The local dory they had captured at the mouth of
the River Eye had carried an old man who smelled like he had been a
fisherman all his life, and in all that time had never washed.
Other than the reek, he was well worth the shilling Daniel had
promised him. With armies ranging on both banks of the River Tweed,
there were few homes on shore that dared to show lights. The old
fisher was rowing Daniel ashore in his dory blind through the
blackness of pre-dawn.
Only once on their way into the harbour did the dory run up onto a shoal, but that was just a gentle nudge since he was rowing slow with muffled oars. He backed off and then continued towards shore. Hopefully Ham's message would have arranged for a welcoming party at Eyemouth, but there was no sense taking chances. There was a risk that the king's men would be waiting for them..
Daniel was eager to be rid of the muskets and get back to Rotterdam to collect his profit. It was one thing to run guns into an almost civilized place like Edinburgh, but quite another to run them to the likely battlefield. Some would say, foolhardy. If something went horribly wrong and they were met by the king's men instead of General Leslie, his only defense would be to tell them that the muskets had been sent by the king's allies in Spanish Flanders.
The old-fashioned matchlocks were unmistakably Spanish, so it was a believable story. Everywhere you heard rumours that the King was getting help from the Spanish Empire. That was one of the reasons why the Scots were so upset with him, and why they needed these muskets.
Muskets or no, the Scots were still outnumbered along this border. What were the numbers told to him by this reeking man in front of him in this reeking dory? Twenty thousand versus were protecting their homes from invaders. The Scots held the home turf, where they knew every bog and hillock. Like this fisher. He was navigating through the black night by the sound of the waves on the rocks and the smell of the kelp beds.
"Heads up" came a whisper from the man as he raised his oars and allowed the dory to glide silently. They both stared into the blackness. Daniel could see nothing, but the fisher could and dipped one oar to adjust his coarse. Adjust it north. Daniel had asked him to land on the north bank of the Eye.
Daniel cocked his two pistols. The one in his left hand was his dragon, his fire-breathing dragon. The one in his aiming hand was loaded for killing. He had polished the lead ball before loading it in hopes that it would fire straight and true and long. The fisher shushed him severely without uttering a sound. He was throwing his whispers to someone on the shore, and they were throwing whispers back.
"Friend or foe?" Daniel asked softly as the whispers stopped.
"No Englishman alive speaks that tongue,” came his answer in a hushed voice. "We've arrived." The fisher looked at his two pistols and swore under his breath. "You told me that you were carry eels to feed the Scottish army. You were lying to me."
"Aye,” replied Daniel in a whisper. "Forgive me the lie, for what we carry may win the battle for either army. This cargo may be worth a kingdom. We carry muskets."
"You say that your cargo is muskets and yet your own crew were armed with old-fashioned yew bows. Your first lie about eels is more believable."
"Show me the musket that can shoot ten aimed and deadly shots in a minute and I will have my crew throw the bows overboard." Daniel stopped speaking and listened. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the glint of metal on the shore. He aimed his killing pistol at it and waited. There was nothing else to do but wait.
With every breath the raised pistol seemed to gain a pound. Whoever was in the bushes had better show themselves soon, else his taut wrist would begin to cramp. He should have brought a blunderbuss, why didn't he bring a blunderbuss? Anso had offered him one. He cocked his ear towards shore. His eye stared hard into the darkness. His trigger finger twitched.
A voice called out from the bushes. "Captain Vanderus, is that you?"
"Aye, but if it please you, could we speak in Dutch? My English is poor, and my Scottish poorer." The Freisburn’s crew had covered the name of the ship, and had demanded that he make everyone believe that they were a Dutch ship and crew, not an English one. It was a sensible precaution, considering they were running guns to the King's enemies. He switched to Dutch and called out, "Come forward out of the bushes so I can relax my trigger fingers."
A man step cautiously out of the bushes carrying a white flag. A dozen men followed him. The man with the flag called out in halting Dutch interspersed with Swedish words, "With your permission I will set up guard posts around the river mouth to protect us while we unload your ship. Lords Montrose and Argyll have been informed, but I doubt they will come here. The earliness of the hour, you know."
"Set up your pickets, man. What do I call you?"
