Pillars of Avalon

by Catherine Pym

  “Aye,” Lewis softly agreed.

  On their way to Canada, David had intended to cross paths with this French fleet. The letter of marque allowed him to take whatever colony or merchantman he so desired. With the French hulls filled with goods, the ships would be cumbersome and ride low in the water, an easy haul to fill David’s coffers with bullion.

  Once the investors of the Company of Merchant Adventurers of London were paid, he intended to take the passengers hostages, adding more weight to his moneybox. He dry-washed his hands, thinking of his lovely Lady Fate.

  Lewis cocked his head. “Listen.”

  Something crashed through the underbrush not twenty feet from where their ships anchored. “What would make a noise like that?”

  His younger brother shrugged. “Something big?” He gazed at the tree canopy. “Whatever it is, its presence has stopped the myriad of birdsong.”

  “Indeed, ‘tis very quiet. What could have been so big?”

  “An elk, perhaps,” Lewis murmured, “or a bear.”

  David frowned. Even as they had prepared to cross paths with Moor pirates who stung like insects along the English and Irish shores, and hoped to run into the French fleet, their journey to this New World had been sadly uneventful. The ocean was vast. David and his brothers had either missed the fleet or something had delayed them.

  Newfoundland stood stalwart on the north and east of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Hopefully, any ships that entered the passage would be seen. David and his brothers had dropped anchor and waited, but after several weeks, there was no sign of the fleet. Fishermen were aplenty, though, with a nonstop parade of boats that brought in upward to three hundred fish a day.

  After weeks of inaction, David had ordered his ships to sail into the St. Lawrence River and toward Monsieur de Champlain’s little fort. He would conquer the place and make it English. If the Frenchman became stubborn, he would force a siege. David settled his hat about his ears and began to pace, again.

  The sound of paddles in the water made him turn about. He stepped to the rail and stood tall. The shallop he’d sent away to Québec began to furl its sail. The Basques looked serious as they worked to bring the boat about. He did not see the woman and girl.

  “Ahoy, Abigail,” a Basque cried.

  “Who goes there?” a seaman hollered.

  A Cheshire man approached David. “The shallop returns.”

  “We can see this,” Lewis said.

  “Allow them aboard.” David turned to his brother. “Find Thomas. He should be here. Whatever Champlain’s message, we must devise what to do next. We will inform the other captains of our fleet after we make a decision.”

  The short Basque, with a thick beard and mustachios, walked up to him. His bright black eyes glittered with dark humour. He handed David a sealed letter.

  As David read the words, his heart thudded. This would be more difficult than he had hoped.

  * * *

  The calm waters of morning had quickly changed. David stood in his cabin with his back to the leaded-light windows as rain pummelled the galleries. Lightning slashed and the crack of thunder made the ship shudder. Lewis leaned against the elaborate wall panelling while Thomas remained sullen and closed, as always. His eyes half shuttered, he folded his arms across his chest.

  David smiled grimly. “The old devil, Champlain, is not pleased we sent fishermen to conduct our business. He wonders at greatly where we reached the conclusion his small compound is in dire straits. He has plenty of foodstuffs and munitions, and welcomes an attack on his fort if we’ve the cods to do it.”

  Lewis reached for the letter. “We don’t have enough men or gunfire to engage in a long battle with Québec.” He read the contents and grinned. “He’s a wily old fellow. I’d wager he’s lying.” He released the paper and it fluttered onto the table.

  “What say you, Thomas?” His brother’s silence vexed him to the gut most days. “Don’t stand there like a damned stick. Give us your thoughts.”

  “I agree with Lewis.”

  “Which part?” David hollered. “Do you think they are in a troublesome brew or that Champlain is lying?”

  “We aren’t equipped to fight him.”

  David growled. He pressed his hands on either side of Champlain’s letter and studied the words. He looked for something hidden, a message that would give him a yea or nay. “I wish we could send someone up there.”

  “We do not stink of bear fat and would be noticed immediately.”

