Pistoleer: Slavers

by Smith, Skye

  Cleff counted down the days. "You must be very slow to be only this far."

  "It has been my worst voyage yet. The keelsmen hurried the loading, so they did not balance it properly. The ship was sailing at an angle and was bow heavy, so I lost a day in Sunderland while we rebalanced. The next day we were fearful of the amount of coal dust that was rising. In their hurry they had neglected to wash the coal dust from the chunks as they loaded it, which also meant that the coal we were carrying was not damp enough. The ship was a floating bomb.

  We lost two days in Hartlepool venting the dust and wetting down the coal. And so it went all down the coast, and now this. I came so close to losing her on the head."

  Daniel was about to speak out, but Cleff kicked his leg to stop him. "Ah, but you still have the latest news from Newcastle. Tell us what is happening."

  "When I left, the fortress was patiently waiting for the Scots to come south. The king's huge army was dug in all along the Tyne, so that there was no way that the Scots could cross the Tyne. They will teach those upstart Covenanters a thing or two."

  A silence met his words. Peterson was the only man in the room that did not know that Alex Leslie had raced all the way to the Tyne without opposition, blown his way across the river at Newbourne, and put the run on the king's army. The fortress had almost immediately sought terms of surrender, because every king's general and officer had fled to Durham. He was the only man in the room who did not know that his collier might be carrying the last load of coal that would reach London before winter weather stopped the ships.

  Cleff cleared his throat, and stared down the rest of the crew, especially the lad. "That is good to hear. You bring us good news indeed. Now about these wreckers. Are you with us?"

  Peterson looked again at the pistols in the horse leathers. They seemed to be costly guns. He looked towards the selection of muskets, pistols and blunderbusses on a gun rack on the wall. Impressive. When he came aboard he had seen the waterproof covers at intervals along the deck. They could be protecting only one thing, cannons. "Aye, I'm with you. Now, I run a small crew so there will only be me and two of my men. They will carry muskets. Is that enough?"

  "Excellent," Daniel replied. "One more dram and you should be going. We'll meet you on shore over where the spit first widens into the mainland. Remember that we must move quickly if we are to surprise them while this storm still blows."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14

  Chapter 8 - Wreckers at Spurn Head in September 1640

  Quickly was obviously not a word that a commander of a collier understood. For two hours Danny and six men had been shivering in the lee of their beached dory waiting for him. Finally they saw him coming, he on the rudder his two men on the oars. No wonder he was late. Two men rowing into this wind.

  Peterson was true to his word. Both his men were armed with muskets. Hundred-year-old match locks. Nearly useless in a wet wind. Daniel shrugged and led them off into the wind. He didn't need them as fighters anyway, just as witnesses. He was down to five of his own men now, because Peterson had insisted that a well-armed man stay behind to guard the dories.

  It was a very unpleasant walk into the wind, so it was a good thing that the sand spit was just beginning to widen at this point, and that made it a short walk to the spine which gave them a viewpoint from where they could spot the fire. It was still burning, and only a half a mile north of them along the beach.

  They came up to the fire by eating its smoke. Coming from the lee meant that any noise they made would be blown away from those feeding the fires. The wind was very noisy on this side of the spit. There seemed to be only one person actually feeding the fire, but there were others on the hot side of it, trying to keep warm while they slept. They would have taken them totally by surprise if a bloody pony attached to a small cart had not neighed loudly just as they were making ready to charge.

  Instead there was a fire fight. The men camped by the fire had no chance. They were outlined against the light of the fire, and staring out into blackness. They all had guns of one type or another, and as soon as the one with the blunderbuss swung it level and aimed, Daniel's crew shot into them with their pistols. It was all over in a minute.

  All of the campers were down, save a boy, the one who had been feeding the fire. He was not armed and so had not been aimed at. Peterson's two men were still trying to light their matches, so their muskets had yet to be fired. Peterson was down. The boy began to wail in fear and Anso, the ship's giant bowman went over to calm him down. There was no man from Wellenhay who was gentler with children than was this giant. His massive strength and weight was always under control, and he always beamed a smile at them so they wouldn't be afraid of his size.

