Pistoleer: Roundway Down Read online

  Martha stayed by Daniel's side during the scraping of stools and hollow clumping of heavy boots on the wooden floor. Wooden because there was a cellar underneath. As Mighells passed near to her he hissed "whore" at her, but then "accidentally" tripped over one of Daniels boots. The second casualty of this war had been the virtue of the women. They were either victims, or trying not to be.

  During the commotion of the trip, and of the lad helping Mighells back to his feet, she put her mouth close to Daniel's ear and whispered, "What room are you in?"

  "Six, but I'm married," he whispered back.

  "So am I ducky, so there's no problem, is there? Not that I'm promisin' anythin'. It's goin' ta be right busy in here tonight, so likes as not I'll be done in by the end of it. Don't throw the bar on yer door, just in case."

  "I won't," he replied, but that was a polite white lie. As much as he had enjoyed praying into her cleavage, she wasn't worth risking the French pox for. Lowestoft was a port town, after all, and not a holier-than-thou farming town.

  Besides that, he knew what she was likely about. She was an experienced alewench and there was method in her easy seeming ways. An army was in town. The officers were staying here at the inn. She would spend the slow hours lining up some likely allies amongst them, just in case. Later on if things got a bit mad when men were into their cups, she may have need a few heroes to wade in and save her from being stretched over a table and ganged.

  Mighells and the lad were gone. As she plunked the jug down on the table in front of him, she gave him another good look at her own jugs before she slowly pulled her lace back into place. With that she twirled in a swirl of skirt, and strutted away towards the kitchen door with her back arched and her chest out.

  "How is it?" Sherwood asked, once he had fully appreciated the strut of Martha's round bottom, "that you've come through so many skirmishes and yet you've kept your face.” His own face was pock-marked from battle field plagues, scarred from battle field blades, and always looked a bit grey and dirty from the constant burnings by flash powder.

  "Back when I was younger and wiser and building up my clan's trading with the Dutch in Rotterdam," Daniel explained, "I was told that I must volunteer with the militia if I wanted to live and make business there. On that day I went out and bought myself a horse. Most folk in Rotterdam keep punts not horses, so because I already owned a horse, I was outfitted and trained as a militia pistoleer. Mounted infantry. Flying skirmisher. Pistoleers don't fight hand to hand down in the mud. It's in the mud that you catch camp fever, and it's in blade fighting that you gather scars."

  "Bullocks! There's more to it than that."

  "True enough. Since then I have been protected by a guardian angel," Daniel told him as he reached down to the bench he was sitting on and picked up his dragon pistol and passed it across the table to Sherwood. It was his guardian angel.

  Sherwood actually fondled the brute in admiration. "I've never seen the likes of it."

  "I own two," Daniel told him, but with no hint of smugness. "I was given the first by a friend up in Scotland, but it was Swedish made, and had silver plates and ornate workings, so it was worth enough to kill me just to steal it. This one is a copy without the flourishes. A friend of mine, a gunsmith in Rotterdam, made it for me, just so he would know how to make one. It's butt ugly in comparison to the original, but it serves just as well. Next time you're in Rotterdam look up a gunsmith called Jock, a Scot with one leg already in the ground. He just may have one to sell."

  "It's a bloody wonder," Sherwood said as he worked out how the smith had been able to put a normal small bore pistol barrel offset underneath the big bored dragon barrel, so that both flint dogs could be aligned on the same side of the gun. "So why is this dragon your guardian angel?"

  "The dragon is just a dragon. It's the smaller, lower barrel that is the angel. Just as your enemy decides he can take advantage of your spent dragon, the angel sends him to his maker, thus saving you from a similar fate."

  "I want one."

  "Everyone wants one, once they've had a good look at it," Daniel replied. "It's beyond me why gunsmiths have so little imagination, considering what they are earning these days. Surely by now they should be able to provide their customers with a gun for better than one shot a minute. I mean, there must be a way. On one of my ships I have a breach loading swivel gun that came from the East Indies. It came with a set of removable breaches, each of which you pre-load. With it we can fire up to six times in a minute."

  "One of your ships?" Sherwood interrupted.

