The sun rose already hot on August 28th, 1640. Daniel's cousins, the gunners of his crew, were working with Ham high above on the church tower that overlooked the bridge at Newbourne. One of them waved down to General Leslie that all was ready. Alex Leslie was sitting in the shade of a thick stone wall with Daniel and his other captains. Leslie gave his permission to open fire, and then all hell broke loose over on the earthen ramparts on the English side of the Tyne.
The first two shots from the tower were a signal to every other gun crew. The other cannons were safely arranged on the high ground that surrounded this village. They were out of the range of making useful shots against the English culverins, but they would stop any notion the English might have of outflanking the Scots. Leslie's musketeers were safely hiding behind the stout stone and brick walls of every building near the river's edge.
The church cannon's first ranging shots were cannon balls and nothing more, and had little effect other than to ruin the breakfast of the three or four thousand Englishmen under Lord Conway's command. Unlike the rest of Leslie's cannon, however, the church cannons had a supply of balls that were fused bombs and would explode when the fuse reached their compressed powder. Ham himself measured and cut the fuses of the first two bombs using the book of ranging tables that the Dutch had included with the case of bombs. The first two bombs ruined more than just the breakfast of the army across the river.
The first of the bombs exploded early, with the effect that red hot smoke and shrapnel slammed into the gun crew who had raced from their breakfast to load the English culverin closest to the bridge. Some of the glowing shrapnel must have hit the powder charge, because the bomb's initial explosion was followed by a second larger explosion.
The second six-pounder bomb exploded too late, once it was past the targeted culverin, but the effect was no less frightening as two bodies were hurled like rag dolls through the breech in the ramparts where the culverin's muzzle pointed outward.
Meanwhile Leslie's other guns were doing what they had been ordered to do, and were sending occasional cannon balls skipping murderously through the tents and campfires of Conway's army. While they did little actual damage, the effect on the English morale was important. Conway's entire army was soon lying flat on the ground and ignoring their muskets and their ramparts and their orders.
Within five more minutes and four more bombs, the two culverins closest to the bridge were no longer manned. It was time for the gunners on the tower to select new targets. Since none of the culverins were yet being moved to aim at the tower, Ham selected the culverins closest to the downstream ford. This time however, the English gun crews knew what to expect and after the first ranging ball skipped passed their gun, they began fleeing, fleeing to anywhere other than around their own gun.
Meanwhile Ham continued to use his own kijker, a looker which had larger lenses than Daniel's, to look along the line of English guns. Now other culverins were being physically manhandled to aim at the tower, so rather than targeting those closest to the fords, he ordered Ham to target any culverin surrounded by men. Since the culverin gun crews did not know which of them would be targeted next, their heavy work of manhandling the tons of metal was interrupted whenever they saw gun-smoke on the church tower.
Although the re-aimed culverins bombarded Newbourne continuously, after two hours they had still not silenced the guns on the church tower. Meanwhile, half of their culverins were no longer firing, and certainly none of the culverins closest to the bridge and the church.
In Newbourne, the Scots remained dug in, hiding behind walls, and trying to keep up their sense of humour throughout the bombardment. The light banter between them hid the terror in their souls from knowing that eventually they would be called upon to charge across the bridge through withering grape shot.
With time, the pounding of the Scottish infantry lines became less frequent, whereas more balls were landing closer and closer to the church. Due to his looker and his vantage point high on the top of the church tower, it was Ham who first realized that the English had made a tactical error. He called down to his general who, like the rest of the army, was cowering behind a wall with his head well down and ducking every time he heard a cannon blast or the ominous whistle of an incoming ball.
"Alex, they've made a mistake. Instead of re-aiming three or four of their culverins at this tower, they are re-aiming all of them. For the next half-hour to an hour, their culverins cannot defend the bridge or the fords."
Leslie looked to the man sitting next to him. "Daniel?" he said, and that one word was enough to carry a meaning to the experienced pistoleer.
"No." Daniel replied immediately. "No Alex, I am here as a gunner. Remember our bargain."
"Please, Daniel. You are the only man I have who has seen battle as a Dutch pistoleer."
Daniel sighed. He knew this would happen. Flying squads of pistoleers were just too bloody useful. With the culverins temporarily out of position, someone had to make the first charge across the bridge, and what better force for such dangerous work than a mounted flying squad? He poked his head over the ruin of the wall and stared at the bridge through the dust that was still floating in the air from the last cannon balls.
