. Adam was a cook with a generous eye to quantity if not quality. ‘I wish the silly girl hadn’t disobeyed my orders and run out to the wounded men,’ he said when they had finished. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped her?’
‘I was too slow. And there was much going on to hold my attention elsewhere,’ replied Charles.
‘She’s a courageous lady,’ Thomas said quietly.
‘She certainly is,’ agreed Charles. ‘Brains, beauty and bravery. Perkins is a lucky man.’ He paused. ‘What about Patrick?’
‘He did well. He dreaded having to kill someone, especially an African, but thankfully it didn’t happen. Thomas too. He rescued Mary and two men. You don’t have to wield a sword to be brave, or even two.’ He rose. ‘Now I shall go to Bridgetown. The men can go back to the fields this afternoon but they should be armed.’
‘Leave it with us, my dear fellow,’ said Charles, patting his stomach. ‘You be off and tell Walrond to deal with these attacks once and for all and we’ll take care of matters here.’
Adam did not return until the next morning, having spent the night in Bridgetown. Charles had stayed to help Thomas and Patrick. If there was any impropriety in this, it had been overlooked in the interests of safety.
In addition to Sprot, Adam brought news. ‘Willoughby’s ship is in the bay,’ he reported, ‘and he’s been sending messages to Walrond. As we thought, he carries Charles Stuart’s commission to take over as governor.’
‘I knew Willoughby would come,’ said Charles.
‘Let us talk about it later,’ said Mary impatiently. ‘First Mr Sprot must see to the wounded men.’
‘I can take him to them,’ offered Thomas.
‘No, Thomas, you stay here. I shall do it.’ Mary was insistent.
Overdressed as always, shirt and stockings drenched in sweat, Sprot was delighted to be of service to the Lytes.
‘Thank you, madam,’ he said, with a grand sweep of his straw hat. ‘I have all my instruments with me and a good supply of bandages, hardly used. We shall need rum. Limbs, like branches, are best pruned when their owner is dormant. I will do everything modern medical practices advise and it will not on this occasion be necessary to request payment in advance.’
‘Well, that’s something anyway.’ Charles did not hold a high opinion of Sprot.
‘Come with me, Mr Sprot,’ said Mary, who could only hobble along on Patrick’s arm. ‘We’ll visit the slaves first. One has a shattered
leg, the other a gashed arm.’
‘As you wish, madam. Lead on and I shall follow.’
‘There’s no need for you to go, Mary,’ said Adam, ‘you should be resting. I’ll go with Sprot.’
‘Nonsense. We’ll manage. This is a woman’s work. Come, Mr Sprot.’ And, leaning heavily on her escort, she led the beaming surgeon off towards the slave quarters.
‘So,’ said Charles, when they had sat down, ‘it’s Willoughby. I wish he’d come earlier. He might have prevented the banishments and sequestrations. We don’t need James Drax as an enemy but that’s what we’ve got. Still, it’s a relief. I am not an admirer of Walrond, to say the least.’
‘Nor I. But he has yet to be persuaded to recognize Willoughby’s claim. Now he has power, he’s reluctant to give it up. Hardly a surprise, I suppose.’
‘If he does not receive Willoughby, won’t he be accused of disloyalty to the crown?’ asked Thomas.
‘That’s possible. And Willoughby’s a clever man. He’ll find a way to keep Walrond happy. And don’t forget he has a royal commission for other islands, St Kitts and Antigua among them. He won’t stay here all the time.’
‘Let’s hope he stays here long enough to bring some harmony. We don’t want any more attacks and we don’t want threats of revenge from dispossessed landowners. Willoughby’s commission will mean nothing to them.’
There was a scream from the direction of the slave quarters. ‘Ah, the leg, I fear,’ said Adam. ‘I do hope Mary will make certain that’s the only limb lost today. You can never be sure with Sprot.’
Happily, when Mary returned with Sprot, it was. They had left Patrick with the wounded. ‘He’s a strong man,’ said Sprot, ‘and I am confident that he’ll make a good recovery. I am quick with the saw and your men rendered valuable assistance.’
‘Good, Mr Sprot. And what of the arm?’
‘I was inclined to bleed it or remove it,’ said Sprot, ‘on account of bad blood. It’s a grave risk in such cases. But Miss Lyte insisted that we give the limb more time to heal, so I have applied a remedy of my own devising and bandaged the wound. It may serve, but you should summon me in the event of any deterioration in the condition of the man.’
The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) Page 19