  "One of my clan's ships. We have a dozen small single masted ships plus one two master. They are the fastest ships on this coast."

  "The ones the Association charters for moving men and supplies."

  "That's them. Triangle sails. Can't mistake them, though the Dutch now have a few too. Copies of ours. They call them sloeps, though god only knows why."

  "Slopes?" Sherwood muttered the word aloud. "Like in the slope of the triangle sail?"

  "Oooo, not O. Sloooowps. Sloeps," Daniel exaggerated the pronunciation. "The Dutch for slope is helling. Hmm, not a bad name for the cut of a nimble ship. I'll have to suggest it to the clan. Besides the Dutch tend to cut off the top of the triangles. Their coastal ships are more like barges with short masts, so they cut the triangle mainsail short and rig a gaff to hold up the squared top."

  "Now you're speaking Greek to me as well as Dutch," Sherwood guffawed. "Bloody seamen and their bloody special names for every bloody part of a bloody ship."

  "Oye, when yer keeled over in a gale, it's a bad time for someone to be letting go the wrong line. Every part has to have a special name. A boom is a spar that holds the bottom of a sail down and out. A gaff is a spar that holds the top of a sail up and out."

  "You're making it worse. How much would Jock sell one of these angels for?

  "Triple a normal dragon, but only if he owes you his life. Triple that if he doesn't."

  Sherwood whistled. "That's a lot."

  "Tell that to the ferryman."

  The saying stopped the discussion cold. In these days when wars were being fought between Catholics and Anglicans and Presbyterians and Independents, any mention of the older religions was ill advised. That said, all soldiers believed in the ferryman. That was why every soldier still stuck a penny in each boot ... to pay the ferryman who carried your spirit across to the other side. Sherwood nodded. If the angel barrel saved you spending two pennies, then how much was it worth? Everything you had of course.

  The lad returned with a request for their presence before the lass had returned with the first of the cod pies she was baking. Daniel could smell them and his mouth was drooling. He hadn't eaten anything since before he had clamboured into the longboat this morning. The few strips of smoked fish that he carried in his side bag he had passed on to Nate after he had learned that he would be staying with the officers at the Swan Inn. An Inn meant ale and a fully equipped kitchen complete with serving wenches and all of it on the Association's shilling. Nate would not fare so well. Hah! By now the bugger was probably on the docks surrounded by fishwives selling him fresh fish pies for two a penny.

  Sherwood entered the interviewing room first and stomped a boot as he saluted the two officers sitting at the round table. He then moved aside and sat in the closest chair. Daniel did not stomp or salute. He stretched a hand out across the table and said, "Watcha Ollie. This'll be a fine feather in your cap."

  The officer sitting at the table beside Ollie scraped his chair backwards and rose and hissed, "You will address the colonel with the respect due his rank."

  Daniel dismissed him with a smile. "So no longer a captain then. A full colonel now. Well congratulations, Ollie."

  "I told you to address Colonel Cromwell with due respect."

  "Danny," Oliver said, while he finished gripping the clansman's offered hand. "I mean, Daniel Vanderus of Wellenhay, may I present Captain Edward Whalley late of Nottingham. I was told that the patrol ship
s were standing by to help. I did not expect you to be with them. I thought you were on a diplomatic mission in The Hague." He looked towards the captain beside him, "Er, Edward. Daniel's village supplies the ships we use to move men and supplies up and down the coast. A month back, it was one of his ships that first sighted Queen Henrietta's invasion fleet."

  "You did not mention his rank," Edward replied curtly.

  Before Oliver could embarrass himself, Daniel pointed out, "I have no military rank in any of our armies. I charter ships both to the Earl of Warwick in his position as the Lord Admiral, and to his son in law, the Earl of Manchester in his position as the General of the Eastern Associations. Often I am called upon by them to take a personal hand when things get tricky or sticky. So you see, I am a civilian, and therefore not obliged to defer to military rank."

  "But I've seen the men salute you and call you captain."

  "As a ship's master, not as an army rank. I forgive you you're confusion." Daniel immediately felt guilty about baiting the stuffed shirt. The man was likely from a military family and knew no better.