"Right, all right," he said haltingly. "But only because it is low water, which means that we can use the fords to retreat even if the bridge becomes a death trap. I'll do it. I'll charge through the breech in the ramparts."
"No, no, no. Absolutely not, Danny." Alex spoke hurriedly. "Even though their culverins are useless, they still have musketeers. I don't want you to actually charge into the breech. Yes, I want you charge across the river, but I want you to retreat as soon as you see their musketeers filling the breaches to protect the culverins.
Before you charge the bridge, I will reposition my six-pounders closer to the river to bring them within grape range of their ramparts. I want you to feign a charge, so their musketeers gather to protect the culverins, and once you turn and are out of the line of fire, my cannons will blast the culverin positions with grape."
"Then I have changed my mind. I refuse to go. It will be an outright slaughter of their infantry. I did not come here to slaughter English lads just because they are carrying Charlie's muskets."
"Danny, I hear what you are saying,” Alex growled. "I did not come here to set five thousand Scottish farm boys upon five thousand English farm boys. I will not be having thousands of mothers on both sides of the border cursing me to my grave. The only way of saving all those lives is to convince the English lads to flee the field before we ever get close to them.
Don't you understand? I am trying to save lives. Yes, your false charge may result in twenty or thirty musketeers being shredded, but that may save thousands of lives today. Perhaps even ten thousand. Their army is like my army. Except for a few squads of mercenaries, the infantry is a mob, an untrained rabble. Once the English lads see the true terror of grape, first hand and close up, they will ignore their officers and run home to their mothers."
Daniel went silent, thinking, planning, visualizing. "So, say I lead a false charge. Say your grape keeps the musketeers in hiding so that they will not cut us down before we are over the bridge. What then? What about their cavalry? As soon as we turn our backs to retreat, they will give chase. Chasing down fleeing men is what cavalry do best. We will be slaughtered by their sabres because neither your cannons nor your muskets will be able to target them without hitting us."
"Danny, trust me," Alex replied confidently. "Some of the six-pounders will be hidden behind the walls closest to each ford. They will be shooting at enough of an angle that they will be able to target any cavalry giving chase so long as you stay ahead of them."
"But the fords will be our second choice for retreat. Most likely we will come back across the bridge. What then?"
"I will risk my own Swedish four-pounders at our end of the bridge. As soon as your last man is out of their line of fire, they will cough grape at any cavalry on the bridge behind you. It will become a death trap for anyone chasing you."
"And if the English are not polite enough to follow your plan, what then? Their cavalry will capture some of your cherished field guns,” Daniel warned. "That would be a disaster."
"Don't you see, Danny? That is exactly what will bring the cavalry out from behind those ramparts. They will use your fleeing squad as a blind, but they won't be interested in catching you so much as capturing some of our field guns."
"So let me get this straight. I fake a charge, retreat, and then get the hell out of the way of your cannons. You do the rest?"
"Exactly."
It took a busy half hour to organize the flying squad from those men huddled close by who carried pistols. Meanwhile, enough horses for them were being brought forward, as well as some six-pounders to be hidden behind the walls of the wreckage of the town. There were a lot of crumbling walls in Newbourne, but not just from today's cannon balls. Most were the remains from a time when this was the main town on the River Tyne, instead of Newcastle. Only a tenth of the old foundations still had houses on them, and most of the houses that still stood had been in poor repair even before today's cannon balls.
Once Alex's precious Swedish four-pounders were openly placed in a position to fire along the bridge, Daniel and his twenty volunteers cantered across. They did not bide their time, nor undertake any special preparations. The longer they stood waiting to charge, the more likely it was that they would lose their nerve.
To the English commanders on the south side of the Tyne, it must have seemed like the Scots had taken leave of their senses. Twenty mounted and lightly armoured men were making a foray across the bridge, and their only cover were two very small cannons, and even those could not give covering fire without hitting their own men. Not only that, but there was a lull in the Scottish cannonade, the first lull in hours, and that meant that English musketeers and cavalrymen could all pop their heads up and take a look over the earthen ramparts they had been hiding behind.
"Ach, the fools,” Alex Leslie moaned as he watched from his blind, which was within hailing distance of Ham up on the church tower. "Why, oh why, didn't they accept my terms? This will not be war, this will be murder. Their leaders are fools, and too proud by half. Those bloody ignorant, inbred English lords are playing at war. They are not fit enough as leaders to organize the storming of a whorehouse." He didn't want to watch his plan be put into action, but as the general he must. That was his job, nay, his duty.
Daniel and his flying squad had increased their pace as they crossed the bridge and now they were at a full gallop towards the culverin closest to the bridge, to where its muzzle poked out from a purposefully built breech in the ramparts. That breech was now quickly filling with English musketeers.
The moment the English began leveling their muskets, was the same moment that Daniel decided they were close enough. He pulled his mare hard up and then turned her back towards the bridge, and the riders behind him did likewise so that twenty horses' asses were in a wide line facing the breech. Then as one, the pistoleers turned in their saddles to face the breech and fired their pistols at the musketeers.
This hopeless waste of pistol balls would have caused the musketeers to laugh at them because they were well out of pistol range. This was more true than they knew, for the Scottish pistols were loaded for belching smoke rather than launching balls; the twenty-one gun belches obscured the entire breech in a filthy grey-brown smoke, causing the two sides to lose sight of each other.
As Alex watched, scarcely breathing, the flying squad raced out of the cloud of brown smoke and hurtled back towards the bridge. "Run Danny, you beauty,” he whispered hoarsely, "run for your life." As soon as the flying squad was far enough away from the breech to be out of the line of fire, Alex gave the order to fire at the culverin and the musketeers defending it.
Four of his six-pounders belched death towards the musketeers and the grapeshot whistled and punched holes through the brown smoke that still masked the breech. Other of his cannons strafed the ramparts on either side of the smoke cloud with grapeshot. Not that they would have hit anyone, for as soon as the musketeers had seen the smoke from Scottish cannons, they would have ducked down. It was enough that the lines of musketeers were too busy ducking to take aim at the flying squad.
"Come on, you evil inbred sons of lords,” Alex cursed under his breath. "Where is your bloody cavalry? They can't all be off boozing and wenching." He shouted up to the tower, which was still standing despite being hit a half dozen times by cannon balls. "Ham, can you see over the ramparts? Can you see any English cavalry?" He looked towards the bridge again. The flying squad was almost to it. There, there they were. The English cavalry were careening down the earthwork ramparts trying to outrun and cut off Daniel's squad.
Of course the cavalry would have waited. They wanted to use Daniel as a blind against the four-pounders covering the bridge. They had waited until the flying squad was blocking their own cover fire. He watched Daniel and his men. They were looking around, searching for any sign of a chase, and had slowed their mounts to tease the cavalry out of cover. With the cavalry now in pursuit, the flying squad kicked their horses to a run.
There were too many English cavalry in hot pursuit to all use the bridge, so over half of them veered left or right and leaped into the fords on each side of the bridge. They were all so sure of themselves. Sure that they were safely shielded from cannon grape by their closeness to the Scottish flying squad, and sure in their knowledge that the pistoleers had already spent their pistols. Such assuredness, such lack of caution, was a disaster in the making.
The first loads of grape from the six-pounders hidden closest to the fords now strafed the English cavalry who were splashing across both fords. Any of them with any sense gave up the chase immediately and tried to make it back to the south bank. The horses of those without such common sense went down, and went down hard, taking their riders with them into the relative safety of the water.
The cavalry who followed the flying squad across the bridge were not so lucky. The flying squad had too good of a lead to become targets for lances or sabres and was off the north end of the bridge and around the gun crews of the two four-pounders before any of the chasing cavalry reached the north end. And then the obvious happened. The four-pounders simultaneously erupted a great gust of grape shot.
The first ten horses on the bridge ate all the grape and went down as one. The second ten riders were unharmed and bravely decided to continue the charge and capture the two light guns. They must have totally forgotten about the thousand Scottish musketeers that were hiding behind the village buildings. A hundred men on the bridge and in the fords were hit by musket fire, and had no choice but to try to retreat to the safety of the English earthen works.
With the English cavalry now out of position or in full retreat, and the English musketeers still nowhere to be seen along the ramparts, and the English cannons still not able to target the bridge, the Scottish musketeers were ordered to charge across the river and capture the ramparts and the English culverins.
