by J. D. Davies
Our men were falling, too. I saw Seaton, the cuckold of Looe, fall to a shot in the stomach from an officer's pistol. I came up with James Vyvyan, covered all over with the blood of others–or so I hoped–grinning hideously as he fought his first battle and slew his first men. We were friends at last, he and I; friends in blood. The throng pushed us apart then and I felt the blow of a half-pike on my breastplate, then the excruciating pain of a deep, bloody graze on my thigh. I killed my man. I killed the next. Then I turned to seek out Vyvyan again.
I saw him through the haze, a few yards away. It was a vision that will never leave me. He was staring at me, blue eyes wide, fair hair spattered with gore. He was still grinning. There was more blood on his face, and I knew with awful certainty it was his own. And then he fell forward, and I saw the dagger in his back.
Behind him, a man that I recognized all too well sneered defiantly. It was my assailant on the night I had taken command of the Jupiter at Portsmouth. It was Linus Brent.
The Jupiters had been barely holding their own until that moment. At the sight of his dead lieutenant, John Treninnick howled like a wolf, crying out in Cornish. Above all the screams, all the death throes and the cacophony of blade on blade, Treninnick's voice carried. My men stopped. Their lament began as a low growl, then turned in an instant into a ferocious howl of rage. James Vyvyan, their lieutenant, was dead. James Vyvyan, a Cornishman and one of their own. James Vyvyan, the murdered nephew of the murdered Captain James Harker.
Enraged, the Jupiters pressed home with a new vigour. I saw Ali Reis swing his vicious Turkish scimitar about his head, flaying limbs as he went. There was John Tremar, the tiny father of twins, cutting his way through a man twice his size. Behind him, Julian Carvell used his half-pike to stick a man like a pig.
There was a new sound. I heard it first after another broadside came from the Veere. There was a sudden brief lull in our fight, as sometimes happens in battle, when both sides almost consciously decide to draw breath, before resuming the slaughter anew. This new sound was distant, but even in that hell of battle, there was no mistaking it. Somewhere on the Ardverran shore, the pipes were skirling. Roger d'Andelys made his way to my side, a great bloody gash disfiguring his cheek, his sword blade red with the blood of English traitors. He pointed towards the shore, his eyes alight.
'Look there, Matthew. Our general rides.'
Over the hill above Ardverran came the Campbell host, their pipers to the fore. At their side marched a regiment of men in the king's red uniform, and at the head of all rode Colin Campbell of Glenrannoch. He was dressed in full cavalry armour and a glorious helmet of black and gold; a great cloak fell in folds at his back, an orange sash crossed his chest. He had been right about his wound, or else he had the strength of will and of body to ride out in spite of it. Above him flew the flags of Clan Campbell and the United Provinces of the Netherlands, and the red lion rampant standard of the King of Scots. As he had predicted, the mighty general was leading his last army.
I looked over toward Ardverran Castle and saw the Macdonald birlinn pulling away from the jetty, its prow toward the open sea. I could just see my lady Niamh, Countess of Connaught, standing at its stern with her little son, looking back at the ruin of their dreams. For a moment, I thought she was looking directly at me. Then a gun fired close to me, and the smoke took them from my sight.
D'Andelys and I were almost at the quarterdeck stair. We fought our way past two soldiers in New Model uniforms. Up, and onto the deck...
One man alone was left on the quarterdeck of the Republic. And there, at last, I looked upon the true face of Captain Godsgift Judge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
There were no other men around us now, and no other ships. Judge stared intently into my face, and I into his. The fop was dead. Without all the face paint and the wigs and beauty spots, Godsgift Judge's gaunt features were those of a warrior. Here stood a killer: for his God, his woman and his son. He held a bloodied cutlass. A deep slash across his chest seemed not to trouble him. His eyes were tired, though, and his voice, when it spoke, was weary and harsh.
'Ship to ship, Quinton, I'd have you beaten. You know that. The Dutchman, there–now that was weighting the odds, my noble captain.'
I circled him, watchful, trying to contain my anger, to gain control of myself. 'You and your countess first brought the Dutch into this, Captain Judge. To give your son a kingdom, she said. But perhaps some know the Dutch better than you do. The noble general, there, for one.'