  "And as we all know," Sherwood pointed out, "a navy captain is the equivalent rank to an army colonel. May we please get on with this. You still have seventeen men under guard in the cellar, while I am running out of daylight to organize a curfew and post the night watch."

  "Mister Mighells," Oliver stated with a nod to the man sitting to his right, "has kindly agreed to be present at all of these interviews as a witness that there was no abuse, and to take the minutes of names, addresses, and roles."

  "Separate Allen from the rest," Daniel spoke out of turn. "He should have never been put in the cellar with the rest of his men. He'll be down there now practicing them on what story to tell you."

  "Mister Vanderus, I protest," Edward jumped in.

  "Save your protest for later when you have more reason," Daniel told him matter of factly. "For now, go and arrange for Captain Allen to be held separately from the rest."

  Oliver was quick to speak before Edward could. "Good point, thank you Daniel. Edward, please see to it immediately, and at the same time fetch, umm," he looked down at a scrap of paper, "John Pettus.” As Edward rose, Oliver turned to Sherwood and said, "Sergeant Major, if you will allow Daniel to take your place at this inquest, then you are free to see to your pressing duties."

  "Agreed," Sherwood said eagerly. He didn't have the book learning to keep up with all the pompous words that would be spoken around this table for the rest of the day, nor the patience.

  Edward stalled his leaving in order to ask Sherwood, "What will be the terms of the curfew?" It was a question that every officer would want answered, for they would be called upon to enforce it.

  "Simple rules is best," the old soldier replied crisply. "Anyone caught out of doors after sunset will be escorted to their house. Anyone resisting that will be held for questioning. Any show of weapons will be cause enough for injury or death. Any valuable animals should be taken inside the houses with their owners."

  "Horses and cows?" Mighells asked, agape. "Surely you jest. Filthy animals in our shops and houses. What is wrong with the stables and barns?"

  "Because them's my simple rules," Sherwood explained in a quiet gravelly voice. "It means there can be no question of ownership of animals, and no one need break the curfew to run out of their house to see to their animals."

  "There is the first item to write into your minutes," Oliver told Mighells, and then to Sherwood. "Carry on Thomas, and thank you."

  Daniel gave Sherwood a knowing nod for he was a crafty old bugger. Fifty royalist had been arrested, including the seventeen gentlemen down in the cellar. Those fifty would not be home tonight to take their animals inside. Later tonight, Sherwood's men would round up all the unclaimed animals for the Cause and for the Association. By now a similar thing would be going on in the tidal creeks inland from the Lowestoft harbour. Ship owners and fishermen would be allowed to sleep on their boats. Any empty boats would be claimed by the Yarmouth Militia as compensation for the fishing boats they lost to Captain Allen in last month's raid.

  "Oh and Edward," Daniel called out sweetly. "Please, ask Martha in the kitchen to put out some food and ale in this room. Our prisoners all rose early and will be hungry by now. And thirsty. The ale will sooth their throats and ease their voices.” Edward turned and stomped away, and the two lads standing guard at the door took the brunt of his suppressed fury as he ordered them to do his bidding.

  As the officer in charge of all sergeants, Sherwood had a sergeants voice, and even from within this room they could hear his voice bellowing orders up and down the High Street. This was followed by the sound of the boots of many men scurrying to do his bidding.

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  The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

  Chapter 3 - Questioning Royalists in Lowestoft in March 1643

  "So why did I think that you were in The Hague?" Oliver asked while they waited for Captain Whalley to return with the first prisoner to be questioned.

  "I was, me and Robert both. We were on the Swift carrying diplomatic pouches between John Pym and Ambassador Strickland." The Swift was the clan's two masted galliot, re-rigged Bermudan style which made her the most nimble ship on the North Sea.

  "Robert?" Oliver asked. It seemed like every third man in England was named Robert.

  "Captain Robert Blake, the ex Member of Parliament for Bridgwater, Somerset. Our last diplomatic pouches were actually some of the king's which had been intercepted, so we delivered them to Pym in London, and then begged off further diplomatic service. Rob will be back in Bridgwater by now, or if not there, then in Lyme. He has family in both places."