  David sliced a glance at Lewis, a merry droll and so much different from Thomas. He could only reckon their younger brother, who took after their grand-père and had been a difficult man, was made of the same ilk.

  Frustrated Lady Fate may have deserted him, David straightened. “Then we shall weigh anchor and leave.” Thunder rumbled. “After this storm.”

  Thomas stepped to the table and unrolled a map. “Let us find the French fleet. Summer is half over. They should be close.”

  When Thomas did speak, David listened. His young brother could outwit the enemy with his cunning. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We’ve enough water and victuals to search until the weather turns. We could traverse the St. Lawrence River, around the gulf and about Newfoundland. If we don’t find the French, we will return to England, ask for a larger fleet for next year and finish what we started.”

  Lewis nodded. “Well done. We will take Québec from that old man and make it English.”

  David thumped the table. “And you will be its governor, Thomas.”

  Thomas raised his hands. “Let Lewis be governor. I prefer to captain a ship and explore this here world, not sit on my arse and moulder.”

  “Before we do traverse the waters,” David sent his gaze onto each brother, “let us burn whatever floats near and about Tadoussac. When we go away, the bloody papists will remember us.” The old parchment crackled as he rolled up the map. “Indeed they will.”

  * * *

  The next day, David stood on deck and watched the destruction of Tadoussac Harbour. His men had set alight everything that floated, including those carved out tree logs they called canoes. People shouted and tried to save what they could but Thomas had ordered the men to use pitch which fanned the flames. First the wharf fell, then the barques and sculls.

  The fire burned hot as David’s ships sailed from the Baie de Tadoussac. The smell of burning pine and pitch swept across the bay to the fleet. As David blinked his eyes against the stench, flames and black smoke obliterated the colony. When his vessels reached the river, steam hissed along the Tadoussac shore, overtaking the black smoke.

  Soon, everything afloat burned to the waterline. David could imagine the outrage he had fomented.

  With the storms of yesterday, the breezes were brisk and by mid-afternoon they found themselves in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. To the Northeast lay Newfoundland.

  “Follow the shore, gentlemen,” David called. “With so many coves and islands, the fleet could be anywhere.”

  Nearing the Île d’Anticosti, they turned south. Dawson, his first mate pointed. “Sir, if I remember correctly, coming up is an inlet large enough to hold several ships.”

  David nodded. “Take us there.”

  The sails snapped taut and drove his ships south. Whitecaps rode the gulf. Water surged alongside the hull. Sheets sang in the winds.

  “Stand-by the royal halyards!” Dawson shouted.

  They sailed at top speed past Gaspé, a fishermen’s settlement. Barques swayed in the heavy currents. David seriously considered firing their ships, burning their wharf. The vats of fish oil alone would make a wonderful blaze. To harry these French upstarts would serve him well with the king.

  From atop, the lookout cried, “Ships starboard.”

  David dashed to the rail. At first he doubted his eyes. He blinked, then grinned. Thomas had come through. The French fleet trickled one-by-one from a protective cove, where they must have ridden out the storm.

  �
��Slacken the yards and sails,” Dawson yelled.

  David laughed. “Champlain lied and is in dire straits, after all. Look how low those ships ride. We will take as much of the prizes as we can.”

  Dawson stretched his neck, looking at the top rigging. “There will be women and children.”

  David turned away. “We will only make their hair turn white. Inform Gunner Banks to ready the guns.”

  Chapter Three

  Fully expecting his brothers and the captains of his fleet to follow in formation, prow-to-stern, David Kirke raised his arm. Men scrambled up the ratlines, scuttled about the spars and rigging.

  “Send a few over their bows, Mister Banks. We don’t want to sink them, only astonish them.”

  Helmsman Lang guided the Abigail through wind gusts toward the French.

  “Keep her steady,” David cautioned.

  “Lower the moonsails,” first mate Dawson yelled.

  Men shouted. Canvas snapped whilst David’s ships ploughed through heavy swells. He felt, rather than heard the gunports open and heavy carriages roll toward the openings.