Glenrannoch's army was spreading out to surround Ardverran. In the second I spared to look, I thought how it seemed but a ghost of a castle. Behind Judge, the Wapen van Veere lay still and silent, her guns manned and pointed into the broken hull of the Republic. I could see Cornelis plain on her quarterdeck, no more than a hundred or so yards away. I raised my left hand in greeting, and he raised his right, stiffly, aware that to move it too rapidly would bring a broadside down on us all and probably tear my flesh to pieces.
I looked back at Judge. 'And my good-brother, Captain van der Eide there, for another.'
For the first and only time in our acquaintance, Godsgift Judge appeared genuinely surprised. 'Your good-brother?' he asked. Then he smiled. 'Yes, it had to be, of course. Popes and cardinals and countesses, they can plot all they like. As the good Lord knows, I plotted all I liked. But God disposes.' He sighed. 'Divine justice, then.' His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a cruel sneer. 'What an unfortunate fool I am. I order the killing of James Harker so the whoremaster Charles Stuart will replace him with a lesser man. And I am delighted with the result.' He gave me a mocking salute. 'But God disposes that this lesser man is the brother-in-law of the best captain the Dutch have. And from a faction that hates our cause. Now, is that divine justice or divine irony, Captain?'
I thought of James Vyvyan. I felt a pain somewhere inside me. I had known this, but to hear it from those venomous lips was awful.
'You killed Harker?'
Judge's eyes showed no remorse. 'Ordered him killed, yes–of course. Who else, Quinton? And his servant. And that miserable turncoat Warrender, who sought to betray our cause to Harker. It matters little now, for we both know I'll not leave this ship alive. Either you kill me in single combat, or your men tear me to pieces if I kill you. That's what Charles Stuart's demented notion of reconciling us old enemies means at the end of the day. The only truthful reconciliation is found in the grave.' He gave a pale, venomous smile. 'And that, Captain, is where we are headed.'
'But how...?' I said, and stopped.
'How, Captain?' Judge raised an eyebrow, then looked across to the main deck and nodded towards a man all too familiar to me. 'See Linus Brent, there, my surgeon's mate? A useful man. Apprentice in his youth to an old surgeon of Cheapside who dabbled much in alchemy. Not many potions he doesn't know, my Linus. A pity his blade didn't do for you in Portsmouth town, Matthew Quinton, as his poisons had done for Harker.'
At that, Judge raised his cutlass in salute. Enraged as I was, I assumed the pose of warrior-ready. I would not salute this man, this murderer and traitor. This was meat to be carved, and with that, I would avenge James Vyvyan, James Harker and Nathan Warrender together. I looked on Judge, and my anger streamed out of me.
'In the name of God and of the king, this is your reckoning, Godsgift Judge.'
'I care not for your king, Matthew Quinton. Mine was the good old cause of the Republic of England. And yet more than that, too–for my cause was the love of my life, and the future of my son.'
His lips drew back over his teeth and he stepped forward, raised the blade above his head and slashed for my shoulder. I was ready, my father's cavalry sword blocking the cutlass well short of its target. I thrust for Judge's side, but for a mere mariner he was sharp on his feet. He swung again, for the same shoulder, and I parried again. I lunged for his chest, but he swept his blade down instinctively and forced my sword away. Our swords clashed again and we fell into each other, steel screaming as b
lade ran against blade. Again I could find no way through. The cutlass is a good weapon aboard a ship and in a melee. It cuts and carves through massed flesh like a butcher's cleaver. And Judge was a master of it–that much was clear.
But one on one, afloat or ashore, two swordsmen are only as good as their blades and their training. Godsgift Judge knew the swordsmanship of the sea. I had learned mine from Uncle Tristram, and he had learned his craft from his brother and father. I was no great swordsman, not yet, just as I was no sea officer. But I was the son, nephew and grandson of great swordsmen. Cornelis and Kit Farrell could keep their mysteries of the sea. In that instant, my ignorance and my doubts were gone. I had a sword in my hand, and did what generations of Quintons, back through the centuries, were born to do.