  "So you have just been in London with Pym. So you will know the real news of the kingdom, not just the approved versions dispensed by parliament or by the king.” Oliver looked at Mighells and regretted his presence. "I can wait until later for you to tell me, that is, unless there is something that you think that Mister Mighells would be interested in."

  Daniel looked between the two of them. From his recent mission as a diplomatic courier he knew things that would blow their boots off, but of course Pym had sworn him to secrecy. "One of the king's diplomatic pouches was to the Emperor of Spain. An offer of a treaty that would allow Spain the free use of English ports if he would send an Armada to secure some of the South coast ports for him. In them the king gave his permission to sink or capture any of our navy ships that did not cross sides to the new Royal Navy which he hopes to create."

  The only acknowledgement of such treason on the part of the king was the sucking in of breath. This was the one bit of news that John Pym would want spread high and low across the kingdom. Charlie was selling them out to the feared Spanish, and to the hated Papists. He did not tell them that another of Charlie's diplomatic pouches had contained a similar offer to Charlie's brother-in-law, the King of France, and to Prince Frederick of Orange, the new father-in-law of his eldest daughter, Mary.

  At the time he and Rob had delivered the captured correspondence to John Pym, John had scolded them and had insisted that diplomatic pouches were sacrosanct and that they must be delivered to the appropriate ambassadors forthwith. But then sick old John Pym had accidentally put the sets of papers back into the wrong diplomatic pouches. By now the French and the Dutch would be reading Charlie's offer to the Spanish, while the Spanish would be reading Charlie's offer to the French and Dutch. The thought of John's 'accidental confusion' always made Daniel smirk.

  It served Charlie right. Back in February, with the help of the Dutch navy, Queen Henrietta had successfully landed an army of a thousand mercenary cut-throats from the German wars onto the docks of Bridlington Bay in Yorkshire, along with a mountain of war supplies. It was to be the first of many invasions paid for by the proceeds of her stealing and pawning the English Crown Jewels. Due to Charlie's duplicity, Henrietta would lose her allies for further invasions. All because a we
ak and sick old man in London had accidentally mixed up two diplomatic pouches. As sick as he was, Pym was still a master of subtlety.

  "Pym looks ten years older every time I see him," Daniel told Oliver into the stony silence his previous story had created. Back before Charlie had decried and then physically attacked parliament, Oliver had been using his great voice to make some of Pym's speeches for him. Even then the poorly man no longer had the breath for voicing his own thoughts. On hearing the sad news about Pym's health, Oliver dropped to his knees and began to pray for the man. Daniel was taken aback. Ollie never used to be THAT pious, even when he had been the tithe collector for Ely Abbey. It was as the tithe collector that Daniel had first met him, for his village of Wellenhay was just downstream from Ely.

  At that moment the door of the interviewing room was opened by one of the lads, and in came three large trays carried by three women, all of them dressed in spring colors, and with rouged cheeks, and rouged cleavages. Martha looked down at the praying Oliver and quipped, "Colonel, you should have told us that you were so hungry. Well I'm sure that your mother would be proud to know that you still say grace before eating. This tray has the fish pies, but they are still scalding hot inside. We've brought three jugs of best aged ale. Ten days it is now, and you can't have better than that. Tell me if you need more pots. That last tray is sweet breads, though made with local honey rather than sugar. Sugar ain't been affordable six months now what with this war and all."

  She gave Daniel a warm smile as she turned to leave. A man, a prisoner, John Pettus was blocking the door and she actually curtsied to him. There were some wealthy, wealthy men in this port town, and why shouldn't there be?. Lowestoft was the closest English port to Holland, and trade with the ever more thriving Dutch had been spreading a lot of coin about.

  As the interviews wore on it seemed that Oliver was spending most of his time explaining to each prisoner how it was that a militia colonel from Cambridge had ridden to Norwich to raise a force to help Yarmouth in Norfolk to raid Lowestoft in Suffolk. After the third such explanation in a row, he downed his quill and left the room to walk down into the cellar and give that answer to all of the prisoners at the same time.