Howell Davidson amongst the Musketeers

Howell Davidson

amongst the

Musketeers

by Steven R. Culver

Being a True Relation of his Adventures in the Chaos of

the Thirty Years War, and in Particular of the Years of

the Bohemian Rebellion,

1618, 1619, and 1620.

Copyright 2012 Steven R. Culver

All Rights Reserved

Published by Harnew and Edgebrook Publishing LLC at Smashwords

ISBN 978-0-9886437-0-3

A physical copy of this book is available at stevenRculver.com.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgments

It’s been a long trip. It started when I was sitting in my daughter’s graduation ceremony and the commencement speaker advised us that, if there was something we’d always meant to do, but had somehow never gotten around to doing it, now would be a good time to start. I sat down and started the first draft of this manuscript that same week. Therefore, my first thanks must be extended to someone I’ve never met, Bruce Leech.

Susan Simeon has been a constant reader and critic and source of encouragement throughout the seven years and fifteen plus drafts it has taken to get to this point. London Crockett has been offering his insights since we were members of a writer’s meetup and could only submit a half a chapter at each session. Laurie Wipperfurth has been making suggestions since we happened to sit down next to one another during a break at a writer’s conference.

One of the essentials in today’s world is a first rate website, and I was lucky to get Randi Mancini, of the GrafixDesk.com, to do mine. She’s been there from the beginning, as well.

Sandy’s contribution to whatever success this book may enjoy comes from her years of patiently listening to her husband go on about PzKW IVs, Q-Ships, le Garde Imperiale, Cushing’s Battery, and now the most obscure topic of them all, the Thirty Years War. She’s been a terrific companion through it all.

There are many others, too, who have given me a hand, and all I can say is thank you one and all.

Table of Contents

I – Sharp Practice: Summer 1618

II – Giovanni del Valpo: Summer 1618

Amongst the Conspirators: Summer 1618

III – Mansfeld's Regiment: August 1618

IV – Reaching for the Heights: August 1618

V – Payday: September 1618

Amongst the Conspirators: September 1618

VI – The Nurnberg Fair: September 1618

VII – Storming Pilsen: November 21, 1618

VIII – The House of Three Sisters: November 21, 1618

IX – Giovanni’s Idea of Justice: November, 1618

X – Taken by Surprize: March 1619

Amongst the Conspirators: June 10, 1619

XI – The Battle of Sablat: June 10, 1619

XII – Escape: June 10, 1619

XIII – Chain of Command: October 31, 1619

XIV – Howell Davidson is Murdered: November 1619

XV – The Carnival of Despair: January 1620

XVI – The Army of the Damned: February 1620

Amongst the Conspirators: August 1620

XVII – Outmaneuvered: November 5, 1620

XVIII – The Battle of the White Mountain: November 8, 1620

XIX – Chaos in Bohemia: November 8, 1620

Bonus chapter! The first chapter from the second installment in Howell’s adventures, Howell Davidson amongst the Pikes is included here as a free bonus.

About the Author

Amongst the Musketeers – I

Sharp Practice

Summer 1618

Howell Davidson sat up on his bunk in the ship’s dark, moldering fo’castle, gathered his hair at the nape of his neck, and tried to bring himself fully awake. This might be his first sea voyage, but even he could tell that the movements of the ship were quite different from the rhythmic rolling and plunging he had endured all the way from London. From up on deck came a man’s voice and a muted squeal that Howell couldn’t place. Being of an inquisitive nature, he decided to satisfy his curiosity.

The exit from the cramped fo’castle did not accommodate his big frame at all well, so Howell had to twist himself through the door in order to put his bare feet upon the old merchantman’s deck. The stars twinkled in the black sky, but did nothing to relieve the oppressiveness of the humid Mediterranean night. Howell was dressed only in his breeches, which ended at his knees, but still the sweat trickled down his body.

The crescent Moon shed just enough light that Howell could see all the ship’s sails were furled. They were at anchor! This explained why the ship’s motion had changed, but Howell had heard the Captain say quite distinctly that they would not arrive at Genoa for another day. What was afoot?

