Clash of Empires

by Brian Falkner

  “It must have been awful,” Willem says.

  “I was a clever little boy,” Jack says. “Everybody told me that. Good with me letters, good with me numbers.”

  “I’m sure you were, Jack,” Frost says.

  “But nobody ever told me that after the accident,” Jack says.

  “A sad and moving story, but a half-wit is still a half-wit,” McConnell says from the other side of the boat. Willem hadn’t noticed him sitting in the shadows.

  Héloïse snarls, baring her teeth.

  “And a wild dog is a wild dog,” McConnell says.

  “You are aware, McConnell, that you are no longer in British uniform,” Frost says with a smile that chills even Willem.

  “I am still an officer,” McConnell says.

  “But not in your uniform,” Frost says. “And Jack is a good lad, but if you push him too far, and don’t have your rank to hide behind, I fear the consequences.”

  “I fear nothing from a simpleton,” McConnell says.

  “You should,” Frost says. “Especially here, where a person could simply disappear.”

  McConnell’s reply is stopped on his lips by a hushed whisper from amidships: “Sail off the larboard bow!”

  Willem and Jack crane their necks to look.

  From the square rigging it appears to be a small brig. Its sails are dull patches sewn on the dark cloth of the sky.

  Their own sail is quietly lowering and as Willem scrambles back to the stern, Arbuckle greets him with a finger to his lips and moves closer, whispering in Willem’s ear.

  “Quietly, my friend. Sound travels a long way across water at night.”

  “What ship is it?” Willem asks.

  “River patrol,” Arbuckle murmurs. “Dutch flag.”

  “Dutch?” Willem asks hopefully.

  “That will not help us if they see us,” Arbuckle says. “The Netherlands are now allies of the French. We must hope…”

  His voice trails off. Already it is too late. They hear shouted orders on the Dutch ship and the bow swings around in their direction.

  “We must make a run for it!” McConnell says. He has joined them, as have the others, at the aftercastle.

  “Outpace a brig in this little fishing boat?” Arbuckle asks. “We would have no chance. We will lower our sails and talk our way out of this.”

  “Are you mad?” McConnell asks. “You think to blind the enemy with your charm and wit?”

  For answer Arbuckle merely glances at Willem.

  “On this I trust Captain Arbuckle fully,” Willem says, with emphasis on the man’s rank.

  McConnell stares at the approaching ship and fumes, but says nothing more.

  “I am the only one who will speak to them,” Arbuckle says. “Is that clear?”

  “It is clear,” Willem says, glancing around at the others, all of whom, with the exception of McConnell, nod their agreement.

  “So you may say whatever suits your purpose,” McConnell says.

  “Captain Arbuckle is the only one who speaks,” Willem says, starting to lose his composure. “Is that clear, Lieutenant McConnell?”

  McConnell reluctantly nods.

  The sloop drifts to a halt, and the brig is soon upon her. It seems much bigger up close, although still tiny compared to the British man-o’-war on which Willem sailed to England. He counts six gun ports along the side of the ship. They were open, but are closed as the brig pulls alongside. Storm lamps are hung from the side of the brig, illuminating the smaller boat. A carronade, a small cannon, is mounted on the fo’c’sle to the right of the bowsprit. It swivels toward them. A sailor stands behind it with a lit linstock, making Willem far more nervous than he wants to feel.

  Arbuckle does nothing to object when ropes are tossed down from the brig, stern and aft, and he instructs crew members to tie the ship up, even going to the trouble of making sure himself that the knots are strong and tight. He motions for Willem, Frost, and the rest of the crew to sit on the deck near the mast.

  “Whose side is he really on?” McConnell mutters under his breath.

  Muskets are trained on the sloop from the gunwales of the brig, and a few moments later a large, florid man appears at the railing. He glances around the deck of the smaller boat until his eyes fall on Arbuckle.

  “Arbuckle, you scoundrel,” he says in accented English, leaning over and resting his arms on the railing. He seems casual and relaxed.

