by J. D. Davies
There was a sudden cry from our left—'Saint Denis! Jeanne d'Arc!'—and a party of two dozen or so rushed out at us from the cover of the carts under the west rampart. Some of Montnoir's Frenchmen, then: diehards, like their leader, armed with swords and half-pikes, driven by religious fervour and centuries of resentment against the English.
Francis Gale smiled. 'Ah, now this is more like it! Thank you, Lord!'—and with that he set off on a one-man countercharge.
I waved my sword above my head to rally the Seraphim nearest to me. With one voice, we charged Montnoir's forlorn hope.
'Frenchmen,' grunted Musk, smashing his musket-butt into the gut of an oncoming enemy. 'Good. Can't make head or tail of this diplomacy business,'—musket-butt crashed down onto skull—'but you know where you are, killing Frenchmen.'
A bearded brute rushed me with a half-pike. I ducked to my left, deflected the blow with my sword, and cut the man hard in the thigh. I glanced to my right and saw Carvell and Macferran wrestling with two Frenchmen. John Treninnick was surrounded by three of them; the enemy must have thought that the strange, stunted Cornishman would be easy prey, only to be disabused as he charged them single-handed, cutlasses flailing in both hands.
Another one came at me. A decent swordsman, this one, and evidently an officer, trained in best use of a blade. He slashed at my shoulder: steel struck steel as I blocked his attack. I lunged for the heart, but he was good enough to parry and counterthrust. Once more he came on, but now he faced three, for Francis and Musk were at my side. Still the valiant Frenchman attacked, but as my blade struck his once again, Francis feinted to his left and ran him through the shoulder. Simultaneously Musk applied the coup-de-grace: musket-butt smashed into knee-cap, shattering it. Our assailant fell to the ground, screaming in agony, and we turned to address our other enemies. But the Seraphim and the red-coats, coming up from the beach in greater and greater numbers, had made short work of the other Frenchmen on the parade ground.
I looked up and could see Montnoir upon the rampart, poised and unmoving in his black cloak, not deigning to join the fray himself. He seemed to be ordering another party of his troops to depress some guns to fire grape or canister into the yard, even into his own men. But the hopelessness of his cause must already have been apparent even to the grim Knight of Malta. Not a few of the Courlanders were already surrendering, seeing the utter futility of dying for two countries—France and the Netherlands—that were not their own. Stiel had already distanced himself from Montnoir and seemed to be gesturing to his men to disengage. The fort itself was built only to withstand assault by native tribes, and as the dream of the Courland empire passed into dust, it was no longer maintained even to that standard. Any modern ship of war that could run in close enough under its guns, and put a body of trained men ashore, would have been able to take it .
Especially if it was attacked from two sides at once.
As we approached the south rampart from the parade ground, we heard the eruption of gunfire beyond the fort, and the unmistakeable sound of shot striking the wall on that side. Kit Farrell, acting captain of the Krokodil—the false Seraph—must have brought at least some of that vessel's ten guns to bear.
It was the final straw. As Facey's troops trained their muskets on them, the men on the south rampart raised their hands in surrender. Gaspard de Montnoir and Otto Stiel came down the steps and approached me. Both presented their swords in the age-old gesture of defeat: Montnoir with a squint of hatred, Stiel with a cheerful grin of relief.
'You will live to regret this, Captain Quinton,' said Montnoir. 'A gentleman, a true man of honour, does not gain victory by ruse and trickery.'
'Really, My Lord Montnoir?' I said. 'Then how, pray, should a true man of honour obtain his victories? By bribing native chiefs and Eastland mercenaries to do his work for him, perchance?'
In that moment, Facey and two of his men lowered the Dutch and Courland flags flying above the fort and hoisted the Union Flag in its place. A ragged cheer went up from the men. Imperial England had its newest outpost, and I took some pleasure in renaming it James Fort: James, the name shared by the Duke of York, brother and heir to my king, and by my father, who had fallen in a far mightier battle.
So, with victory secured, there remained the matter of my reckonings with the Seigneur de Montnoir and the Irish traitor O'Dwyer.