  The French drifted near shore like frightened deer, the summer foliage and green grasses a backdrop for the partially furled sails, tall masts and half-submerged hulls. Only four of the French sails were first and second rates, the others much smaller and barely seaworthy.

  The admiral of the fleet did not know the way of it; he must be an aristocrat who paid good money to play at being a sea captain. With the vessels packed so close together, a man could leap from one deck to the other. It would only take a few rounds to sink the lot of them.

  Mister Banks signalled and David nodded. Soon cannon fired and the deck reverberated under his feet. Smoke obscured his vision as six pounders shot over the water.

  The French vessels floated calmly as if waiting for their possible demise. Cannonballs ripped into the water, sending geysers onto the decks.

  David’s fleet approached the French. He knew their first and second rates’ power were superior to his and wondered why they did not return fire. When his vessels were almost upon them, French gunports opened, their muzzles glaring with menace. It did seem the French admiral had hefted up his cods and would fire upon them.

  So close now, broadsides would damage both fleets. He did not want to engage an enemy whose ships were crowded with women and children, penned goats and caged chickens but David would take what filled their holds. He raised his arm to halt.

  Men settled at their places. Winds soughed across the deck and whistled through the lines. Choppy seas thundered against the outer hull.

  For several tense moments, the fleets swayed in the swells across the widening expanse of water. Canvas snapped in the stiff breezes.

  “Keep her steady, Mister Lang,” Dawson ordered. He turned to David. “The decks are crowded, sir. Women and children, men in black.”

  David stepped to the rail and scowled. Bloody Jesuits. They made gestures of blessing folk, then they blessed themselves. How could he have forgotten the French were papist who tried to sway the most stalwart of savages to their way of thinking? The priests would be of no use as hostages. Those standing on the main deck with the bloody Jesuits were women and children, farmers. None of those would bring in bullion, either.

  The French admiral must be mad to allow so many on deck when a battle would soon commence. People clogged the way of gunners, the harquebusiers. They would be maimed or killed, something he did not want to be a part of.

  David turned his back to them. “I shall write a letter to invite their admiral aboard for a gentle discourse.” He leaned closer to his first mate. “Have you any idea who that might be?”

  “Nay, sir, I do not.”

  Soon, David handed Dawson a sealed letter. “’Tis a polite request to surrender by order of our king.” He shrugged. “If possible, I want to avoid bloodshed. The admiral must know this but he must also know I will have his ships and all that is in them. Men of consequence will be taken as hostages, so I beg of thee, Dawson,” he smiled grimly, “do not kill anyone.”

  Dawson nodded and secured the missive within his coat.

  “Tell them I will be obliged if they comply with due speed.”

  “Aye sir.” Dawson slipped over the rail and down the rope ladder to the boat.

  Once his first mate had pushed off, David retreated into his cabin. The brisk air and the heady possibility of battle made him hungry. In a corner rested a barrel of Rhenish wine with the bung loosened. He would enjoy a dish with his meal, a roasted piece of beef thanks to the generosity of Monsieur de Champlain. He laughed.

  David barely wiped his chin of beef juices and downed the last of his wine when he heard a disturbance on deck. He threw his napkin on the table, grabbed his Wheelock pistol and dashed out of the cabin.

  His second mate, Higgins, stood at the rail. He turned to David. “Dawson returns without their admiral, sir.”

  “His name is Monsieur de Roquemont.” Dawson handed David a paper folded very small and sealed with a large droplet of red wax. “His response to your missive was unexpectedly loud.”

  David’s brows rose into his hat brim for the folded letter was smaller than the palm of his hand. He raised his gaze to the first mate, who only shrugged.

  Cracking the seal, David unfolded the leaf filled with ink blotches. No drying sand fell onto the deck as the creases smoothed out. Small holes marked periods, commas and semicolons as if de Roquement had stabbed the paper with the quill nib, his soul vexed to a high heat.