"General Leslie, Alex Leslie, and you are Daniel, Daniel Vanderus." The man turned to his aides and sent them off at a run. "I am willing to serve as hostage if you mistrust my intentions."
"I don't know about hostage, but if you'll let me come ashore, I'll share my flask of best Genever with you."
"Step ashore, and see if I don't hurry to your side. I've been putting up with the foulness of Scottish malt whisky for weeks now."
The dark figure joined Daniel as soon as he stepped out of the dory, and waited impatiently while he shoved his killing pistol under his belt so that he could find his flask. The man took it from him, and lifted it in a slight toast, though more likely to gauge how full it was. He then took a long drink of the Genever and let it burn down his throat before he spoke again.
"Ahhh." He sighed long as the warmth of the aquavitae pushed the morning chills away. "I will keep your ruse, sir,” Alex whispered. "There may be spies about, and it's for the best that they think you are connections of mine from the continent." He looked down at the single bundle of muskets in the dory and laughed. "Is that all of them? Hamilton led me to expect more of you."
"Those are samples only, General. The full cargo is on my ship, but we didn't trust bringing it into the river mouth in the dark."
"So how many guns in total?" asked General Alexander Leslie, "and call me Alex."
"Near enough to five hundred, and all ready to be used. I had my crew work hard for a week to turn seven hundred in poor condition into five hundred in best condition."
"That still means my army has less than a thousand muskets all totaled, which is far fewer than are carried by the army facing us. Worse is that I have no horse to speak of, whereas they have light and heavy cavalry, perhaps five thousand. Can you bring me more muskets, and soon?"
"Not soon enough if the King's army is in Berwick-upon-Tweed. That is what? Just eight miles south of here. Five thousand horse? Then you're fucked if they want to do battle."
"Hush that kind of talk!" Alex hissed. "Would you have such a rumour make the rounds of my camp?"
"You don't, you know,” Daniel said softly as he took his flask back and took a mouthful..
"Don't what?" Alex said, taking the flask again. He was quite happy to continue in Dutch for it was better than his English. His main languages were Scottish and Dutch, and he knew more Swedish than English, and almost as much Spanish as English.
"Don't want a battle. Even if you were sure to win, you don't want a battle on this, your home turf. No matter which side wins, the folk and farmers hereabouts will lose everything. Thirty thousand men bashing about, armed to the teeth? The towns, villages, and farmers would never recover from it. Why not lead the King's army somewhere empty of folk and farms? I hear there are many such moors inland from here. Better yet, make peace with them."
"Well he, they, are not likely to make peace when they outnumbers us in horse, men and muskets. And don't speak to me like I am new to planning battles. I was facing armies larger than this before you were born. What battles have you fought?"
"Skirmishes in Holland. I was a pistoleer with their militia, but I was at Breda and Kallo." The early morning twilight was growing brighter, so he was having a look around at the river and the banks and the lay of the land. "Does the King have many spies? Are they any good?" His biggest risk was Royal spies. He was suddenly very glad that the crew had covered the ship's name.
"Every man you see could be a spy. There are English tradesmen living north of the border, and Highland Reivers watching us from the hills. It is unfair of me to complain, however. The longer the King's army keeps up their thieving ways, the more spies they nurture to feed me with news."
"Aye, well it's getting light, and your pickets will be set by now. The muskets weigh two and a half tons, so if you will order your carts to back in along this bank I will signal my ship to come into the river and come in close. We may as well unload them directly onto your carts."
He was talking to Leslie's backside because the man had bent over to open the sample bundle and have a look. Leslie finally got one loose and as he straightened up he raised it to his face to have a closer look.
"This is a matchlock. From Hamilton's message I was expecting snap-locks."
"Aye, well, Ham meant Jocklocks. They are a bolt-on lock that converts a matchlock into a snaphaunce I have a sample of one with me,” Daniel reached under his cloak and found the lump of metal and held it out. Alex took it and then began turning it around and around next to the musket. "When the light improves I'll give you a demonstration."
* * * * *
The general found it hard to believe that such a small open ship had brought such a valuable cargo all the way from Holland to Scotland. He said this while they watched bundle after bundle being carried from ship to cart. Daniel did not explain to him about the Kameel or of John Stewart's involvement. Let Ham do that telling. Until the Freisburn was safely away from Scotland, the less said the better.