Twenty-Six
It was a blessedly cool evening. The sun was starting to sink far in the west, beyond the mouth of the Gambia where, we were assured, the Union Flag still flew over Charles Island, and our friends were safe aboard the Prospect of Blakeney. We would soon join them there, but one matter remained to be disposed of, there in His Britannic Majesty's proud new fastness of James Fort. We officers of the Seraph had taken a little refreshment in the garrison room vacated by Stiel and his people: some bush rat, a turtle dove or two, and the inevitable palm wine, which I was finding increasingly to my taste. I have observed many times since that it is always important to eat and drink heartily before an execution; it is so much better for the digestion than attempting to do so afterwards.
The others went out, and only Valentine Negus and I were left, for we had somewhat more elaborate preparations to make for the parts we were about to play. I was buckling on my sword belt when the acting lieutenant of Seraph stepped over to me very quietly and said, 'Sir, that matter of Mister Shish, and his capital offence against the ship. You wrote the letter to the king and the Duke of York, I presume? Intending to send it when we reached the mouth of Gambia, or if any of us requested it?'
I bridled at this seeming insult to my integrity. 'Of course I did, Mister Negus.'
'Yes, sir. Of course. My apologies.' Negus seemed to be struggling for words. 'Well, Captain, the thing is this—Let us say—Well, it just seems to me that after his exertions to disguise the two ships, would it not be a fitting thing if that letter was—lost, shall we say?'
I smiled. 'My sentiments precisely, Mister Negus. A fitting thing indeed, as you say. Thank you.'
The Yorkshireman still seemed troubled. 'But—but there is one thing more, Captain Quinton. I have thought much upon the will of God in this matter, for it has troubled me greatly.'
'Mister Negus?'
'I did not know you were Sir Venner Garvey's good-brother. Not until that day with Shish, down in the hold.' He would not now look me in the eye. 'I was uncertain, sir. I was so new to commissioned rank, and you had placed upon me such a great responsibility by confiding in me your leniency to Shish. I believed I had to cover myself against the possibility that I was colluding in something illegal, so I wrote a full account of the circumstances and sent it in the mail we put on that Dutchman leaving Kasang. I sent it to my cousin, sir, and he is the chief factor for Sir Venner in the alum trade at Whitby. I now bitterly regret sending it, Captain. I pray it does not place you in difficulties.'
My heart suddenly felt hollow. Yet Negus's apology had been so humble, his justification of his own actions so entirely meritorious, that I could not condemn him. And I knew at once that any reckoning with Venner Garvey would be many months, if not years, away, if it ever came at all; Venner was inscrutable enough to keep such a document close until the day when it might be of use to him, as he did with every other piece of information he possessed.
Mastering my emotions with difficulty, I smiled at Negus. 'You did right, Mister Negus. And you need have no concerns for me. My relations with my good-brother are—complicated, shall we say? But he will not seek to bring me to the block, if only for my sister's sake.'
Even as I spoke the words, I prayed that they were indeed true.
With that, we went out into the courtyard. Both Negus and I looked the part of commissioned officers of the King of England: we were attired in breastplates, tunics, cloaks and hats, our swords hanging from our baldrics. It was the first time that Negus had ever worn the full regalia of a commissioned officer, all of it purloined from the dead William Castle's sea-chest, and he looked remarkably uncomf
ortable in it. Even I, who was more accustomed to the garb, found it uncomfortably hot attire, even in the relative cool of the African evening; but it was the only costume fitting for what was about to unfold.
What lay before us was a grand spectacle. After all, we were in the august presence of an ambassador of the Most Christian King—a Knight of Malta too, no less—and I was determined that My Lord Montnoir would be suitably impressed by the power and dignity of the way in which the subjects of His Britannic Majesty conducted such proceedings.
Thus Facey had his redcoats arrayed in their tunics in four ranks, their muskets held smartly at attention in front of them. On the opposite side of the parade ground, Boatswain Lanherne had provided an equal number of seamen from the Seraph, assembled in as close an approximation to uniform clothing, and as close to a passable imitation of attention, as any naval crew could manage. The ship's officers, headed by Master Farrell, were arrayed in front of the men.