  “You put him into a delirium of dudgeon,” David intoned. “He will not surrender.”

  “A four ship squadron leaves the bay,” the lookout cried from above.

  David would not lose this prize. “Give chase, gentlemen. Range alongside.”

  Dawson and Higgins shouted orders as Lang held onto the whipstaff, steering the ship into the winds, their sails luffed, David’s five other ships in close formation. His chest expanded with exhilaration. His eyes watered in the wind.

  The French squadron ran sluggish and too low to the waterline. As David’s fleet carried in the wind they gained on the French. Soon they sailed at the stern of the lead ship, then yardarm and yardarm.

  “Deliver a broadside, Mister Banks.”

  Cannon fired. Balls slammed into the ships, felling men and tethered animals. The mizzenmast cracked and cables dropped onto the deck. Screams rent the air. Muskets misfired into the air. A man plummeted from a ratline.

  Men threw grappling irons and boarded de Roquemont’s vessels. With swords and daggers raised, the French cried out, charging David’s men. Blades clanged and cries of rage filled the air.

  Sharp wind pierced the rigging and sails. Choppy seas shot between the hulls. Swells banged the ships together, the upper and main wales scraping.

  David leaped onto the admiral’s vessel and took his bearings. A man rushed him and he thrust his sword, the tip meeting flesh and sinew. The fellow cried out and pitched forward onto the deck.

  He searched for de Roquemont among the plainly clothed seamen. Toward the poop deck, David saw a man fitted in silk and ribbons who fought like a cornered animal. He hacked and slashed his cutlass, used his dagger to strike and jab. Sweat poured from the admiral’s chin as his beaver hat with a tall crown bounced upon his head.

  David laughed and fended off the French whilst he made his way to the admiral. When he neared the man, one of David’s own stabbed de Roquemont in the boot with his sword. He cried out and fell to one knee. David’s man pulled the blade from the admiral’s foot and made ready to kill him.

  “Halt!” David cried. “I want him alive.”

  * * *

  That evening in the great chamber of his vessel amidst heaping plates of beef and dishes of marrow boiled in broth, David raised his horn cup. “To you, gentlemen, I give thanks. We gained many prizes and took no losses during today’s fray.”

  The men who captained his fleet raised their cups. “Hear, hear.” They drank.<
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  Chirurgeon Jenkins entered the chamber and David waved him over. “How’s our poor wounded person? Will he live? Sit, sit, have something to drink.” He poured red wine from a pitcher into a horn cup.

  Jenkins smiled, took the cup and sat on a bench next to Lewis Kirke. “The blade pierced his foot but missed the bones. He was fortunate. Other than his ill-temper, he is well.” He turned to David. “He lost several men and curses you for a murderer.” He sipped his wine.

  David hunched forward. “But no farmers, their wives or children.”

  “Do you think the French will pay our price for de Roquemont?” Lewis asked.

  Monsieur de Roquemont was a French aristocrat and, as hostage, would garner a brave profit. As they had searched the ships, Captain Forest found hiding in a narrow cabin another high person, whose name was Monsieur de la Tour. David would demand a thousand marks each for their return.

  Jenkins stroked his Vandyke beard. “The admiral is very strange. Mayhap, the French sent him on this venture to get rid of him.”

  David did not want to hear this. As it was, even with the holds loaded to the deck-beams, the London Merchants would barely recoup what this mission had cost.

  “They surrendered easily enough.” Lewis winked at Thomas, who did not respond.

  David grunted. He wanted his younger brother to partake in this discourse, not sit on the bench like a damn stick.

  “Due to civilians piled neck-upon-neck methinks,” David studied his wine that tasted peppery. He smacked his lips.

  Captain Gerald rolled his cup between his hands. “The four merchantmen were the only ones fitted for battle. The smaller ships carry other stuffs and a great deal of cannon. I’d wager they’re heavy as old galleons.”

  “Aye, we saw how they moved, today.” David very well remembered the French fleet’s performance and did not want to glory over it.