The squealing sound once again shot through the night and Howell made out a block and line rigged over the middle of the main deck. His view of what was going on was obscured by the ship’s boat, however, so he climbed the stairs to the fo’castle deck to get a better view.

From this new vantage point, Howell could see a lighter tied to the ship’s starboard side, crewed by men he’d never seen before. Beyond were the few lights of a small town well after dark. This pig-wallow of a harbor certainly could not be the great port of Genoa, so what were they doing here?

Haul, I say! Howell recognized the bosun’s voice. He was somewhere on the shadowy deck before him. The block squealed yet again and a blocky, dark mass emerged from the hatch. It was a bundle of the lead ingots that occupied so much of the ship’s hold.

This wasn’t right. Howell had assisted in the drawing of the ship’s papers, so he knew that every pound of lead in the ship was consigned to a firm in Genoa. Young as he was, only about eighteen years or so from his orphan birth, and sent on this voyage by way of training, he was still confident that this diversion of the ship’s cargo had not been planned by the legal owners.

You faithless bastard! The Captain was cursing someone from somewhere aft.

No, by God!

Captain Pathwaite and Howell’s superior, the ship’s purser, Mr. Buck, appeared in the shadows of the ship’s waist, on the side opposite the work party. Pathwaite had the shoulders of Buck’s shirt in his hands and bounced the man along the bulwark, belaboring him with incomprehensible abuse and kicking at him when opportunity offered. Howell’s supervisor finally managed to make a stand just as they reached the foot of the fo’castle deck stairs.

You can’t force me. Mr. Buck gasped for breath and struggled to maintain his footing.

Can’t I now? The Captain sounded confident, perhaps even amused.

From the ship’s stern came a sudden eruption of light, accompanied by an unfamiliar voice. What in God’s name is going on here? The speaker had the intonation of one of quality. This man, this gentleman, was briefly silhouetted against the door to the ship’s cabin before he closed it, plunging them all once more into darkness. This man stumbled toward them from aft, guiding himself as though he was blind, with his left hand on the rail, tripping over the ship’s fittings and muttering as he came. Damnation! Is there no place for one’s feet?

As he got closer, Howell slid to the top of the stairs leading down from the fo’castle deck, the better to overhear anything that might be said on the main deck. Howell could see that the gentleman wore a fashionable doublet with slashed sleeves, so his white shirt glowed in the moonlight through the openings. His broad-brimmed hat was conventional wear for one of his class, but instead of a jaunty plume trailing behind as was the norm, his feather was wrapped tightly around the crown. His golden locks shown in the cold light of the Moon. It was inconceivable to Howell that this fop had been on the ship during the whole of the voyage, and yet remained unseen. He must have boarded when they anchored in this tiny port.

The dandy joined the pair at the foot of the stairs below Howell. Whatever is the trouble, Mr. Buck?

The Purser twisted in the Captain’s grip to answer. I can’t do it, Sir. It’s not right. I know that we talked about it before we sailed, but...

Pah! The Captain shook Buck violently. The bastard wants more money!

See here, my good man. The unknown gentleman stood as tall as his small body allowed and squared his narrow shoulders. A few words on a slip of paper, that is all I ask.

Howell leaned forward to look directly down on the scene. Captain Pathwaite held Mr. Buck tightly against the ship’s side.

The gentleman moved closer to Mr. Buck. We’ve already made our bargain, you and I. He spoke in a soothing tone. Your part is so simple. And it’s for a very good cause as well, a Holy cause one could describe it. It’s something that you promised.

And that you were paid for. The Captain gave Mr. Buck a little shake.

The Purser squirmed. I know, Sir, but...

No buts! The gentleman’s pretense at reasonableness yielded to his underlying fury. I’m arguing trifles with you while the Pope’s men are creeping and creeping. People are threatened! The gentleman thrust his great nose just inches from Buck’s. Good, honest Protestants are going to be thrown out of their homes, robbed, murdered, and you are going to deny me a few miserable words of miserable foreign Italian inked on a sheet?