  Daniel walked between the downed men to check their wounds. He began with Peterson. He was whimpering. "You've been hit by the blunderbuss,” Daniel told him. "Unfortunately it wasn't loaded with clean bird shot, but with bits of rusty nails and the like. We will take you back to the boats in that pony cart, and then take you aboard the Swift so that Cleff can clean it up properly. The sooner it is cleaned the less chance it will poison your blood."

  "Now,” Peterson said between sucks of air and pain. "Take me now."

  "In a minute. First you must bear witness. You must see all of the men that we shot. Come, I'll help you up." He waved to Anso and the boy. "Bring the boy. He can tell us their names."

  One by one they visited the downed fire lighters. The man with the blunderbuss was very dead. Three men had chosen him as their first target because of the danger of the scatter gun. It was lucky that only Peterson had been shot by it, and he only with a few scraps of a very full load. "Was he in charge of the fire?" Daniel asked the boy.

  "Come on son, answer the captain,” Anso soothed. "We aren't going to hurt you, but we cannot take care of the wounded until we know."

  "He is Garth." the boy replied. "Yes, he was in charge."

  "Does he build these fires often?"

  "Maybe three a month. It depends on the storms and the night and the moon. We carry the wood here in the cart, and take the ashes away when we are done."

  By this time the pistols had all been reloaded, and someone handed Daniel's back to him. The next man was also dead. Daniel himself had shot him because he was the only man carrying a pistol. His ball went through the man's heart. Now he was embarrassed by it. The pistol was an old type with no cover over the pan. It had misfired in the damp.

  "Tom, the smith's son from Easington,” the boy mumbled. "We are all from Easington."

  The next man was bleeding heavily from the leg and his teeth were chattering in the cold. Daniel ripped a strip off the man's shirt and tied it tight above the wound. The bleeding stopped. The boy told him that his name was Ox. That made sense as he was as big as one.

  "Listen to me, Ox. This wound needs to bleed until the ball is pulled out, but only bleed a little. Every once in a while you must loosen the binding for a minute, and then retighten it. Do you understand?" The man nodded. He wasn't going anywhere. Daniel turned to the boy and asked, "Why do you build the fire, boy?"

  "My brother told me that we only do it when we see that there is no light on the tower. It is to warn the ships. Too many ships founder on these shores. Always have."

  "And if a ship founders in the dark, then what?"

  "Then the whole of Easington turns out to glean the beach and the wreck. We find some good stuff. If nothing else we have good planks for building with."

  The last man down, the boy's brother, hissed at the boy. "Shut yer face Charlie. Stop telling them things. They aren't nice men. Look, they've shot me. It hurts. It hurts a lot."

  Daniel moved over to the man, the last man down. He had a ball in his shoulder. Three inches lower and to the center and he would have been dead. Instead he had a shallow wound, and perhaps a broken collar bone. Painful, but not serious so long as it was cleaned properly. He told th
e man to lie still and try not to talk. If he could sleep he should do so. Meanwhile they would fetch help for him.

  "Easington is over there,” the boy pointed. "Some of the women know how to treat wounds."

  Daniel ordered Peterson to be loaded into the cart, and he pulled the boy alongside him as he walked beside the reclined commander towards the boats. "Charlie, I want you to think hard. Is the light tower keeper from Easington?"

  "The keeper isn't, but since his wife died he drinks too much, so we sent a man to help him." At Charlie’s answer, Peterson propped himself up and winked at Daniel in praise of his calm questioning.

  "And who in Easington tells you when to come and build these fires? The village priest perhaps? He will be the most educated man in the village."