Daniel and his squad had stopped their retreat close behind the four-pounders in order to reload their pistols so they could defend the guns from capture. That just put them in front and in the way of a massive rally of Scottish infantry. They were being pushed along in front of the wave of men running for the bridge, and all they could do to get out of the way was to tack through the mob down the bank and into the ford.
The ford was running red with the blood of the injured, dying and dead cavalry horses. It had become a treacherous crossing because of the injured and panicked horses, as well as the walking wounded of the failed cavalry charge. When they finally reached the other bank, Daniel and his flying squad could not charge into the gun emplacement breeches because those ways were blocked by hoards of Scottish infantrymen. Instead they rode up the ramparts until they had just enough height to see over them. There seemed to be no musketeers waiting to fire at them, so they continued to the top.
Sure enough, over the last half hour the English musketeers had learned much about the destructive force of cannons shooting grape. The ramparts would have given them a fine view of their brothers-in-arms being torn to shreds in the breeches. Now the English infantry were limping, walking, and running away from their posts all along the ramparts. Their officers were yelling at them to rally them, but it was too late. The English infantry was leaving the field. The cannon battle that had raged along the Tyne had been more than enough to make the infantry lose heart.
The English officers were well armed and had been ordering their infantry to hold the ground and shoot the Scots, but more and more they were finding themselves yelling at the backs of their men. As Daniel watched, an officer in a wide-brimmed navy blue cavalier hat, complete with white plume, pushed back his matching blue cloak, raised his pistol and shot at one of the retreating backs. The lad, for he was only a lad, went down in a howl of pain.
The officers around the bastard stared at the lad and now disobeyed the very orders they had been yelling to 'hold the ground and shoot the Scots'. Instead of shooting the Scots, they began shooting at the fleeing backs of their own command. Three or four more of the retreating infantry were shot in the back before Daniel and his flying squad were amongst the officers and aiming their dragons at their faces.
There was little risk, for the bastard officers had already emptied their guns into the backs of their own men. Daniel stared down at Fancy-hat and pointed his dragon at the man's face. Both barrels were empty, but this man wasn't to know that. His pistoleers rounded the other officers up and pushed them all towards Fancy-hat. None of the officers put up a fight, which was a good thing since it was likely that the flying squad did not have two loaded pistols between the them.
The Scottish infantry was now coming towards this position in the form of some wild-looking Highlanders who were armed with long-handled battleaxes and shields, as if from some vision of a battle from before the time of gunpowder. The last of the loyal English infantry, on seeing the Highlanders and on seeing their officers so meekly surrendering, now knew that this battle was lost. They stood and ran to follow the rest of their company into the corn fields beyond the ramparts, and must have been praying that the Highlanders did not chase them into the long stalks.
With the Scottish infantry now surrounding the English officers, Daniel and his pistoleers could now take the time to regroup, reload, and take a good look about to see if their help was needed anywhere else. Daniel mouthed some clucking sounds and used his knees to calm his panting mare. She was unnerved and skittish from the smell of blood and powder and the anguished screams of wounded animals and men. Slowly she was coaxed back up to the top of the rampart so that he could signal to Alex and Ham that it was safe for the rest of the army across the river.
While he was waving he heard an unusual sound or rather, an absence of sound. There was no longer any cannon thunder. For hours it had been constant, and now there was none. From his height, mounted on a horse on top of the ramparts, he could look along them in both directions. Not a single English cannon had a crew nearby to load it, and of course, no Scottish cannon dare fire lest they injure their own men who were now capturing the English positions.
Now came the hard part. Somehow, he, an Englishman, and possibly the only Scottish officer on this side of the river, must convince the Scottish mob NOT to chase the retreating English army. The goal of this attack had been to overrun the English cannon, and then to secure the ramparts from any counter attack. The last thing he or Alex Leslie wanted was a horrific slaughter.
Now that the cannon were secure, it was vital that the Scots march along the south bank of the river towards Newcastle and prevent the English from crossing the river to the safety of Newcastle's fortress. To do this the Scots needed to control the river and every boat and ferry on it. He called his flying squad to him and quickly told them what was needed, and then sent them off to spread the word to any group that was chasing the retreating army.
While his pistoleers careened down the rampart, Daniel took some deep breaths and calmed himself. From this height he had a good view of what was happening with both armies and what he saw was that he couldn't call either side 'armies', not in the Dutch sense of the word. Most of the companies on either side were just armed rabbles. Undisciplined, untrained mobs without squad leaders experienced enough to give logical orders according to the immediate situation.