I can write Italian, Sir.

The gentleman looked up to see who spoke and noticed Howell for the first time. Who the Devil are you?

That’s Davidson, Sir. Captain Pathwaite kept the Purser hard against the rail as he glanced up at Howell. Buck here’s assistant. The clerk-in-training, as you might say.

And he can write Italian?

I shouldn’t wonder. The Captain spat over Buck’s shoulder. The gentlemen in the counting house say he’s a bloody sorcerer when it comes to languages.

I can also speak and write French and German, Sir. This might be Howell’s one chance to gain some advantage from this situation and he was not going to let it slip from his grasp.

Well, well. The gentleman turned away from Howell to share his next observation with Buck and Pathwaite. Quite the accomplished scrivener, are we?

Howell often got this condescending tone from those with superior airs and inferior abilities. It was his skill in doing the things that they could not that had gotten his orphaned arse out of the gutter and, now, finally, on his first voyage. That, and his ability to persevere through the haughty nonsense of society hopefuls such as this one, or the more deliberate slights issued by trumped up underlings like the Purser. Howell would make a success of this opportunity and he would advance himself, even at the expense of the callous Mr. Buck if that was required. At your service, Sir, Howell said to the top of the feather-wrapped hat.

The gentleman now put his foot on the bottom step of the fo’castle deck stair and returned his attention to Howell, towering above him. He brushed back his curling golden hair. A silver chain necklace peeked out of the open top of his shirt and mocked Howell’s poverty. If I were to direct you to duplicate one of the ship’s papers, with some necessary corrections, in Italian, do you think you could do that, eh, Davis?

The man’s mispronunciation of his name mocked Davidson, too, but Howell ignored it and focused on the main chance. Correct documentation was the particular objective of my training, Sir.

Capital! Excellent! The gentleman took his foot off the step and turned back to where Captain Pathwaite still had Howell’s supervisor pinioned against the port bulwark. He looked deliberately at Mr. Buck. It would seem that we can dispense with your services, Mr. Buck, and with your noisome person as well.

Sir Horace? The Captain seemed uncertain of what the gentleman had just said.

You may kill him, Pathwaite.

The grin that broke across the Captain’s face was more terrible even than the look of horror upon Buck’s. The Captain’s left hand shot out, jamming Buck’s neck against the rail and strangling his attempt to cry out. Pathwaite’s right elbow whipped back, flashing the knife that he’d pulled from his waist, and then the blade plunged into Mr. Buck’s torso. The man jerked as Pathwaite withdrew the knife. The Captain repeated the action, over and over, rhythmic as a sawyer working a plank off the side of a log. Mr. Buck’s knees gave out before the Captain’s vigorous thrusting ended, so the final strikes pierced Buck’s chest and neck and deflected off his lifeless skull as he crumpled to the deck.

Sir Horace stepped back in disgust.

Howell stiffened, as well. He had thought that he’d left such violence behind him when he’d escaped London’s filthy alleys, but it appeared his reckoning was wide of the mark. Buck’s miscalculation, however, had been far worse. Though it had proven to his advantage, the circumstances of Howell’s promotion put rather a sobering edge on things.

Now, Davis.

Yes, Sir Horace? Howell vowed that, at some point, he was going to make this hard-hearted fop say his name correctly.

We have some work to do, you and I. The gentleman started aft and Howell came down the steps to the main deck to attend him.

Captain Pathwaite stood over Mr. Buck’s body, twisting his bloody knife in the air before him and gazing vacantly out to sea. Howell slipped by him quickly.

Sir Horace chuckled. Or rather, you have some work to do and I must set you to it. The gentleman once again felt his way blindly along the rail, muttering as he’d done before, and finally reached the entrance to the Captain’s cabin. Without a backward glance, he pulled open the door and flooded the deck with light. Howell followed and found the light from the candle within was almost blinding, so great was the contrast with the surrounding darkness.