  "Oh no," Charlie replied. "The priest is fearful of the storms. He holds a vigil for the widows so that they can pray for the salvation of any seaman caught in it. We get fearful storms and waves here. When I was just a child half of our village and all of the next were washed into the sea. On the lowest moon tides you can still see parts of the walls, and walls from older times, too. There are huge round columns made of stone."

  Daniel was silent for a moment while he searched for another way of asking the same question. "Is there someone nearby, a rich man perhaps, who buys most of the valuable things that you find on the beach?."

  "Why, yes. The Count buys anything that can be valued in coin." At Charlie’s reply Peterson shifted closer and cupped an ear to better hear the boy.

  "Which count do you speak of?"

  "Oh the French Count, the one who came to claim Birstall Priory and rebuild it. It had been abandoned by the monks, you see, so it had reverted to the Count. Ooo, you wouldn't recognize the place now. It's like a palace."

  "Do you know the French count's name?"

  "It's French. I'm not good with French."

  "Try."

  "Umm, Omal, no,” Charlie made a more nasal attempt. "Aumale, yes, Count Aumale."

  "And is he at the priory now?"

  "Now that the roof no longer leaks and the windows have been replaced, and the furniture has arrived, he lives there with his entire family."

  "Is it close by?"

  "At the end of Birstall Lane, almost to the beach. He has built a dock where the creek creates a channel in the sands."

  "Is it close by?"

  The boy pointed. "Just there. Less than an hour walk from here. Not as far as Skeffling." Daniel searched with his eyes but could make nothing out on this dark and stormy night. The boy asked, "We are almost back to your ships. May I go and help my brother now? I will need the cart."

  "Soon lad,” Daniel replied softly, "but first you must lead me to the priory. Meanwhile, I will have the cart returned to the fire so it will be there when your womenfolk come to fetch your brother."

  At the boats, Daniel told the others that he would row Peterson to the Swift where he could be mended by Cleff’s knowing hands. Peterson's musketeers rowed back to their own ship to report to the mate. The boy stayed with Anso while two of the crew were chosen to lead the cart back to the fire. These men swore an oath to the boy that they would do no more harm to the injured men.

  Daniel told them, "We have no more quarrel with the villagers. They are just folk trying to survive through hard time. Our quarrel is with the men who profited the most. They are usually the true leaders. Oh, and don't wander too close to the fire. Just tie the pony down somewhere on the lee bank and for god's sake, stay out of musket range just in case more villagers have arrived."

  Aboard the Swift, Cleff had one look at the shrapnel in Peterson's shoulder and then hurried to the task of stripping and washing the wounded man, and then pouring copious quantities of whisky into and over him. Meanwhile Daniel rooted about in his sea chest. When he turned from the chest he was carry a fine navy blue hat with a wide floppy brim as worn by Spanish cavalry officers. With it he held a matching cloak of fine wool and matching gloves of kid leather.

  "I thought you were off to do murder, Danny,” Cleff asked after he had stopped laughing. "You will be decked out for a wedding." Peterson, now afloat in good spirits and feeling no pain, joined in the banter.

  "I am going to visit a Count and in the way of nobles, he will judge me by my clothes more than my words." He couldn't put on the hat to show them, because he couldn't stand to his full height in his cabin. "These fine togs were a gift from an English Colonel for saving his scalp. There is irony in being given such a fine hat for saving a scalp, don't you think?"

  Peterson slurred, "Leave it, Daniel. When I reach London I will report this all to the Admiralty. They will send some officers to take care of this Count with all haste and with the law by their side."

  "By the time that hulk of yours reaches London, this bird will have flown. He will begin packing as soon as he is given the message about what we did on the beach this night." Daniel stopped to think. "You make a good point, though. A home is no place to start a firefight like the one on the beach. There will be women and children about." The man was a Count and therefore a royalist. The Spanish floppy hat would make him look like a royalist. A King's agent perhaps, or a messenger.

  * * * * *

  The boy led them to the edge of Priory lands, a meadow close to the ancient buildings. They were hours into the morning, which was brightening quickly as the storm blew itself out. Daniel shook the boy's hand and told him to go and help his wounded brother.