  “Captain Devilliers,” Arbuckle says with a short bow. “I was worried it might have been some earnest young diehard, brave and intelligent. Thank God it is only you.”

  “Even with my muskets trained on your breast, you think to insult me,” Devilliers says.

  “That was barely an insult,” Arbuckle says. “You should hear what I whisper about you in the taverns and bawdy houses of Antwerp and London.”

  “Arbuckle is an idiot,” McConnell mutters. “He will do for us all.”

  “I am sure he knows what he is doing,” Frost whispers.

  Up on the deck Devilliers has adopted an expression of angry indignation.

  “Your lies and half-truths will do you no good, sir,” he says. “There are few who would trust the word of an Englishman, especially a rogue such as yourself.”

  “And yet all would believe such stories of a Dutchman,” Arbuckle says. “Especially one as toadying, yet vain, as yourself. I do believe you would kiss your own arse if you could twist around far enough.”

  “What game is he playing?” McConnell whispers.

  “I am wounded again,” Devilliers says, with a smile.

  Willem cannot tell in the dim light of the lanterns if the smile is one of good humor or of menace.

  Devilliers continues. “Shall I ask one of my marines to return the favor with his musket?”

  “Your marines could not hit the hull of your own ship were it docked and they on the wharf alongside,” Arbuckle says.

  “Let us find out if that is true,” Devilliers says cheerfully. He motions to one of his marines, who steps forward and aims his musket directly at Arbuckle’s chest.

  “He should bribe his way out of this,” McConnell says. “I know this type.”

  “Let Arbuckle handle it,” Big Joe says.

  “Arbuckle will shortly be dead,” McConnell says. “And the Dutchman will only respond to money.”

  “Stay where you are,” Frost hisses.

  McConnell dismisses him with a haughty look and rises.

  “Don’t move,” Willem says, but McConnell is rising and already walking toward the two men.

  Arbuckle turns and his face is cold and hard. Devilliers stops smiling and raises an eyebrow at McConnell’s approach.

  “Sit down, sir,” Arbuckle says.

  McConnell ignores him. “Please excuse this fool. A man of no class or manners. He commands the vessel, but it is my cargo that we carry,” he says. “Finest wool from my father’s farm in the Scottish highlands.”

  “Highland wool,” Devilliers says with an odd expression. “A valuable cargo indeed.”

  “Sit back down,” Arbuckle says, granite-faced.

  “Our captain does you a disservice,” McConnell says. “My family is wealthy and this wool has good value. I am sure that a portion of that value would ease our passage today.”

  The captain makes a hand gesture and suddenly the musket that had been aimed at Arbuckle moves toward McConnell. The other Dutch marines raise their muskets again to cover the English crew, and Willem glances up again at the ugly snout of the carronade.

  Arbuckle reacts instantly, swinging around with something hard in his fist, which smashes into McConnell’s face, sending him flying backward. The Scotsman is dazed, crashing to the deck, blood splattering from a deep cut on his cheek.

  “Arbuckle?” Devilliers asks, and his face has lost all joviality.

  “A long story,” Arbuckle says. “And one that is best shared over a glass of fine French cognac.”

  “Which you happen to have on board?
” the captain asks, a smile returning to his lips.

  “It so happens that I saved a barrel from Rémy Martin on my last trip,” Arbuckle says. “If I may beg your indulgence, I will fetch it. Watch this stupid one while I do so.”

  He kicks McConnell’s leg as he passes, eliciting a small, childlike squeal of pain.

  Muskets remain trained on the crew when Arbuckle disappears belowdecks, and only lower when he emerges with a small barrel of cognac.

  “We have known each other for many years,” the Dutch captain says. “I hope you do not now abuse that friendship.”

  “I think you know me better than that,” Arbuckle says. “Let us drink as friends and I will tell you my story. Then you can make whatever decision you will.”

  He hands up the barrel to a sailor who passes it to the captain. Devilliers uncorks it and sniffs. A smile spreads slowly over his face and he motions for Arbuckle to come aboard. A rope is tossed down to him and Arbuckle goes up quickly, hand over hand. He and the captain disappear belowdecks.

  On the smaller boat, McConnell spits blood and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “If McConnell moves or speaks,” Frost says to Big Joe, “hit him again.”

  “Gladly,” Big Joe says.

  * * *

  Time passes. McConnell curses under his breath. The soldiers on the Dutch ship gradually relax. With no sign of opposition from what they believe to be a fishing boat, and the fishing boat captain clearly on good drinking terms with their own captain, they lower their heavy muskets, resting them against the gunwales.

  An odd series of whistles and clacks comes from the stern.

  “Dolphin,” Frost says.

  Willem nods. He has seen pictures of these wise men of the sea, although he has never heard one before. He is a little surprised. For some reason he thought dolphins must sleep at night.

  It surprises the Dutch soldiers too, and several of them go to the stern of the brig to look for it.

  “You are too stupid to know when you are being sold,” McConnell mutters, but softly so the Dutch sailors above them cannot hear.

  “The stupid one is you,” Big Joe says.

  “Arbuckle is below with the Dutch captain right now, negotiating a price for our heads,” McConnell says.

  “He is taking a long time,” Gilbert says doubtfully.

  “And what would you suggest we do?” Frost asks.

  “Most of the Dutchies have gone to look for that dolphin,” McConnell says. “We could climb the side of the ship and overpower those left. Take their guns and seize control of the brig.”

  “Madness,” Big Joe says.

  McConnell bristles, but says no more.

  A few moments later Willem notices something odd. Their boat seems to be drifting away from the Dutch ship, and glancing to the bow and stern Willem sees the cut ends of the ropes that had secured them.

  A moment later a voice comes from the far side of the boat, Arbuckle’s voice. “Get everyone down, now!”

  “Everybody, lie down flat,” Frost whispers, and Willem passes the whisper along, before easing himself into a prone position.

  Héloïse lies next to him.

  There is a shout from the ship; one of the marines has noticed the boat drifting away. More shouts, but the guards are clearly confused and unsure what to do.

  In a rush of water, Arbuckle is over the side and running across the deck, hauling on the sheets of the foremast. It rises rapidly and a gust of wind from the stern fills it and suddenly the Dutch ship is behind them and the distance is growing rapidly. A few more seconds pass, then the first musketshot rings out and the port railing splinters. More shots, but the distance is growing all the time.

  The gun ports along the side of the ship open, and the snouts of the cannon are rolled out, protruding like thorns on a rose stem. But the fishing boat is already well out of the line of fire. The bow-mounted carronade, inexplicably, does not fire. If it did it would slaughter those on the deck.

  “They will chase us and sink us,” Big Joe says. “They are much faster than us.”

  “Not with the water that is filling their ballast deck,” Arbuckle says. “I stove in a plank in the hold. And if they try to chase us they will go only in circles. I also jammed their rudder.”

  “And the carronade?” Willem asks.

  “Damp gunpowder will not light,” Arbuckle says.

  “That was the least convincing dolphin impression I have ever heard,” Frost says.

  “It fooled them.” Arbuckle grins.

  “What about Devilliers?” Willem asks.

  The grin disappears.

  “It was unfortunate, but he would not listen to reason,” Arbuckle says with a long hard look at McConnell, who is only now stirring. “The Dutch are too afraid of the French and their great saurs.”

  “The brig will need a new captain?” Frost asks.

  “He was a friend of mine,” Arbuckle says in reply.

  On either side of the boat, the dark shores of the Oosterschelde start to close in as the fishing boat surges forward on the incoming tide.

  THE ATTACK BEGINS

  Lightning flashes, a tumbling, roiling offshore thunderstorm. The headland is briefly illuminated, revealing thin wisps of mist curling around the rocky coastline. The flash is followed almost instantly by crashing thunder.

  The seal stirs in her sheltered crevice on the foreshore. She checks her pup, two weeks old and still white-coated, then slowly raises her head above the enfolding rock. She peers through the darkness and sniffs the air to try to determine what has disturbed her sleep. Her whiskers, so sensitive underwater, are almost useless here on land. She must rely on her nose and eyes, but the darkness and the direction of the wind are not in her favor. Frightened yet unsure, and unwilling to leave the safety of their temporary home, she remains where she is. Her pup also senses danger. He whimpers and snuggles closer.

  The harsh, inhospitable stretch of rock where the land meets the water is not flat, but ridged in long deep crevices as if some impossibly immense creature has raked its claws down the cliff to the sea. The seal’s birthing place lies in the apex of one of those great rocky gashes.

  Another flash of lightning reveals a number of dark figures passing the seal’s sheltered corner of rock. Humans. They do not see her, or if they do, they give no sign of it. More lightning, a flickering sequence of flashes embedded in the clouds, briefly turning night into day. She watches the figures drop to the ground. The seal knows men and is wary of them, but they are not close enough to concern her and too quiet to have woken her.

  The solid rock of the coastline vibrates beneath her. This is what has woken her. It is not from the thunder and it is not a sensation she is used to.

  She continues to watch and to sniff the air, and another barrage of sheet lightning blazes through the clouds. For a moment the sea and shore shine in shocked white.

  In that brief moment, the seal sees death, for surely that is what comes. A creature she neither knows nor understands emerges from behind a ridge of rock. At first just a giant head. An immense, jagged mouth capable of swallowing the seal in a single bite. Then the massive body and the tree-trunk legs. The rock shudders with its every footstep. The huge head sways with the animal’s lumbering stride.

  If she could flee from this, she would, even if it meant leaving behind her pup. But she cannot. She is frozen, no longer capable of movement as a massive clawed foot thuds into the rock on one side of her crevice. She mutely looks up at the stomach and undercarriage of the creature as it moves past, showing no interest in her or her pup. A heavy tail swings back and forth as the animal moves on.

  More lightning, more crashing thunder, and the seal remains frozen as a second beast follows, then another.

  Only when all three have passed do the seal’s frozen muscles lose their rigidity and does she dare to turn her head, watching as the three, flash-lit in intermittent bursts of lightning, disappear into the rocky ridges and the curve of t
he waterfront.

  The pup whimpers again and the mother seal draws him close with a flipper. She shivers, aware that she and her pup were only a heartbeat away from a sudden and savage death.

  * * *

  Like the seal, the British sentry shivers, leaning against the boulder at the water’s edge. But his shiver is from the bitter, offshore breeze.

  Also like the seal, he is acutely aware of the possibility of a sudden and savage death.

  He is young, thin-faced, a handsome young Irishman from Kilkenny, now three years in the service of His Majesty and three months betrothed to a pretty, freckle-faced girl he has lived next door to all his life. The soldier knows what he and his fellow troopers are up against here on this headland and it scares him. He is the outermost sentry, having drawn the short straw when stations were decided.

  He watches the thunderstorm, praying it will not move toward the coast. He is cold enough without standing in the wet. He stamps his feet and wraps his arms around himself and thinks of his fair, freckled fiancée.

  He raises his head at a sound, just on the limit of his hearing, an evenly repeated thud, dull and distant, from around the point of the foreshore. Or is it just a trick of his ears? The playful lightning reveals a curl of mist reaching around the point like the fingers of a hand, and he thinks there may be a shadow lurking in it. He cocks the hammer of his musket with a trembling thumb, holding the gun at his waist. He will have time for one shot, a warning to the other sentries and to the massed forces behind them. But he knows he must use that shot carefully.

  Was that movement? A shape in the mist? Or was it simply a movement of the mist itself? He clenches the musket tightly and peers through the darkness. Every sense in his body is attuned to the rocky point.

  Which is why he does not see the French soldier who creeps forward in the shadows. Not until it is too late. He hears a sound behind him, a pebble perhaps, clinking off a rock. He turns, raising his musket, seeing nothing, and turns quickly back to see a dark boulder in front of him erupt into movement. Lightning glints off a flashing, slashing blade and no sound escapes the throat of the young sentry, nor will any ever again. His musket is caught before it can clatter onto the rocks.