Close that, Davis.

Howell ignored the slight conveyed by the mispronunciation of his name and pulled the door closed behind them. He stood blinking with his broad shoulders hunched beneath the deck beams. Before him was a small table that ran the length of this cramped compartment, with chairs on either side of it where the few officers took their meals.

Sit there. Sir Horace pointed to the chair nearest the entrance.

Howell did as he was bid.

Sir Horace stood erect beside him, composing himself before speaking. He was a young man, about Howell’s age, but smaller and more delicate as befit a gentleman, excepting only his remarkably large nose. He reached into his shirt, open at the neck in the Summer’s heat, and drew forth the silver chain that Howell had glimpsed briefly before. It was made of astonishingly thick links. Howell had seen an iron chain of similar dimensions used to restrain the featured performer at a bear-baiting. The gentleman clutched a medallion that was suspended from this chain. I pray to thee, St. Vitus, to preserve the health of this enterprise and give this boy the strength he needs to do what must be done in thy service. Amen. He kissed his talisman and dropped it back into his shirt. You have seen the comet, I assume?

Yes, Sir. Everyone in Europe had marveled at the ‘bearded star’ that had appeared so suddenly in the night sky, but what could this possibly have to do with the events aboard the ship? Howell had taken this gentleman ordering Buck to be killed as pure cold-bloodedness, but now it seemed that the man was perhaps a few bricks short of a hod.

Speculation is rife, of course. The gentleman spoke with an unwonted eagerness. Everyone agrees that such a display portends a very great event, but no two of these prognosticators can agree on what, exactly, will obtain.

Yes, Sir.

The two men shared blue eyes, but Howell’s long brown hair hung limp in the Mediterranean night, while Sir Horace’s blond locks seemed crazed by the humid atmosphere. Sir Horace bent ever so slightly as he addressed his fervent words to Howell, bringing his large nose to almost the same level as Howell’s face. I know what the comet means.

Really, Sir. This was what Howell said aloud. What he thought to himself was ‘Mad git’.

The old Emperor is on his last legs. It is said that he can’t last the year. His death will be the tocsin that calls forth the armies that will contend for Germany’s soul.

Soul, Sir?

Of course, of course, it’s plain as a pikestaff. Sir Horace stood erect, and began to twitch about the cramped cabin. The Duke of Austria will succeed as Emperor and he has solemnly vowed to re-establish the Catholic Faith to the uttermost limits of his reach. He has his eye most particularly upon the Protestants of Bohemia. It is why they have rebelled. It is why we are redirecting from this ship the lead that will make their musket balls. Sir Horace stopped his pacing and stared intently at Howell. The Papists must not prevail.

Howell sat quietly, trying to make sense of all this. He’d volunteered to do a little paperwork and somehow this had plunged him into some manner of conspiracy headed by a murdering lunatic.

Ah, to work. Sir Horace took a document that sat by itself in the center of the table and a second, blank sheet, and placed them before Howell. Now Davis...

‘Davidson, damn it!’

...there is an error on this manifest that wants correcting.

‘Inconvenient truth that wants hiding, you mean.’

What’s needful is that you change this manifest to show twenty-five tons of lead, not twenty-eight.

Yes, Sir. Howell considered for a moment. So the value...

...will not change. The gentleman smiled at the clerk-in-training. Only the count is in error, the charge is entirely correct. You are to copy the document, with the corrections, onto this fresh sheet.

Howell knew that all this was utter rubbish. The whole point of a signed and sealed manifest was that it could be relied upon because it was unaltered. This document would be in a different hand than all the others and would have no seal. The only possible way it could pass muster was if this Sir Horace had already made arrangements with the Italian consignees. Undoubtedly, bribes had been paid.

Howell wondered if the men in the counting house, who had taken him off the streets and given him an education, were the instigators or the victims of this little pantomime. On the other hand, there was the object lesson provided by Mr. Buck as to the sort of severance pay Howell would receive if he didn’t proceed smartly. