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 the 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 defendable.
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'.
"My apologies, countess, but my message is not for delicate ears. Could I impose on you and your daughters to leave me alone with your men for a few moments?"
The count waved her away, but as she passed this tall handsome stranger she thought of her eldest daughter and her need of a good husband. "Will you be joining us for breakfast, sir?"
"Sadly, no," he replied, hoping that the few lordly words and mannerisms that he was mimicking from his time spent amongst Parliamentarian would not reveal him as an imposter. "However, my two servants are outside your front door waiting for me. Could I impose on your kindness to have them served with a bowl of something hot to eat. Porridge perhaps?"
The woman agreed with a wave of her hand and a coy look into his eyes, his deep blue eyes. Then with a swish of countless yards of costly silk, the women were gone and the heavy library door clicked shut behind them. The next sound he heard was the countess shrieking orders to her servants. Daniel loosened his cloak and stepped towards the growing warmth from the fire, until he was within six feet of the count, who was still standing.
"You are the Count of Aumale?"
"I am the Lord of Aumale."
"The villager who guided me here called you a count."
"They are confused. I have a claim on the title in Normandy, but I am still in the process of proving that claim. Until them I am a lord."
Daniel stared from one to the other. The family resemblance was strong. They all had large but thin noses, sallow skin, and dark hair. Their narrow dark eyes and thin lips made them look all the world like a family of weasels. And so they would be if they carried the noble blood of Normandy in their veins.
"Lord Aumale, I have an urgent message from King Charles, and he requires a reply."
"Speak it."
"You are to put a stop to the losses of shipping along the Easington coast." Daniel clicked his heels and bowed to show the message was completed.
He watched the faces in front of him. Some showed glimmers of guilt, some fear, but the count himself showed only anger. The count had aspirations of nobility and he was too proud by half, nay, by treble. The man began to rant about how this was an outrage. Was he being accused of something? He went on about how he was a Norman noble with a lineage to the Conqueror himself.
The man protested too much. A verbal attack as a defense to hide his guilt. Daniel ignored the rant because he had heard something far more important. The sound of the front door opening to pass out bowls of porridge. His men would be inside the priory within a few seconds.
With one graceful sweep of his right hand Daniel reached inside his cloak and smoothly drew his little wheel-lock pistol out of a pocket. The gun was designed so that there was nothing protruding to snag on cloth. He pulled hard on the trigger which spun a steel wheel against fool's gold to produce sparks, and then there was a fizzle and a flash and a bang. The ball slammed into the count's heart. Even with a small pistol it was difficult to miss at three feet.
The clap of the pistol froze the room in time. The sons simply stared, but then the eldest recovered enough to reach for a costly shiny box that was sitting on the desk. A pistol box. He was too late. The pistol shot had told the crew which door to open, and they did so with a heavy boot. Daniel did not bother to look around. He knew by how the eldest son was backing away from the pistol box that his crew would be pointing their pistols at him.
When the room was still again, Daniel announced, "Your father replied badly. How could I take such a reply to my king?" With a twist of a shoulder he picked up his dragon and cocked the killing barrel, and then once again faced the sons. "Which of you is now the Lord of Aumale?" The eldest held up a shaky hand.
"Lord Aumale, I have an urgent message from King Charles, and he requires a reply. You are to put a stop to the losses of shipping along the Easington coast." Again Daniel clicked his heels and bowed to show the message was completed. "How do you reply?"
The young man's mouth was so dry from fear that he could barely croak an answer. "I will see to it immediately, sir."
Again Daniel clicked his heels. "I will be pleased to carry your reply to my king." He reached for his hat and positioned it on his head, and then reached for his gloves. The sons had still to move. "You must ride to your sheriff and tell him the sad news of your father's suicide. He will advise you to make up a simple story of a hunting accident, perhaps while loading his gun, for otherwise your father's remains will be refused by the church. Offer the sheriff a small purse for his understanding, and that will be the end of this, unless of course there is another ship lost along your shores. Good morning."
As Daniel turned with a flourish and left the library he noticed that the only folk about were his own crew, both inside and outside the house. "We are finished here," he told them.
"What?" Anso replied from his post just inside the dining room. "Look at the silver in this room. A fortune in silver. Think of the gold and jewels that must be in the master's chamber. It paid for by preying on ships, like our ship. We should take some in exchange."
"Shhh. Not so loud, or they will hear you. Any gold and jewels will have been well hidden by the women at the sound of my first shot, and the daughters with them. The local men could be rallying as we speak. I tell you what though, you could grab some of that food." He pointed to the breakfast table. "I'm starving."
After a slight delay while some serving dishes of food were being lifted, they all tumbled out through the front door and into the sunshine. Sunshine. The storm was over, and a friendly sun was peeking out from between the still boiling clouds. The men who had been left outside to guard the yard told them that some farm hands were hiding in the outbuildings and could be armed.
Without a word Anso grabbed the bridle of an unsaddled horse and untied it. Without even straining, he then lifted one of his young cousins up onto the horse's back, but facing backwards. His cousin carried a pistol in each hand, and was a fine shot with them.