"That was the last bundle,” Daniel eventually told him. The sunrise colors were giving way to full daylight. If they sailed soon, they would be well offshore before any spies could report them to the King's army in Berwick.
"And still no sign of Melrose or Argyll,” Alex replied after a quick scan of the road. "Typical. I do all the work and they take all the credit. Damn their eyes, for they have left the issue of payment to be my embarrassment." He held a folded paper out to the gunrunner. "All that Argyll gave me to pay you with was this paper. Please forgive me for not mentioning that payment was by paper, not in coin. I was fearful that you would refuse to unload your ship, and I do so desperately need these muskets."
For a moment Daniel was at a loss. Ten years of running kegs of booze and he had forgotten the first rule of smuggling. See the coin first. Not that he had been expecting the full value of the muskets, for these muskets had already been paid for by John Stewart. Well, in truth they hadn't, not in full, not yet. Not until Daniel claimed his profit from the Rotterdam banker.
He wondered how much Ham had told his general in the message that had sent to set up this meeting. Had he mentioned Stewart at all? Perhaps not, else this welcome may not have been so friendly. He took the paper and unfolded it. It was a purchase order for forty casks of Scottish whisky and it was marked 'paid in full'. This army had just paid him a cask of bad whiskey per dozen muskets. Bloody cheap bastard Scots. That was less than half their Edinburgh value, never mind being delivered just-in-time to a battlefield.
Leslie read it over his shoulder, and said. "This is so embarrassing. I must apologize. I had expected at least a promissory note naming Argyll's banker." Promissory notes were how gentleman normally paid off gambling debts.
For a few moments Daniel weighed his options. He could rant and rave and make trouble. It was a bit late for that because the guns were already being carted away under guard. Besides, had he really expected to be paid for them? In truth he had been doing this as a favour to Ham.
He could go back to Edinburgh and claim this cargo of whisky. It would give him a cargo to take back to England. Was it worth the effort? The Freisburn would be overloaded all the way home, so it would be a slow sail hugging the harbours. As aquavitae, Scottish whiskey was alehouse quality at best, which hurt the price and the profits.
His preference was to sail directly from here back to Rotterdam to pick up his profit from John Stewart's banker before Stewart could cause any trouble about it. Directly, as in not making a stop at Wellenhay on the way, which would lead to more delays because the crew hadn't been home for over two months.
The sound of Leslie walking away from him to follow the carts reminded him of the general's own words. "Not so fast, Alex!" he called after him. "I've decided to accept your offer of hostage until your Lord Argyll explains this invoice."
Alex was by this time surrounded by his personal guard, his lifeguard. Hardened veterans of a dozen battles against the Imperial army in the Germanies. They all understood Dutch, and the call of the ship's captain was enough reason for every one of them to point a cocked pistol towards that captain. "Stand easy,” Alex barked at his guard, and then in a calmer voice, "Come then, Daniel. One of my guard can double up and you can ride beside me back to Duns."
There was a slight delay while Daniel told Anso to take the Freisburn north two miles and wait for him at Saint Abb's. "I'm riding to Duns to see about turning a promissory note into coin,” he was forced to explain, shamefaced. Anso just shook his head and sighed at Daniel's explanation. The reason for going ahead with the dory fisherman not just to make sure it was safe to land, but to agree on price and terms before delivery. "Don't say it, just pass me what is left of that pin of Genever. It may help with the bargaining."
* * * * *
General Leslie and Daniel accompanied the slow procession of carts laden with muskets and therefore did not arrive at the largest manor in the town of Duns until the afternoon meal was already being eaten. The manor served as the headquarters of the Scottish Covenanter army, and therefore both James Graham, the Earl of Montrose and Archie Campbell, the Earl of Argyll were at the 'lords' table. Leslie insisted that a place be set for his newest ally, Captain Daniel, and they joined the second table set for other than 'lords'.
It surprised Daniel that this other table did not seat military officers, but clerics. The man at his other shoulder from Leslie, for instance, was a lawyer. The man beside the lawyer was a church elder, which in Scottish came out as Kirk Presbyter. They were here to discuss treaties and terms with the King's agents in Berwick. While Alex and Daniel discussed muskets and locks and Dutch pistoleer strategies, the lawyer and the Presbyter discussed their interpretations of passages of the Bible.
Eventually the table of Lords acknowledged Leslie's new guest, and on finding out the almost-truth that he had just sailed the cargo from Rotterdam, immediately began asking about the latest news from the continent. It was with great lament that Daniel was kept speaking for almost an hour, and in a falsely-accented English. The greatest lament however, was that while he answered questions, the choicest cuts of meat were disappearing down the gullets of the religious nuts across the table from him.
Both of these Lords reminded Daniel of the politicians he has met in London through Henry Marten. Their words were filled with fire and fury, but they didn't seem to know how to actually do anything for themselves. They were both aristocrats, so their solution to the out-of-control King Charlie was for the aristocracy to be given more power to keep the King in check. Argyll and Montrose seemed to hate each other, despite being sat together, and Daniel assumed that they were competitors to becoming the leading aristocrat in Scotland once Charlie was tamed.
Eventually the questions ceased, and Daniel could fill his mouth with other than words. At least the pin of Genever was holding out because only the general, the lords, and he were imbibing. The clerics were avoiding it like the plague.
"It is against our sworn covenant,” the lawyer, a man by the name of Archie Johnston, hissed at him. He stared with disgust at the two lords who were swilling it back. "As it is against theirs."
"What's a covenant?" Daniel asked him.
"Not 'a' covenant,” the man replied with a smile only for him, "but THE covenant. It is a petition by Godly Scots to the King that all here have sworn to and signed."
"Archie here helped to write it,” Alex interrupted. "How many have signed it so far, Archie? Half of Scotland yet?"
"Over half," Archie replied with pride. "And today we will go and propose that King Charles also sign it. I carefully worded it so that both kings and subjects could sign the oath. Would you like to sign it, Captain?"
"I'll certainly read it." Because of the legal fight against the draining of the Fens, Daniel had signed many petitions to the courts and the King. They were short and easy to read, mostly because the Fens folk were not strong at reading. He certainly wasn't expecting the sheaf of papers that was carefully laid down in front of him.
"It's a good copy,” Archie told him, "so I will turn the pages to save it being stained by greasy fingers. Tell me when you have finished reading the first page."
At least this copy was in English. Daniel stumbled through the first ten words, and then skipped halfway down. It got worse. It was legalese and references to acts of parliament. "So just one page, right, and the rest of these pages are signatures?"
"Oh no. There are no signatures on this copy. Eventually it will have only one, that of Charles Stuart."
"Uh.... it's a bit long and I'm a bit tired. Could you just tell me what it says in about five sentences."
Archie seemed disappointed that someone didn't want to wade through a dozen pages of his careful handwriting and praise him for his eloquence.
"Umm, well. Perhaps I am too close to the work to describe it."
Alex came to the rescue.
"It says that the Scottish Kirk has been organized according to the Bible and to God's will to remove all Papist corruption and liturgies and is therefore already perfect. Any changes to the Kirk by Kings or politicians or laws would thus be against the will of God. They call on the King to be a subject of the true king, King Jesus, and serve as the protector of the Kirk rather than as its head. To such a king the Covenanters who have signed the oath, pledge their loyalty."
"The wording is very complex in its crafting,” Daniel said to the author, "as if it were hiding something. What if the King does sign it? What will he and his lawyers have missed?"
The two lords had been listening and now they guffawed, finally agreeing on something. "You see, Archie,” Montrose called out jeeringly, "If it makes a foreign captain suspicious, then what hope do you have of gaining the King's signature, whether your fine words hide trickery or not?"
"If he signs it,” Alex whispered directly into Daniel's ear, "then the King gives up any hope of ever being an absolute ruler. He will have made an oath to God to be a subject of the Scottish Kirk with the duty to protect it, but never lead it. In front of King Jesus, his soul will weigh the same as any peasant."
"So does this covenant stop the practice of privileges and honors being inherited rather than earned?" Daniel asked. For a year Daniel had been thinking about the politics of kings, and he had distilled it all down to one thought: when privileges and honors are inherited rather than earned, they cause corruption and incompetence. And why shouldn't such things always be earned?
The Lords went deathly quiet at such a suggestion, but not the lawyer, Archie, "You may as well ask if it does away with the inheritance of estates." He shrugged his shoulders at such foolishness. It would mean the end of the growing need for lawyers.
