Up on Camber Dock, the crowd surged. They were a matter of yards away and Lyle twisted to look into their grimacing faces. They spat curses and threats, jabbed the air with swords and several were kneeling to load firearms. Lyle caught sight of Marek. The huge gun captain, beside the mooring post, was unflinching, impassive, though his gaze contained a wrath that almost made Lyle quell. Almost.
He inclined his head, acknowledging their duel. Marek’s eye twitched at the corner and he said something, though Lyle could not hear it and then the sailors were cascading down the slope to the pinnace.
“They’re coming,” Botolph said. His voice was weak, a mere husk but there was vigour in his trembling hands and raw intensity in his gaze. He was staring in abject terror at the pinnace. “They’re c… c… coming.”
Lyle leaned forwards and patted Botolph’s shoulder. “No, young sir, they are not.”
Behind him, just as the first of Marek’s howling pack reached the water’s edge, the pinnace exploded.
Maddocks’ horse was turning circles as he bellowed, whirling his sword above his head to provide a focal point in the commotion. “On me! On me!”
The harquebusiers, many having dismounted during the duel, scurried like mice to their positions, leaping up into saddles without even bothering to cram helmets over their heads or fasten gauntlets to their arms. Many were utterly bemused by the sudden turmoil, for they were spread thinly across the lawless spur of land, manning checkpoints at major taverns and street junctions all the way back to Point Gate and had no idea of what had unfolded. But they all heard the explosion.
The horsemen gathered en mass, churning about their leader like an iron-clad eddy, eyes darting back and forth between colonel and quayside.
When enough of his troopers had coalesced, Maddocks gauged the situation. His first thought was to storm the dock but the sailors had recoiled from the slope amid a shower of water and splinters. They congregated now about the mooring post, impotent in their rage, still screaming obscenities into the harbour as a thick pall of white smoke roiled about them like acrid fog. If they were a hindrance before, they were downright impassable now and he knew the chance to ride Lyle down had gone. He wrenched savagely on the reins, levelling the long, single-edged blade in a south-easterly direction. “To the town, damn your eyes! The town! Make for the jetty!”
Lyle and Grumm rowed hard. Marek and his men were stranded on Portsmouth Point but that did not mean the fugitives were home and dry. They could not rest until they had cleared the harbour and its formidable gun batteries. Still, though, Lyle felt a tide of relief swell in his chest and dampen the pain in his shoulder.
“What was that?” Botolph Spendlove said. His eyes, red-rimmed and glazed, were fixed on the entrance to the Camber, where a warship’s large boat had erupted in a column of flame and timber and froth and now, as shards rained down to dapple the surface of the water, the pinnace had already lost its stern to the chill depths, the bow sitting high, right out of the water, as if lifted by some invisible sea creature. “Cannon? Mortar?” Now he turned, becoming frantic as he looked to the blockhouse on the Gosport side of the harbour. “Do they bombard us from the fort?”
“A petard,” Grumm answered, proffering the puzzled young man with a decayed grin. “One of God’s most sublime creations.”
“There’s nought of God in it,” Lyle admonished the Cornishman. “A rudimentary device,” he said to Botolph. “Highly dangerous, which is why,” he winked, “it is crucial to have it set by an eminently expendable personage.”
Grumm snorted but chose not to take the bait. “You takes a bell, cast in iron or brass. Fill it with black powder and fix it to a wooden base. Or, in this case, simply prop it in the floor of a wooden boat. Light the fuse and,” he briefly released the oars so that he could clap his hands together, “boom.”
“Evil contraptions,” said Lyle. “Had occasion to employ them during the wars.” He slid his backside round to take sight of the dock. The sailors were still there but the pinnace had all but gone. His gaze drifted to the left, to the jetty that extended from the Oyster Street wharf and the small fleet of fishing boats moored on both sides, noses inwards, like so many piglets at a sow. From the town came a sudden, deep thrum of hoof-beats and out from one of the alleys streamed horsemen. Dozens of them. They galloped in pairs, wrapped in leather and metal, barred visors pulled over most of their faces, a saffron-coloured cornet fluttering in the van. The small flag bore the head of a black lion.