Our prisoners formed the third side of the square, discreetly watched from the rampart above by Facey's remaining musketeers and two of Lindman's crews manning swivel-guns loaded with grapeshot. In front of the former garrison stood Otto Stiel, perhaps the happiest surrendered captive I ever saw, and the Seigneur de Montnoir, who most certainly was not.
In the very centre of the parade ground, a gallows had been erected. The redeemed Tom Shish and his crew had relished this task; as he said, naval executions are usually such basic affairs, merely dangling a man from a yardarm, so an opportunity to produce a killing machine of true workmanship was rare indeed. He had even installed a trapdoor to outdo anything seen at Tyburn.
Once Negus and I were in position on the fourth side of the yard, O'Dwyer was led out of the cells by two of the redcoats whom he had so recently and so nominally commanded. The renegade looked about him as though he commanded the proceedings, and as he regarded the gallows, he laughed. Francis Gale, standing upon the contraption in full canonicals and flanked by the two hangmen, was reading in his strong, clear voice from the First Epistle to the Thessalonians: 'The Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first.'
O'Dwyer was brought before me. I had been certain of the necessity of the act I was about to commit; I had almost convinced myself of the rightness of it. But face to face with the Irishman, my certainties receded. Despite myself, I could not but recall the rogue who had at times proved to be strangely diverting company. I could not but feel a twinge of guilt that I was about to kill the man who had effectively saved my life when he acted so swiftly against Habakkuk Leech's gang.
O'Dwyer's initial calmness unsettled me further. 'Well, Matthew,' he said in a quiet, friendly manner, 'so we come to the noose at last. Where you would have sent me all those months ago, eh? But perhaps it's still not time for Brian Doyle O'Dwyer to feel the rope on his throat.' Then the consummate actor assumed another role, one intended for a wider audience. He sneered, and shouted so that all could hear, 'You can't hang me, Quinton! You don't have the authority—you're but the captain of one miserable little frigate! Besides, there's no law that permits the navy to judge the army! I can only be tried by a court-martial—a military court-martial—and where will you find a quorum of officers with sufficient rank to judge me, a Lieutenant-Colonel?' He looked around him in triumphant contempt. I noted not a few nods of agreement among Facey's redcoats. 'Among your miserable warrant-men and rough tarpaulins? Even if Holmes returned, the two of you would still have no right to do it. I demand a proper trial, Quinton. A fair trial. No law of England allows you to be judge, jury and executioner over me, man! I demand to be taken back to England. It is my right, I say!'
Montnoir took a step forward. With a confidence quite remarkable in a surrendered man, he said, 'I know little of your English law, Quinton, but I presume from the expressions of your men that this Irishman is quite correct.' He was right, in one sense; like most Englishmen, my crew were so imbued with notions of fair trials before twelve good men and true that they would be uncomfortable with the apparently arbitrary proceedings they had been called to witness. As, indeed, was their captain. 'Thus you have only one course open to you that allows you to emerge from this affair with honour,' continued the plausible Montnoir. 'You must surrender him to me, as a fully accredited ambassador of the Most Christian King and the Grand Master of Malta.' Montnoir's eyes, black and unfeeling, drilled their coldness into me. 'My own men are downstream with a shallop. We will carry him away with us. There will be no lasting damage to relations between France and England. This—this travesty will not even need to be drawn to the attention of your King, Quinton.'
I was as impassive as I could be, with the eyes of my crew and the surrendered garrison upon me. But inside, my stomach churned. 'What possible use can you have for him, My Lord?' I said. 'This man is a murderer and a liar. He was directly responsible for the attack on the Seraph that led to the deaths of eleven men, and in any country on earth—yes, even in France—that alone would be enough to justify his death. And we know that the mountain of gold does not exist. The prize that would buy you the Grand Master's throne and the right hand of King Louis—' Montnoir was startled by Roger d'Andelys's intelligence; but Montnoir startled meant merely a slight furrowing of his brow. 'This man can give you nothing, Montnoir. You should be happy to see a noose around his neck.'
'Perhaps his tale is a lie as you say. Perhaps it is not.' This was ever Gaspard de Montnoir's greatest strength and his greatest weakness, in one: an entire and stubborn refusal to accept defeat, or that he could ever have been wrong in any matter. The man should have met my mother, for in that, they were peas from the pod. 'And the deaths of eleven men of no rank are of little consequence to me,' said Montnoir, coldly. There was a growl of anger from the Seraphim. 'In any event, Captain, you will please surrender him to me. Now. Immediately. My authority in this place is beyond doubt, unlike your own, and I think your King will not dispute it—especially as your actions here have already threatened to provoke a breach between our two kingdoms. Do you really think that King Charles will weigh the life of this renegade equally with the prospect of a war against France and the Dutch combined?'
I looked about me. My men were confused. O'Dwyer grinned. Stiel and the Co ur landers were perplexed. Montnoir's own French were sneering, sensing their imminent victory.
I let the silence last a few moments more; then I turned to Phineas Musk.
'Mister Musk,' I said. 'Please read the document that you have upon you.'
The captain's clerk of the Seraph licked his lips, stepped forward, and took out the parchment that I had first opened in my half-cabin after O'Dwyer had put to me his insidious proposal that I should collude in his escape.
'Secret and Additional Instructions to be Observed by Captain Matthew Quinton,' he read from the cover before opening the document itself. ' We, Charles'—Musk swallowed hard, for even he was daunted by the knowledge that he was reading the words of a king, written in His Majesty's own hand—'We, Charles, by the grace of God King of England, Scotland, Ireland and France— ' Upon the word 'France', I glanced at Montnoir—'Supreme Governor of the Church of England, Defender of the Faith, do hereby make known our royal will, to wit: that in the event of manifest treason being committed against ourselves and our realms by the man known as Brian Doyle O'Dwyer, awarded by us the commission of Lieutenant-Colonel in our Irish army; and in particular, that the existence of the mountain of gold, much cried up by the said O'Dwyer, is proved to be a fiction of his creation; then our trusty and well beloved subject Matthew Quinton, captain of our ship the Seraph, is hereby granted all powers secular and ecclesiastical above any person or court within any of our realms and territories, and also granted our own royal authority earthly and spiritual, with all powers attendant upon the same; and after exercising these powers upon the said Brian Doyle O'Dwyer, the said Matthew Quinton is granted full and free pardon for any actions committed in our
name.
Given under our hand, the court at Newmarket, the twenty-third day of September, 1663.
Charles R
Musk held up the king's signature and the unmistakeable wax impression of the Privy Seal in front of the renegade's nose. The Irishman blanched, and suddenly seemed much older. Musk then carried the document over to Montnoir, who stared at it as though it was the Holy Grail.
'There is, of course, a copy in the possession of His Majesty's Secretary of State,' I said, praying that there was. I was no longer as confident in the promises of princes as once I had been; the voyage of the Seraph had buried the trusting young Cavalier that had been Matthew Quinton. 'So you see, Omar Ibrahim of Oran, at this moment, and in this place, I am much more than judge, jury and executioner. I am the King of England and the Lord God, all in one.' I turned to Montnoir. And My Lord, I think even you will concede that such authority outdoes that of an ambassador of France.' The Knight of Malta flashed me a look of pure hatred, but he followed it with a slight, yet reluctantly deferential, nod of the head.
At last I straightened. Despite my doubts, I somehow felt the presence of my feudal forebears, who would have delivered many such sentences in their own times: stringing up outlaws from hanging oaks, or in my grandfather's case, ordering mutineers flung from yardarms.
Coldly, I said, 'Omar Ibrahim—Brian Doyle O'Dwyer—whatever your name, you are a traitor, you are a murderer, and you are a dead man.'
In truth, my guts were churning within me, and I struggled to subdue the nerves that threatened to convulse me. Dare I do this? Dare I send any man, even this man, to his death in this way? Can one piece of paper truly hold at bay Gaspard de Montnoir and all the laws of England?