Alex tried to stop Daniel from saying more by offering him more Genever, but the ploy didn't work.
"Now that you mention it,” Daniel replied, "why not? Since this covenant of yours wipes away the imported Popish religion, why not also wipe away the Popish way of controlling productive land? The Papists stole great estates away from the common wealth. Revert them to the common for the betterment of all. Your covenant would thus end poverty."
You could have heard a pin drop, so Daniel continued.
"Isn't that what King Jesus would do? What he would want you to do?.... umm ... umm... Oh dear, I've forgotten the reference in the Bible, but before the Papists arrived most of Britain was common land." Not that he had ever read the Bible, but he was sure there would be a likely reference somewhere in it.
For once the lawyer held back his quick wit and made fleeting, worried glances towards the Lords. Daniel shrugged at Archie’s silence. It meant that he was right, but that no one in power in Scotland would ever admit it. Not so long as armies were led by aristocrats like Argyll and Montrose, and so long as politicians were chosen from amongst the wealthy by the wealthy.
These two huge armies now facing each other across the River Tweed were typical. Both were led by aristocrats who had inherited titles and privileges and land. Land stolen from the common by legal trickery or armed terror. Whatever the outcome, the aristocrats would still be well-fed and privileged, while the real folk would be made to pay for the mistakes of both the winners and the losers.
"Every man in our army is a Covenanter," Archie told him. "Will you sign my Covenant, Captain?"
"I am not of the Scottish Kirk and I have not joined your army, sir,” Daniel replied with a thicker Dutch accent, "so no, I do not wish to sign your covenant." Daniel groaned to himself. Would someone please get him away from this Christian nutter? "Besides, it seems to be yet another writing of men who claim it is the writing of God."
His words earned Daniel a jab in the ribs from Alex Leslie's elbow, but the Lords enjoyed a good laugh at Archie's expense. Archie asked, "So if not a Presbyterian, what is your Kirk? Are you a Dutch Lutheran or a Dutch Calvinist? I hear that there is peace between them only because the Papist army is on their border."
"Neither. I am an Anabaptist,” Daniel said, resorting to what he told all Christian nutters. Archie and the three Presbyters went suddenly quiet, stood, stared at him as if he had horns, and excused themselves from the table.
"That is convenient,” Alex said to Argyll, who would not doubt be wondering why the other table had just excused themselves right before the serving of sweet meats. "That leaves only military men at the table. Shall the Captain and I move to your table? I think he deserves an explanation about what is happening along this border." The two lords agreed, but only after Alex had told them that it may have an effect on the price of the muskets.
It took the general mere moments to explain the current situation of the two armies. The King's army was camped along the River Tweed near Berwick, but had not yet crossed the Tweed into Scotland. The Covenanter Army under Argyll's command was camped along Blackadder Water north of the Tweed, waiting for the King's general to decide where and when he would cross the border. Once the King's army made their move, the Covenanters would then rush forward to block the invasion. Neither army had moved since setting up camp, weeks ago.
Daniel groaned, for he knew what this standoff by giant armies would mean to the locals. The farms all about would have been picked clean, the farmers in hiding with their families, and nothing planted. If the standoff did not end soon, then there would be nothing to harvest in the fall and the farms and villages would starve this winter. But of course, the plight of the folk was the furthest thing from the minds of either of the aristocratic politicians who were drinking his Genever. To them, the local folk were just beasts of burden to be lorded over.
Daniel ignored the sweet meats in favour of more fresh meat, while these aristos gorged themselves and helped themselves to his pin of Genever. The company at the table was genial enough, and he learned much from listening to the banter. For instance, unlike the King's army, the Covenanter army was paying for their provisions, not stealing them. The Scottish Parliament had voted the army enough coin to hold the King's army at this border until the winter storms drove them back south. That could be as soon as October this year, because winter seemed to be starting earlier and earlier.
"So what is Charlie waiting for?" Daniel asked. "Were I he, I would have made the push to Edinburgh a month ago. How many cavalry did you say he had? Five thousand? Nothing could stop them."
"King Charles has spent his reign partying with his favourites in his many palaces. He has raised this army but his skill at leading armies is untested,” Montrose replied. "It is the only thing I admire about our King, for his reign has been peaceful. His army is ramshackle and ill-equipped and lacks training. His cavalry, though numerous, is made up of the second and third sons of the nobility who volunteered out of boredom with the hope of running down and slaying more than just the foxes. Already they've shagged rotten all the women on the other side of the border."