The cavalrymen began to shout threats, just as the sailors had done but they were quickly silenced by the barks of officers. Then they were dismounting, gathering about one man in particular and Lyle saw that it was Francis Maddocks himself.
All eyes in the skiff had gone to the jetty now. “He found us, then,” Bella muttered, her attempt to keep her tone light undermined by an unmistakable tension.
“Now, your petard,” Lyle went on as they watched the troopers file onto the timber walkway, evidently intent on commandeering the fishing fleet. “One might secure it to a gate using hooks, or prop it against a bridge with beams.”
“They’re going to catch us,” Botolph whispered.
“The shape of the thing,” Lyle went on, undeterred, “concentrates the explosive so it may be targeted. In this case,” he jerked back his head to indicate the sunken pinnace, “it was discharged downwards. In that case, however,” he said, levering up an oar to point it at the jetty, “you will note the blast goes up.”
Botolph frowned, opening his mouth to speak but the words were drowned out by a deluge of concussive noise as the second petard ignited, ripping through the end of the jetty from one of the footings beneath. The soldiers recoiled as one, scrambling away as the water and the sky seethed and kindling tumbled through a new bank of sulphurous cloud to scatter Oyster Street, The Point and the modest bay in between.
Then all was silent. Marek and his crew stood, mutely now, on Camber Dock, while Maddocks and his harquebusiers milled before the jagged remains of the jetty, their senses scrambled by the huge explosion, their plans in disarray. Just below them, tantalisingly out of reach, the empty fishing boats gently drifted loose to bob into open water.
Lyle let go of his oars. He reached out to pat Botolph’s shoulder. “You’re safe now, lad. Let’s get you home.” Then he stood up, taking a fistful of the soaking cloth sack. The skiff pitched alarmingly as he turned but he managed to pull the golden bible free, the pages within utterly ruined. Mercifully, that mattered to Lyle not a bit. He held it aloft, for Marek and Maddocks to see and offered a deep, lingering bow.
#
Near Alverstoke, Hampshire
The skiff slid onto the pebble beach with a hiss. Lyle jumped, boots splashing and crunching at once and dragged the vessel a few more yards so that it was safely grounded. It was dark but the sky was clear and the moon iridescent. He scanned the ridge at the top of the beach. It was empty, save for a line of grass tufts that curved before the salty breeze.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll find the road beyond that low dune.”
They abandoned the boat, pushing it back into the sea so that, wherever it finally washed up, it would not give a clue to their whereabouts. Then they trudged up the beach, the gushing surf at their backs, tired bodies stumbling over the ever-shifting shingle.
Botolph was first to speak. The miseries of his captivity and the shocking nature of his rescue had seemed to tip him over some imperceptible ledge, so that he had withdrawn into himself as they fought the Solent’s pernicious currents. He had hunkered into his blankets as dusk had crept in, his eyes staring vacantly at the shore and battened down any words that might have come. It was a revelation for the others, then, when his pale face shone with sudden animation at the ridge’s summit.
“Papa!” he exclaimed, shedding the makeshift shawl so that it was snatched by the wind to tumble back down the beach. “Papa, I am here!”
The north face of the ridge was a gentle slope that began as
stony sand and finished as grass, joining a narrow trackway that plunged into rolling pasture. There was little sign of civilisation in any direction, save for the vertical lines of smudged stars, about a mile to the northeast, that spoke of a village’s thin smoke trails. All around them the landscape was empty, except for the lone wagon, down on the trackway, that was hitched to a pair of strong looking horses. Seated above them on the wagon’s bench were two figures. Their faces were too far off to identify but one had a head of silver hair and the other wore a simple white cap.
Botolph was already running when the people in the wagon clambered down. Arms aloft, he dashed over the sand, sliding and leaping by turns until he hit the firmer grass and all the while he called for the father he thought never again to see.
The Spendloves embraced. The three of them, down beside the waiting horses, locking arms and weeping as one, voices muffled as temples pressed. Lyle, Grumm and Bella grinned and laughed as they strode to meet a family reunited.
It was Amelia who broke away first, coming to stand before Lyle, the highwayman gingerly rolling his damaged shoulder. She reached out, touching his elbow. His eyes fell unbidden to her hand.
“How do you fare?” she asked, squeezing his arm gently.
“Hurts,” he said, self-consciousness making him brusque. He forced himself to look up, softening his tone. “I shall be hearty enough before long. Bullet wounds are generally not hospitable to fighting duels or rowing the Solent.”
She smiled at that. The ochre flecks in her brown eyes shimmering like quicksilver in the moonlight. “Everything you have done, Major Lyle,” she shook her head in wonder, “we can scarcely fathom, let alone repay.”
Lyle placed his hand across hers. Her skin was warm despite the chill in the night air. “Be glad you have your brother back. It is enough.”
They parted as her father approached, Lyle grudgingly letting her fingers slip away. Before he could react, Spendlove thrust out his arms and enveloped him in a tight embrace, sobbing through his joy.
“You must thank your friend, Samson,” Spendlove said when they parted. “Dear Tom risked so much.”
Lyle produced the golden bible from within his coat. “He and the other fishermen will have this. Payment, in lieu of their jetty and fleet, most of which is now scattered about the harbour, I’d wager.”
“Did you ever intend to return it to Marek?” Botolph said, coming to stand beside his father.
“Certainly,” Lyle replied. “I changed my mind when he tried to run me through.” He was gratified to see Botolph’s mouth twitched at the corners. It was the first time he had seen the lad smile.
“Pious men are wont to do foolish things,” Spendlove said sagely.
“Not piety,” said Lyle. “It was not the scriptures he revered but the gold itself. Inca gold. He believed it offered him protection. A talisman.” He glanced down at the book. “Now it can be another’s talisman. Tom can melt it down and buy new nets.”
Spendlove laughed. “A whole new fleet!”
“They lit the fuse,” Botolph said to Lyle, his voice querulous with evident astonishment. “My father and sister. Did you know? Out on the jetty!”
Lyle slapped him on the back. “I am aware of that.”
“It was the major’s idea,” Amelia chided her brother, punching his shoulder playfully.
“Secured,” their father said, “in ominously professional fashion by Mister Grumm, here.”
“Those petards,” Botolph addressed Grumm now. “How did you come by them?”
“Made them with mine own fair hands, boy,” Grumm said with a roguish cackle.
“He stole them,” said Bella.
Grumm held up his hands as if surrendering to some unseen force. “Stole is a strong word.”
She snorted. “It’s the right word, you sly old stoat.”
He screwed up his craggy face. “The bottles and the fuses I stole.” He leaned in to Botolph’s ear, whispering, “Inveigled my way into the navy dockyard, didn’t I, lad?” He laughed when the young man’s mouth flapped in amazement. “Dressed myself up as a gong collector, of all things!”
“You are a marvel, sir,” Botolph said, his tone hushed with awe.
“That I am and you can be sure to remind the major, here, eh?”
“What of the other ingredients?” Wardley Spendlove asked.
“Half the black powder was purchased with the major’s funds,” Grumm said.
Spendlove shook his head at the audacity of it. “You bribed a dockyard worker?”
“Indeed. The other half came from a crate of grenadoes, which were gifted to me, on account of this blade,” he patted his waist as he spoke, “and its proximity to the storeman’s stones. Then I loaded up my cart, buried the lot under a pile o’ chicken dung and off I went.”
“I thank you, sir,” Botolph said.
Spendlove gathered his son and daughter in his arms. “We all thank you.”
Grumm waved them away, suddenly embarrassed. “Never a doubt nor hesitation.”
Lyle smiled, deciding not to mention Grumm’s early views on the matter. Instead he looked over at the wagon that would be their transport for the next couple of hours. They would travel together initially as they departed the Gosport peninsula, seeking tracks with the deepest hedgerows and always scrutinising the horizon for horsemen. But they had rowed west out of Portsmouth, agreeing to rendezvous here, thus placing the entire harbour between them and their pursuers. Maddocks would be forced to ride the full fifteen miles around the water, with no clue as to where his quarry would alight. When the sun finally made inroads, the two groups would have parted, the Spendloves taking the highroad to the west while Lyle’s gang would plunge into the vast countryside to the east, keeping to the sunken, shadowy lanes that criss-crossed field and forest. He said to his old school master, “Wales for you?”
Spendlove nodded. “I have kin in Pembrokeshire. Seems a good moment to pay them a visit.”
“You have money?”
“Enough to see us there safely.” He gathered his children close, one in each arm. “And you?”
An intense feeling of longing smouldered like a brazier in Lyle’s chest as he watched Spendlove’s hand slide about Amelia’s shoulders. He cleared his throat, suddenly ashamed. “Retrieve the horses,” he said thickly, “and wend our way back.”
“They’ll hunt you,” Amelia said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lyle disguised the lie with a broad grin. He turned to Bella and Grumm. “Ready? Then let’s go home.”
Historical Note
The Rule of the Major-Generals was a 15-month period of direct military government during Oliver Cromwell's Protectorate. The new system was commissioned in October 1655 and the country divided into 12 regions, each governed by a Major-General who was answerable only to the Lord Protector.
The first duty of the Major-Generals was to maintain security by suppressing unlawful assemblies, disarming Royalists and apprehending thieves, robbers and highwaymen. To assist them in this work, they were authorised to raise their own militias.
Colonel Maddocks and his men are figments of my imagination, but William Goffe was indeed Major-General for Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire, and it would have been his responsibility to hunt down Samson Lyle and men like him. Sadly, Lyle himself is a fictional character, but he is indicative of many outlaws of the period. Contrary to the classic tradition of the 18th Century dandy highwayman, mounted bandits have infested England's major roads for hundreds of years. Indeed, in 1572 Thomas Wilson wrote a dialogue in which one character commented that in England, highway robbers were likely to be admired for their courage, while another suggested that a penchant for robbery was one of the Englishman’s besetting sins.
During the years immediately following the Civil Wars, highway banditry became more widespread simply due to the sheer number of dispossessed, heavily armed and vengeful former Royalists on the roads. This idea was the inspiration behind the Ironside Highw
ayman, though I felt it might be more interesting if my protagonist had been a Roundhead rather than a Cavalier.
The locations in the story are all real. The Red Lion at Chalton and The Court House at East Meon still stand today, while the gatehouse tower is all that’s left of Warblington Castle. The site of Grange Farm in Petersfield has, in the intervening years, been home to a gas works, an abattoir and, latterly, a supermarket, but the impressive stone barn and coach house remains, and is now home to a GP surgery.
Portsmouth Point, or ‘Spice Island’ as it was (and is) often known, really was outside of the city boundary, separated by walls and a gate. It gained quite a reputation for lawlessness, vice and villain. The ideal place for a group of sailors to pass the time before joining ship! Incidentally, the Portsmouth Point name was commonly contracted to Po'm. P. when recorded in ships’ logbooks to , giving rise to the nickname of “Pompey”.
The Saxon church at Idsworth (Lyle would have known it as St Peter’s, though it was later rededicated to St Hubert) is a gem, and highly evocative. Built by Earl Godwin (King Harold’s father), it stood at the heart of a village that was ultimately abandoned during the Black Death. Now it stands alone and isolated, looking rather incongruous amongst the sweeping hills, but its interior bears the marks of the thriving community it once serviced. During Victorian renovation work, a range of beautiful 14th Century murals were discovered beneath layers of paint that had presumably been applied during the Reformation. Well worth a look if you’re visiting the South Downs National Park.
Also by Michael Arnold
The Civil War Chronicles
Stryker and the Angels of Death (Novella)
Traitor’s Blood
Devil’s Charge
Hunter’s Rage
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 29