The backwards rider was their rear guard as they marched out of the yard and along the trail to the meadow and the beach. Where the meadow became tidal mud they left the horse and hurried along the beach to put some distance between them and the Priory. When they took their first break, it was for breakfast. Three of the men each carried a heavy silver platter with a heavy silver lid, and a fistful of silver spoons. One platter held buttered fresh bread, another boiled eggs, and the last, though the first to be finished, contained a huge mound of crisp bacon.
* * * * *
Not only was Peterson still on the Swift when the landing party returned from the Priory, but his mate was as well. They were sitting with Cleff around the small table in the command cabin reading and writing and scratching out. That immediately stopped so they could hear Daniel's story of the demise of a count.
"You were so sure he was guilty?" Peterson asked.
"Positive. He blustered while his sons hid their shame. Even if I was wrong, the new lord will certainly put a stop to any more wreckings. What have you two been writing?" He leaned over in an attempt to read the paper in front of Peterson. It was all in Peterson's hand because Cleff refused to write. The clan elder firmly believed that all written words hid lies and were the devil's curse on honest men.
"Well, it seems that Commander Peterson here," Cleff began, pointing with his thumb, "is the only pilot on the collier, and that none of his crew know the least bit about cleanliness, never mind keeping a wound clean. Look at the rusted metal I dug out of him." He pointed to a small pile of tiny shrapnel on a bloody scrap of cloth. "Any of the wounds could turn septic by tomorrow, and then what? He would get no help from his crew, and the crew would not have a pilot. A disaster in the making."
"Cleff has agreed to come aboard my ship and help me get her to London," Peterson broke in. "I will pay his lodging and coach fare back to Ely, and a week's wages as a mate."
"I see no problem with that," Daniel replied, "so long as Cleff is agreeable."
"Must be done' Danny. I'll not like wallowing about on a coal-dust bomb, but it is for the best. We can't just save a ship and then send her off at her peril. And that takes us to what we have been writing. It came to us that a case could be made that the Swift is owed some salvage fees from saving such a valuable cargo. We would never make such a claim, but the ship's owners will demand some kind of written waiver."
"The trouble is,” Peterson stated with a smile, "that it is much harder to write a contract not to do something than one to do something. None of us are trained in law and any lawyer would probably shred any waiver we drew up. We have decided that instead we will draw up a simple invoice showing that the Swift's salvage charges were paid up in full. That should be the end of it. Now the trouble is that the coin must actually change hands. I don't carry much on the ship, so we agreed on a pound just to seal the transaction."
"But then,” Cleff interrupted. His whiskers were twitching like a fox spying on a chicken coop, so Daniel kept his silence, "we decided that any good lawyer would declare suspicious, corrupt, or void any such trivial amount when the cargo was so valuable. We have no idea what a lawyer would consider a realistic amount. Salvage fees can range from one in ten to one in two."
"A fortune in either case,” Peterson proclaimed, proud of the immense value of his ship's cargo. "We have decided to be more clever than the lawyers. We will sign and witness a contract that states that the Swift's salvage fee will be all of the profits from the sale of the coal above and beyond a price higher than the actual worth of the cargo. See, read the good copy. That estimate of the coal's worth is high so it will never be reached. It is ready to be signed and witnessed."
Daniel pretended to cough so that he could look away and not show his smirk at Cleff's conniving ways. This could be the last load of coal to reach London before winter. London would already know this even if Peterson didn't. The price of coal could have doubled, or even tripled. He kept coughing behind his kerchief while he looked again at the estimate. It was an unimaginable fortune.
"Commander,” he said while trying to keep a serious mouth, "you do not need this paper. We will never claim salvage. Our reward was in doing for the scoundrels that sank our other ship and drowned our kin. I advise you to tread carefully. What if the price of coal is higher than your estimate because another long cold winter is approaching?"
"Bah, it will not happen. There is time enough for a dozen more convoys before the storms force us to port." Peterson's smile expanded. The more he thought about this contract, the better he liked it. "And besides, who am I to complain if you make a little profit from my cargo? You saved my ship, my cargo and my life. It would just be coin that would otherwise line the owner's pockets. Coin they have not earned. They never risk a passage on a collier. They never risk working with coal dust. I speak not just of the immediate risk of fire and explosions, but the lifetime risk of killing your lungs. Pah, let us sign it and then haul anchors."
"If that is what you wish, Commander, then at least allow us to escort you as far as the Wash. I suppose that because of this contract, Cleff must sail all the way to London and stay to represent the Swift's interests at the sale of the coal." He turned to the elder and told him, "Take the lad with you, Cleff. He knows how to read and cipher."
"The lad is more than welcome," Peterson replied as he eagerly signed his name, and passed the pen to Daniel, and then to Cleff, and then to his mate. "There, signed, witnessed, and delivered. I will need two copies, one for my log book and one for the owners. Be a friend and pour us some more whisky while I write up the copies."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14