  "Go to your village first to get some men to help you load the injured into the cart. Forget the dead for now, and save the living. Tell your mother that she must find some strong spirits and clean everything with the stinging stuff before she begins digging for the ball. Clean her knife, her tweezers, her picks, her hands, his skin, everything. If there is no spirits, then use vinegar.

  When she digs out the ball, and this is vital, she must look for any cloth that the ball may have pushed into the wound. More men die because of a scrap of cloth than from a ball. The wound will need sewing up. If it stays hot or weeps puss for more than a day, or if his fever does not cool, then she has missed a piece of cloth and she must open it and clean it again. Do you understand?" The boy nodded and was gone at a run back along the beach.

  "You shouldn't have let him go," someone voiced, "The village may rise against us." The other six men agreed.

  "Hah," Daniel snorted. "The boy will tell them that there are four ships anchored, and wanting revenge for the fire. They will not be eager to find us. Not after he tells them of our pistols." He glanced around. This was a very narrow meadow running along the beach, which was enclosed with hedge rows on every side but the beach side. It meant that the Humber was claiming away at this land, slowly, constantly. It would perhaps explain why the monks had given up on this priory. More likely they had fled the agents of King Henry the Cock, who had kept the tax burden light on his subjects by stealing from the monasteries.

  They checked their primes, and then marched across the meadow, where they found a path through the hedgerow that led towards the Priory. While still hidden from sight by a holy yew tree, they brushed off each other's clothes and made themselves look neat. Daniel donned his fine floppy hat and the matching gloves, then walked on through the front gate into the main yard, and then up to the front door. Two men had come with him, while the others kept to cover within pistol range, where they could be fast to the door if need be.

  The door opened at the first knock. A kitchen girl peered out at them and asked, "What?"

  With a click of his heels and his shoulders, Daniel told her, "I am a messenger from the king with an urgent message for the count."

  The door slammed in his face, but he did not mind. She had been a brave little thing to open it in the first place after such a wild night. Besides, it gave him a chance to step back and take a better look at the building. There had been many recent repairs including new and larger windows and much paint. Despite that it was still a dour place to call a home, though easily defen
dable.

  The next time the door opened it was by a young and well-tailored man. "I am the count's son. You can give me the message."

  "It is a verbal and private message, and it requires a response. If the lord is not home, then please tell me where I can find him."

  A woman’s voice called out from just beyond the door. "Show him in. Him alone and no others. Take him to the library." The door opened just wide enough for the wide hat to fit through, and then was closed behind him. A maid offered to take his hat and cloak but he declined with the excuse that he was cold to the bone, which he was. The door to the right of the entrance led to a large dining room where the kitchen staff were setting a long table for breakfast. He smelled bacon and his stomach churned as it hungered for it.

  He was motioned through the door to the left, which led to the library. There was a large fireplace but the fire had just been set so the room was still as cold and damp as the beach. Why did these fancy pants types always choose to live in stone houses? They just did not make sense in this climate, especially with colder and longer winters every year. In hotter places he would have understood it, but not here. There was no good way of keeping a stone house warm. No wonder the fancy pants women were all such bitches. They were always cold.

  In the library was a complete family. The middle-aged count and his wife, three sons and two daughters. They must have been waiting here while the breakfast was set. In a gallant show Daniel removed his hat and swirled it as he bowed to the ladies, and then laid it on a small round table. He then removed his gloves a finger at a time and laid them on the same table. With another smooth movement he reached inside his cloak and drew forth his double-barreled dragon and laid it on top of his gloves.

  The sight of the pistol had caused an immediate stir of panic, but that was quickly replaced by the men's interest in the ornate and unusual gun. Daniel stood tall, but remained silent while the count and countess gauged his worth. Hopefully they were thinking such things as: 'This was no simple messenger. The was a man of the royal court, and a wealthy one to afford such a gun'.