Argyll interrupted Montrose before his tale became even bawdier.
"The King must have hoped that the very act of marching this huge mob towards the border would cause us to concede. Since we did not concede, now he is forced to turn them from a mob into an army, and that is what his is doing, and why he is waiting on the other side of the Tweed."
"Just like us,” Alex slurred. "The only trained men in our camp came with me from the continent. We learned our trade protecting the United Dutch Republic from Papist armies. Those muskets you sold us, friend, could very well be some that we captured from the Spanish a decade ago."
"They could be," replied Daniel thoughtfully, "for I buy them from battlefield gleaners. The Dutch and Germans certainly don't want them. They scorn them as being old-fashioned. They even scorn the new ones as being inferior to their own. Germans are like that. If it's not made in Germany, they don't want it." He turned to Argyll. "So while the King is training his army, what will you do? Retreat or train?"
"Yesterday,” Argyll told him, "I would have answered 'Retreat', but that changed the moment your ship touched shore with those guns. Now we can train."
Alex moaned. "I keep telling you. We still do not have enough muskets. Not when facing five thousand horse supported by three thousand muskets. We would all be slaughtered in the time it would take us to reload."
"So how is the King training his musketeers?" Daniel asked the field general rather than the political generals.
"In six lines,” Alex replied, with a slight slur to he words. A Genever slur. "Five re-loading and one firing. Our spies tell us that the practices do not go well because the men are too slow at reloading. They've been issued with brand new Spanish matchlocks, rather than guns that have already been through the wars."
"Ah, I see,” Daniel replied.
"What do you see?" Argyll woke up a bit, afraid he had missed something.
"Officially, Spanish muskets must be made with a full four-foot ten-inch barrel. Their length makes them clumsy and heavy. Clumsy to load and heavy to hold an aim. They come with forked canes to rest the muzzle on. Hand a new Spanish musket to a battle-hardened mercenary and within the day he will have a full ten or twelve inches sawn off the muzzle by the local smith." Daniel stroked his itchy two-weeks' growth of seaman's whiskers. As he did so he realized that he had been the only man at dinner not sporting a carefully groomed and pointed beard.
"So it follows then, that the King must have no seasoned musketeers,” Argyll said, "Good to know."
"Hmm, it seems to me,” Daniel said thoughtfully, "that you don't want to fight the King's army at all. That you are hoping for an early Scottish winter to push his army south."
"Of course we don't want to fight them,” replied Montrose. "Whether we hold the border or lose it to the King's army, the effect of the battle on Scotland would be the same. Either outcome would start a civil war of Scot against Scot for religious and political reasons. There is no worse war than a civil war. Brother against brother, neighbour against neighbour, clan against clan."
He looked around to make sure none of the servants were listening and then whispered, "My worst nightmare is that the King knows this and is counting on it. He is going to poke us and provoke us until he starts a civil war so that we Scots will slaughter each other. When we are tired of slaughtering each other, he will be welcomed back to Scotland by all sides in the hope that he will bring peace."
Daniel pulled Alex's chalice away from him and when he tried to grab it back, he told him, "Alex, I need you sober to listen to a story from the battles for the Dutch border. Eat something to soak up the aquavitae." At this, all of the men pushed away their glasses and grabbed at the food still piled on wooden trenchers in the middle of the table.
Once Alex was no longer slurring his words Daniel began his story. "On the Dutch border I rode as a Pistoleer, a mounted infantry skirmisher. You have seen my holsters and my dragons. I rode with a man called Robert Blake, who was a poor shot and a worse horseman, but I've never known such a mind for tactics. His conniving mind saved our squad time and again.
During one of the battles the Dutch regular infantry was hopelessly outnumbered by the muskets of the Imperial infantry across the battlefield. Four to one at least. Rob and I were being used as scouts, for we were militia, not regular army. When we reported these numbers to the general, Rob also told him another of his cunning plans.
The Dutch infantry were to load the first shot of their muskets with birdshot and lye and flour, as we Pistoleers do with our dragons. It's a load not meant to kill, but to blind. Everyone was to fire this mix as the first volley to create a smoke screen along the entire length of the battle line. The breeze was gentle and would float the acrid smoke towards the Imperial line.
Under cover of the smoke, the entire infantry would make noises like they were charging under cover of the smoke. While they were making this noise, they would be loading another blinding load. The Spanish, thinking we were racing towards them, would fire everything they had into the smoke. Once their muskets were empty, we would fire up another cloud of smoke and then charge them for real. Their advantage of the number of muskets would mean squat, for there would not be a loaded gun on the field."
"Interesting. Ingenious. Did it work?" Alex asked.
"No, er, yes, but not as we planned. We all followed the plan, and kept to cover while making noises like we were charging. On the true charge, we reached their line only to find that they were already retreating."
"I don't understand,” Argyll interrupted eagerly, "did their spies find out about your plan and warn them?"
"No, but they did lose all faith in their spies. After we fired our first load there was so much smoke that they thought that every one of us must have a musket, not just one in five, as their spies had correctly reported. They suspected treachery so they ordered a retreat from the smoke to regroup and wait for better information. It was supposed to be an orderly retreat, but we came out of the smoke so fast at them that it turned into a rout."
There was silence around the table. The lords were all looking longingly at their still full glasses and licking their lips. "I don't see how this story applies to us,” Alex said quietly, hoping not to be rude to his guest. "The thing is, we don't want to meet the King in battle at all, and a rout would cause the very civil war that we all fear."
"Use Blake's strategy, but not on the battlefield." Daniel explained. "Use it on your training ground instead. You told me that the King has spies everywhere. What if the spies saw a practice that made them believe that you had four thousand muskets instead of a thousand? What would the King's army make of that? I'll tell you what. That their intelligence reports were untrustworthy. They may not retreat, but it would certainly cause them to delay their plans. A delay is a win for you. Enough delays and it will be winter. What do you think?"
Alex's eyes turned narrow and cunning. "I could order the men to carve themselves an imitation musket. They all have knives, and there is lots of wood about to carve. A bit of soot to darken the pretend barrel and from a distance you wouldn't know."
"A good idea, but it may not be enough by itself. You say the spies are everywhere. They may have been watching us unload my ship and may have counted the carts. You need to spread some false news so that they are expecting to see four thousand muskets before they ever spy on your practice. Why not spread a rumour that the cargo unloaded at Eyemouth was just one of the cargos that was unloaded that day. That there were others besides."
"They would never believe it,” Montrose scoffed.
"Stop with the nay-saying. At least it is a plan,” Argyll scolded. "What if we make the rumour even juicier? Suppose it got out that thousands of muskets were being supplied by our Parliamentary allies in England?"
"No,” Daniel interrupted. "An English parliamentarian set up my original delivery. Such a rumour could cause him trouble in London. Deadly trouble."
"Then France. Thousands of muskets supplied by the French?"
"France. The muskets were from our allies in France,” Montrose repeated thoughtfully. "I like it. I like it a lot. Charlie is very suspicious of the French because they have often allied themselves with Scotland against the English. That is good, very good. In truth, such a rumour is worth spreading no matter what else happens."
"I agree. We have nothing to lose by spreading it,” Argyll pointed out, "yet much to gain."
"I know one more thing that will help it to work," Daniel said softly. "Why don't you buy the King's army a good drunk?" At the confused looks from around the table, he explained.
"Buy back the whiskey you offered me in payment for delivering the muskets, and I will ship it to Berwick as a gift to the English. Forty casks is enough to keep the officers and cavalry drunk for at least two days."
"Why would you do that?" Argyll asked suspiciously, "That will snuff your profits from supplying the muskets."
Alex was way ahead of him and trying to stifle his laughter. "Because the bugger is going to sell your whisky back to you and then sell the same stuff to the English. He gains the cost from you and the profit from them. I love it. If we time it right then the King will be overcome with bad news. He will be told that French ships are off his coast carrying four thousand muskets, and that his own army is fall down drunk."
"Aye, well I've finished my food, and you've finished my Genever,” Daniel said as he stood and gave a curt bow to his host, Lord Argyll. "And I am sure that you have many things to discuss that would be better done without me at your table. If I go now, there is just enough light left in the day for me to show some of your men how to fix a Jocklock to their muskets. Thank you for dinner, sir, and thank your cook for me."
Leslie watched the man stride out of the dining room of the Duns manor. He then looked around at the two Lords who were supposedly in command. In the broader issues of king, politics, and economy, these two Lords were part of the problem, not part of the solution. How was he expected to make strategic decisions that may cost many men their lives, with these two hypocrites looking over his shoulder.
"If you will excuse me, sirs,” Leslie said, while pushing himself away from the table, "I must see for myself how good these Jocklocks are."
Once outside, Leslie took a deep breath of fresh air. There was still an hour of bright twilight left. One thing about living in the north was the amount of twilight in the summer. There was even more of it in Sweden, though the Swedes paid for it by have winters with no sun at all. He went to join Daniel who was bent over a musket while showing the ring of men around him how to position a Jocklock, mark the holes in the lock's plate on the stock, drill the holes and then affix the lock using thick screws.
While the men practiced with their own Jocklocks and matchlocks, Leslie walked Daniel away from them and whispered in his ear. "For the first time I have a feeling that I can stop the King's army from crossing the Tweed."
"What, because of these locks?" Daniel asked while looking up at the sky, and noticing that Venus was already bright in the west. "They will make little difference unless it rains. Look around Alex. The skies are clear."
"Because I have just convinced myself that I must ignore the two Earls and make my plans assuming that their men will be of little actual help in any battle. I will make plans and tactics based only on the men who have gained my trust, in other words, the men who came with me from the continent, and the local men from along this border. The battle will be run my way. No time wasting discussions with politicians who never reach a decision, nay, just snap my fingers and bark the orders and watch my men jump to them."
"Well then, General. If your first order is to buy the King's army a drink, then your second order must be to send a messenger to my ship to tell them to meet me in Edinburgh at Argyll's brew house, wherever that is."
* * * * *
The next morning while Argyll was arranging with some of his own lifeguards to guide Daniel to Leith, near Edinburgh, where his whiskey was stored at his brew house, Alex pulled Daniel aside and spoke so low that no others could hear. "Do me a favour, man. If you happen to see the King while you're selling whisky to his army, feel free to put a pistol ball through the bugger. One well-aimed ball in that nancy boy would save a lot of folk a lot of horror."
"Aye, it would at that. A nancy boy, you say?"
"Why do you think the man has no mistresses and snuffs his nose up at those who do. He does his duty by Henrietta to gain heirs, but for a king not to have a mistress is just too suspicious. He's even rejected the women that Henrietta chose for him. If I capture him on the battlefield I will try him and hang him for sodomy, all legal like, I swear it. With him dead, the parliaments will rule in both our kingdoms until his son is of age, or longer."
Daniel kept his voice low. "Killing him may allow these two armies to go home but it wouldn't solve the real problem. So long as the inheritance laws stay as they are, eventually there will be yet another corrupt king leading the same old corrupt nobility and nothing will really change for the folk." Daniel shook the general's hand. "But I'll think about it."
Alex shook his hand absent-mindedly because he was already thinking about it. "Danny boy, could it be that you are a scoundrel yourself, or is this more strategy from your pistoleer friend, Blake? What you are saying is that we have a better chance of changing things if instead of killing Charlie, I capture him and keep him healthy and safe from rescue. While he is our guest, we force him to change the laws that keep the same corrupt families in power generation after generation after generation.
Yes ... the more I think about it, the more I like it. So long as Charlie is kept healthy, he remains king, so none of his family can claim the throne from him. Keeping him safe in custody would give us years, nay decades, to change how our kingdoms are ruled, and by whom. Such huge changes would need to hold across a generation for them to take root. Very good. Belay my request to shoot the King. I will organize my plans so as to capture him."
"Well, just be careful who you tell it to. If Lords such as Argyll and Montrose hear of it, your reward may be a ball in the back."
"Aye, a ball in the back for sure," Alex muttered sadly. "A normal end for a soldier born of an alewench and promoted far above his station in life." His eyes went suddenly keen and he smiled. "Except that this bastard soldier was a field marshal of Sweden and personally commands the only professional infantry on this border."
Daniel didn't reply. Argyll was coming towards them with two of his men and three horses. It was time for him to leave for Edinburgh.
* * * * *
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THE PISTOLEER - HellBurner by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14