He scanned the battlefield for the English cavalry. He found them. Charlie's inbred mounted twits were racing towards the village of Ryton, or rather to a small rise of land behind that village. Meanwhile Charlie's infantry were walking south, and probably wouldn't stop until they reached their homes. The ones making the best time, the smart ones, were trotting along an ancient lane towards the village of Stella.
The English infantry were still carrying their weapons, which they would consider theirs just for showing up at this battle. Woe be to any farmer who refused to feed them. Woe be to any officer who threatened them about their cowardice under fire.
He knew of the village of Stella, for that is where Leslie had met with Conway on the day before the battle. Was that only yesterday? Alex had come away from the village feeling frustrated. Conway and his officers had refused to listen to the harsh truth that the Scottish army was larger and better armed. A lot of men were now dead or crippled because Lord Stafford had ordered Conway to hold this ford.
Daniel's mare was now at the end of this section of the ramparts, and below her was one of the culverin slots. It was the very breech that she had earlier charged towards. There were hoards of Scots pouring through it. Daniel yelled some orders at them, but he was ignored, so he raised the only gun he had yet to fire, his carbine, and he fired it into the air to get their attention. Now some men looked up at him, so he repeated his orders but this time he imitated Alex Leslie's own thick brogue accent in order to sound like a Scottish officer, rather than like an Englishman.
Perhaps it was because of the faux accent, or perhaps it was because a half a dozen of his flying squad had come to join him, but at last the men below had stopped to listen and were paying attention. An order that is logical does not need to be given by a general, and what Daniel was calling to them was only logical. Protect the English cannons. Keep the English away from the river and its boats. Luckily, one of Leslie's junior officers was amongst the mob and he took up the cry.
With the orders given, Daniel could now take the time to focus his looker on what he was seeing down below where the Scots were marching through and around the English gun emplacement. He should have known better than to focus. It was better not to look closely at the ground after a battle. It made him want to puke. There were bloody bits of men scattered everywhere as if some god had sewn bits of bone and flesh into the soil to see if a crop of people would grow.
Yes, there was the occasional whole dead body, but those were rare. The wounded had already limped away or had been dragged away by friends or cousins. All around him were fleshy remnants of what an hour ago had been men. He looked away, for he didn't want to lose his stomach in front of the other pistoleers. Instead he concentrated on reloading his weapons, as were the other pistoleers. Nobody spoke. To speak you needed to breathe, and to breathe meant smelling the odor of death and blood and battle and flash-roasted flesh.
While he was reloading he noticed that the kilted Highlanders seemed to be robbing the English officers that the flying squad had captured. The ones who had been shooting their own men in the back. They were now being beaten, or at least those struggling to get away from the Highlanders were being beaten. He finished his reloading and then urged his mare down the slope towards them.
The sight of the abuse of these men, these defeated men, these finished men, enraged him more and more as he rode down towards the Highlanders. One group had Fancy-hat pinned to the ground. One of the Highlanders was giving him the boot, while others were stealing his boots. As Daniel rode closer, one of the Highlanders pulled his dirk and moved it towards the man's face.
"Put the dirk away, lad, he is a captive." Daniel called out in a loud voice so that not only the Highlanders, but the half-dozen flying squad behind him would hear. Again he imitated the general's brogue. The Highlanders stared at him and yelled back in broken English that they did not speak English. Whether true or not was debatable, although most country Scots had no need of English.
One of his flying squad did the interpretation to Scottish. "Tell him also that to hurt a man who has surrendered to you, is to spit in the face of the fates, for one day they too may be a captive,” Daniel told the man who was translating. The translator began discussing something heatedly with the Highlanders so Daniel slid from his saddle, cocked his dragon, and walked towards the group surrounding the downed officer.
"They say that they weren't going to kill him, just scalp him and leave him here," the translator said. "That way he would die only if none of his own men would help him. It's Highland justice. When a man does deadly evil to someone else, his fate is given to the one he's abused. I suppose since this officer shot some of his own men in the back, they expect that his own men will let him bleed to death."
The officer had been stripped of his fine cloak and cavalier hat and anything else of value, including his weapons. A Highlander lad reached forward and grabbed the officer's hair and yanked on it hard to lift the scalp away from the skull so he could saw the scalp away with his dagger. Daniel growled at him and leveled his dragon at him. The standoff that followed was tense. The only man speaking was the officer, who was pleading with Daniel to save him from the heathens. As Daniel was not a Christian, this struck him as funny, and he laughed aloud. The very act of laughing seemed to calm everything down.
With the help of the translator he explained to the Highlanders that the officer had surrendered and therefore no one in the Scottish army could harm him unless he tried to escape or fight them. The Highland lad sheathed his dirk and let go of the officer's hair.
"My name is Colonel Thomas Lunsford, and I thank you for saving me,” the officer told him, expecting an equivalent introduction in return. Daniel kept quiet. There was no way on earth he was going to tell his name to an English officer. In truth, he would rather kill this officer than have him know his name, or that he was an Englishman riding with the Scots.
The young Highlander had walked over to the English infantryman who lay just beyond Lunsford, the lad who Lunsford had shot in the back. He called something to his brothers-in-arms, and they all laughed. Daniel laughed with them out of relief from defusing a tight situation, and even Lunsford smiled. The translator sneered at the both of them and called them fools.
"They have accepted your decision, Daniel, that they as Scots cannot harm Lunsford, but they point out that the English lad is still breathing. They intend to continue with Highland justice. They are going to sit the lad up, put Lunsford's pistol in his hand and aim it at Lunsford. If the lad pulls the trigger and does for Lunsford, then the fates will have spoken."
"You can't allow it!" Lunsford shouted to Daniel in a renewed panic.
"I don't see that I have much choice,” Daniel hissed at him. "The Highlanders will have followed my orders to the letter."
"Be warned that I side with the Highlanders in this," the translator told Daniel, "so don't count on my help if you try to stop them." The others of the flying squad confirmed the translator's call.
Daniel stood back out of the line of fire and walked towards the English lad. He was barely conscious, barely breathing, and his homespun was sticky red with his own blood. "Who are you, lad?"
"Jack Tanner of the Somerset Trained Band,” the lad replied in short halting breaths.
"Do you wish to shoot the Colonel for trying to convince his infantry to stand their ground?"
"If it takes my last breath,” the lad moaned. "He shouldna shot me in the back. I stood with him longer than any of my mates." One of the Highlanders had heaped Lunsford's fine cloak to create a mound to support the weight of the pistol. The lad might have had enough strength to pull the trigger but he certainly didn't have the strength to hold the barrel up.
"Aren't you going to stop this?" Lunsford called out hopefully.
"Nay, I can't. If I were you, Colonel, I would think of this as the last shot of a duel. You had your shot and it will soon kill your opponent, but your opponent still has his shot to take."
"That is complete crap!" Lunsford yelled out, but already the translator had told Daniel's words to the Highlanders and they were all nodding at the wisdom of comparison. As he was speaking, the translator was handing his own pistol to the young Highlander who had been ready to do the scalping.
"He is the Tanner's second in this duel,” the translator explained to Lunsford. "If Tanner's shot misses you because you moved out of the way of it, then he will put his own ball through your head." Lunsford began to argue, a long-winded argument. Eventually the translator told him to shut up, and to sit up straight and still like a man, for it was obvious that the Colonel was arguing only to waste time in hopes that Tanner would die before he could take his shot.
There was a crack of a pistol, and a lot of smoke, and both Tanner and Lunsford fell backwards with moans and grunts. The Highlander who had been helping Tanner stooped over the lad and then looked up and shook his head. The lad was no longer breathing. Meanwhile Daniel had run to Lunsford and knelt beside him. The man was weeping and holding the left side of his head with both hands. Daniel pulled his hands away so he could see the wound.
There was no blood, but there was a black smudge that was glowing in the middle and a stench of burning flesh. The pistol ball had missed Lunsford, but not by much, for his left eye and temple had been hit by the burning soot of the powder and cloth. "Quickly, a canteen!" he yelled out to the translator. As soon as he had a canteen in his hand he poured water over the still glowing particles in and around the eye.
Lunsford stared at him through his tears, and then raised a hand, not to cover his injured eye, but to cover the other one. "Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, "the worthless peasant has cost me an eye."
It was over. The Highlanders were satisfied that the Wyred sisters that wove the fates of men together had chosen to take an eye but save the man. Through the translator, Daniel told them, "Go and hunt down some of the king's mounted dandy boys, and be quick about it before they all escape you."
The clansmen looked around, not just to see in which direction the cavalry was fleeing, but at the rest of the flying squad of pistoleers who were now riding towards them. The eldest of the Highlanders gave the colonel one last half-hearted boot, as he called to the other Highlanders to follow him. And so they all did, at a run in the direction of some English cavalrymen who seemed to be lingering on the edge of the battlefield, probably scouts.
By this time, Leslie's other captains had crossed the bridge and were coming through the ramparts towards Daniel. Daniel was eager to pass on the task of organizing the army that had captured the earthen works and the culverins. Let Scots lead their infantry along the riverbank to capture the ferries and their docks. He was literally sick to death of this battle field. If this was the kind of madness that an incompetent king could cause, then for sure he would move his village to the New World.
There was nothing to stop his clan from doing so. The Swift Daniel was theirs, free and clear of any more obligations to Admiral Tromp. A fast ship and with enough cannon to defend itself against pirates. This was as good a time as any to leave Leslie's army. He would take back his four six-pounders, and his gun crew from Ham and lead them back to the ship.
He waited, surrounded by his flying squad and the English prisoners, including Lunsford, until they were noticed by the general's party. Once Alex Leslie and Alex Hamilton had finished their inspection of the butchery at the culverin breech, they rode towards him. When Leslie was close he called out, "You see, Danny. Our tactics have saved thousands of lives."
Again Daniel felt like puking. The man was actually proud of how he had blown good men into bloody lumps of meat. He called back, "I was trying to make a count of how many lives it did cost, but I was never much good at adding fractions." It would have been witty if it weren't such a grim truth.
Leslie looked around, appraising the bloody remains of the slaughter. He had lived through thirty years of such battles and knew too well how to add fractions. "There are less than a hundred in the breech, and another hundred in the ford. Considering that all totaled on both sides there were as many as thirty thousand men involved in this battle, then a few hundred dead is far better than I had hoped for. I will pray to the good Lord to thank him for keeping the number so small."
It was then that Leslie noticed the captured English colonel, and yelled at an aide, "Give the colonel your horse! Colonel Lunsford is it not? Come Lunsford, climb into the saddle and tell me which of your officers is doing that." He pointed towards the edge of the battlefield towards Newcastle.
Once Lunsford was in the saddle, he looked over to where the General was pointing. A troop of English infantry were running along the Newcastle road and in front of them there were horses hauling away the smallest of the English cannons. "That is a scoundrel called George Monck, just back from the Dutch wars. They say he is still wanted for murdering a deputy sheriff in Devon. Many of the king's officers have similar stories for the king offered us pardons if we would come home from the continent and help him."
"Well, that particular scoundrel is saving your field guns from capture. I wanted those guns for myself,” Leslie was stepping his horse onto slightly higher ground so he could see where else the English were making a stand. "Only this man Monck is still thinking like a soldier." He called to two of his scouts, "Ride and tell Colonel Fraser to cut off those field guns before they reach the ferry to Newcastle. And tell him to recruit their captain even if it costs us gold."
Leslie stared at Colonel Lunsford and told him, "If you please, Colonel, there are still some pockets of resistance. Ride with me and help convince them to surrender before even more lives are wasted. If you will do that for me, then I will set you free so you can take my terms of surrender to the fortress and town of Newcastle."
As Leslie rode away, he turned his head and called out, "Danny boy, don't you be disappearing on me now. I may need your help to secure Newcastle."
Daniel cursed under his breath, for disappearing was exactly what had been in his thoughts. He stooped and picked up Lunsford’s sword and pistol and then called out to the half blind man who was riding away in Leslie's company, "What about your things, Lunsford?"
The colonel turned his horse and came back. He was holding Daniel's dampened kerchief to his bad eye as he looked down through his one good eye. "If you will allow me my sword, I would be thankful." With a sniff of the tears from his still hurting eye, he glanced around at his things. He would not be allowed his pistol. His cloak and hat were laying in a pool of Tanner's blood. His chest armour and purse were gone with the Highlanders. "The rest is yours in trade for this kerchief. A reward for saving my life." Once he had his sword, he kicked the horse to catch up to the general.
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Four days later, an English lateen-rigged galliot out of Bridgewater sailed between two handfuls of anchored colliers, dropped its sails and began to row with the tide up the Tyne. To the harbour master, Daniel told the truth that he was looking for cargo going south. The aging harbour master stared at him in astonishment as if he had two heads.
"Don't you realize that Newcastle is under siege? Why would you risk your ship by docking here? Are you mad?"
"But I have a load of powder and shot aboard to deliver to the fortress. Where else would I land it?"
When gossip reached the fortress that an English ship full of powder and shot had been seized by General Leslie, it was the last straw for the English garrison holding the fortress. They had been stripped of many of their best cannons by Conway, who used them at the English ramparts at Newbourne. Those same cannons had been captured by Leslie before they could be spiked, so now they were being positioned to be used against the fortress.
Almost as soon as news of Conway's defeat at Newbourne reached Newcastle, Lord Strafford and his noble officers had fled the fortress under the cover of darkness. To top it all off, now the Scots had captured a shipload of powder, and there was nothing to stop them from hiring the local coalminers to tunnel under the fortress walls, mine the tunnels with the captured powder, and then blow down the walls. Prudently, to save the town folk from such a horror, the garrison surrendered the fortress.
Only when the gates of Newcastle were manned by Scots did Leslie agree to release the Swift's gunners and their four six-pounders from his service. He and Daniel's subtle ruse about delivering powder had cheated the grim reaper of another vicious battle, and for this Alex Leslie was so grateful that he turned a blind eye to Daniel's theft of a few of the Dutch cannon bombs that he had delivered with the Dutch cannons.
"I thank ye, Danny, but more importantly, the folk of Newcastle thank ye. It has been less than four years since this town was ravaged by the plague, and they have still to recover. A brutal siege would have finished them."
"Do us a favour, Alex." Daniel replied with a chuckle, "and forget to mention my name in your reports. The last thing I need is for some English spy to find out that it was my ship that brought you Dutch field-guns and Dutch bombs, and my ship that tricked the fortress into surrendering."
"Why Danny, if it's revenge from the English king that you are fearing, then you are very welcome to move to Scotland. I'm sure there is a glen somewhere in Argyll's holdings that would suite your clan's needs."
"Scotland, nay, Alex. True, I plan on moving my clan, but certainly not to the North. Never to the North."
"Are you sure? With me holding Newcastle and the River Tyne, and with coal not getting through to London, well it's only a matter of time before Charlie must sign a peace treaty with the Covenanters and pay a fat ransom to convince us to march back to Scotland. It will be a sum large enough to make the bankers drool. Perhaps a quarter million. A fertile glen would be little enough for parliament to offer you."
"Next time you see me you can pay me in coin, but for now I want only to be away from here before me or my ship can be remembered to the English navy." Daniel turned to leave, but then stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Remember our pact, Alex. If either of us have the chance, we must capture the king and hold him safe until all of the land that has been stolen by the aristocracy over the centuries is returned to the common."
"Changing the laws of inheritance is the only way,” Alex Leslie agreed. "But there's not much chance of that ever happening whilst every politician is a landlord or is working for a landlord." In a quieter voice he said, "In the olden days I would have been crowned the King of Northumbria for winning the battle and the fortress,” and then in a whisper, "instead I am still just an aging general in the pay of some knuckle-headed lords."
Daniel laughed and grabbed the general's hand to shake it. "Then throw your lords into a dungeon and claim Newcastle's ransom for yourself. With you ruling Scotland there will be peace. A long peace. Everyone wins when there is a long peace."
"Not everyone, Danny,” he replied while holding the man's hand hard in his grip. "Not the weapons merchants, or the bankers that supply the coin to buy their weapons. All wars are banker's wars, Danny. Remember that and you may live long enough to spoil your grandchildren. I wish you well and hope that you find a paradise island for your clan."
The two men stared at each other, and then hugged each other long and hard. The last man who had hugged Alex Leslie with such feeling had been the King of Sweden in Lutzen on the day before he had been killed in battle. They parted without another word; Alex Leslie to take charge of the fortress of Newcastle and to send messengers to Parliament in Edinburgh, and to King Charles in York, Daniel Vanderus to sail the Swift back to Ely and to tell Oliver Cromwell the extent of the king's losses at Newbourne so that Oliver could pass the news on to John Pym and the other Reform politicians in London.
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The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14