I cut hard at Judge's waist, and he parried but clumsily. He would be used to despatching his opponent with one swing of the blade, perhaps two. He was tiring, and we both knew it. I stabbed directly at his chest, but somehow he brought the cutlass back up to deflect me. I cut at his shoulder, but again his blade came up in time to stop me.
Switch to the left hand, I heard Uncle Tristram cry, when I was but a boy. No man expects that.
But Godsgift Judge did. He was tiring, but his reactions were remarkable, his anticipation unexcelled. As I switched hands, he swung at my right side, cutting me deeply across the forearm. I cried out, and saw the blood begin to flow down across my hand and fingers. I backed away to gain breath but he came on, swinging and cursing like a Barbary corsair. I blocked him with the sword in my left hand, but now I was the one weakening. The hand was less familiar and I felt, suddenly, light in the head.
I could hear voices calling out–there was Musk screaming obscenities, and Roger d'Andelys urging me to counter-thrust for Judge's groin. I parried more swinging cuts from Judge's cutlass. I was giddy, and could see the shattered mizzenmast of the Republic swaying alarmingly, though I knew it stood stock-still. But there was one more voice. Best hand, boy. Ignore young Tris. Best hand, and lunge.
Judge raised the cutlass and swung for my head. In one movement I switched my sword back to my right hand, and for a moment, just that one moment, the pain in my forearm was gone. I brought the sword up into Judge's side, felt it jar on his ribs, and pass through.
We locked together, and I smelled his sweat, and his dying. His eyes were only inches from mine, staring directly into my soul. I saw them start to swim away from me, and from the world.
'She was worth it.' His voice was fading but I heard him yet. He clung on to my arm and I felt an unbearable pain. 'You know that. She, and my son.'
One moment I looked into the eyes of a living man. Then next, I looked into the eyes of the dead.
I pushed the corpse of Godsgift Judge away from me. I was dimly aware of a great cheer, Cornish and Dutch throats as one in salute to the heir of Ravensden. I tried to stay upright, felt a hand at my elbow and someone beside me gesturing upwards. I looked toward the ensign staff, where Martin Lanherne was exultantly breaking out the king's colours once more on the Royal Martyr.
I watched the great red flag unfurl in the breeze, and merge into the red that swam across my eyes.
I awoke to Musk and Surgeon Skeen, evidently in competition to revive me. Pain screamed from my arm and my thigh. I seemed to be lying on sacks under some sort of an awning, stretched across what I dimly recognized as the quarterdeck of the Jupiter. Lanterns had been brought up and hung from the rigging, their flickering flames still complemented by the very last of the evening's light. Musk said something about my cabin being too shattered to lay me in, at the same time that Skeen was saying the orlop was too full of the dead and dying of the Jupiter and Royal Martyr to lay me there. I became aware of two other voices behind them, and presently saw the concerned faces of Kit Farrell, red with the blood of others, and my brother-in-law. Cornelis looked down at me impassively. I attempted a smile and tried to raise my arm, then groaned with the pain.
Cornelis's face was still as granite. He looked at me gravely, then he tilted his head. 'So, brother Matthias. The God of the Sea preserves you a second time.'
Kit bent forward, brought some water to my lips. 'It's over, sir,' he said kindly. 'The rest of Judge's crew surrendered when they saw him fall. General Campbell's army has taken possession of the castle.'
I smiled into his honest, good face. Then I tried to raise myself a little but could not do it. I looked down at the bloodied bandages and realized that Judge's cut had torn deep into my arm. Skeen leaned over me and said that if Judge's sword had been just a fraction deeper, all the fabric of the arm, all that made it live and move, would have been severed beyond repair. Where, then, had I found the strength for the thrust that despatched him? I recalled a voice, but my head swam, and I knew not whether it had been a voice of this world, or the next, or of none.
Musk and Kit Farrell both stooped forward and helped raise me a little on my makeshift bed. I could see beyond our shattered ship's rail, across to the shore and to Ardverran Castle, its walls lit by the fires of the Campbell host that surrounded and occupied it. The movement seemed to give me strength, and I asked for our butcher's bill.
'Forty-four men dead, sir,' said Kit, glancing away. Almost a third of the crew, then. 'Another fifty-four wounded, some dozen of those not like to live.'
Skeen nodded silently. Christ in Heaven, I thought, barely forty men left unscathed. No ship in any battle of the last Dutch war had suffered so terribly.
And my officers?' I asked at last.
There was silence from all on that quarterdeck. Even Cornelis, my bold brother-in-law, looked away.
'Reverend Gale. Penbaron, the carpenter,' said Skeen after a long moment.
'What?' I said, trying to raise myself on my left arm. 'The only ones dead?' But even as I spoke, a wave of remembrance came back to me: I recalled Malachi Landon blown apart before my eyes, and poor James Vyvyan stabbed to death by Linus Brent.
'They are the only ones left alive, sir,' said Skeen, bowing his head. 'Beyond a few of the boatswain's and carpenter's mates. Penbaron himself suffers with a great splinter between his ribs. He'll live, though, God willing.'
Cornelis took a step forward and bent over me. I took his hand, tried to press it. 'Your chaplain, Matthias. I have never seen a man of the cloth to equal him. He acts as your lieutenant even now, rallying the men and ordering repairs. Then he says his prayers over the dead and dying.'
'Boatswain Ap?' I asked.
'Gone, sir.' Farrell's eyes were downcast and he laid a hand upon my shoulder. 'One of the Martyrs musket balls did for him.'
And Janks?'
Musk's face loomed over me, the lantern-light making him look even more malevolent than usual. 'Tried to charge their forecastle,' he said. 'Fell over his own crutch, straight onto a blade.' He sniffed, wiped his eyes. 'I was by him, and held him as he died. He was ranting when he went, sir. Quite confused. Saying how he was happy to die alongside the Earl of Ravensden.'
I smiled, for I knew that the man who had once fought alongside my grandfather had died with the memory of those great days foremost in his mind. He had died as he had lived: loyal and brave.
'Peverell?' I asked at length. 'The purser–what of him?' The men around me shuffled their feet and looked at one another. 'Well?' I said.
'Seems he tried to hide through the battle in his own bread store, sir,' said Kit, reluctantly. 'But one of the last shots from Royal Martyr struck below the waterline, and holed it. The sacks of bread blocked his way to the hatch, and he drowned. His body's laid out on the orlop deck, sir. We gave him his crucifix.'
There was one face missing, then. 'The comte d'Andelys? Monsieur le Blanc?' I dreaded the reply.
Cornelis smiled. He must have heard the story of my sailmaker's ennoblement. 'He is unharmed, brother. He commands your prize, for now. We have had some difficulty dissuading him from hoisting King Louis's fleur-de-lis ensign at her staff.'
'Look, sir,' said Kit, and pointed.
&n
bsp; I glanced away to my left. There was the Royal Martyr, a floating wreck. Despondent men attended to her rigging and the dire holes in her hull. And there, on the quarterdeck, I saw a smiling Roger d'Andelys, unmistakeable even in the fading light. He turned, then, and raised in salute a preposterously large brown feathered hat that he must have purloined from Godsgift Judge's wardrobe. He looked every inch a fitting captain for a man-of-war.
My memories were returning rapidly. I asked, 'Then what of Judge's men? What of Linus Brent, the murderer?'
As I spoke, I noticed that beyond my immediate attendants stood an outer ring of concerned men. I saw Martin Lanherne, George Polzeath, Julian Carvell, Ali Reis and John Treninnick. By their side was their new messmate and comrade-in-arms, young Macferran. At the mention of Brent, they looked nervously at each other, and at me.
It was Kit Farrell who broke the silence. 'Brent is dead, sir. Killed in the fight.'
Kit was ever a bad liar, as I already knew. Phineas Musk, on the other hand, was equally bad at allowing others to lie in his presence. His face twisted into a grimace and he made a scornful noise.
'When you fell, the men thought you were dead. Word was that Brent was the one who'd killed Captain Harker, as well as poor Lieutenant Vyvyan. So they did for him.'
Then, only then, did I notice that my Cornishmen seemed to have an unexpected amount of blood on them, and that an equally unexpected amount of it was literally on their hands. Thus were James Harker and James Vyvyan avenged.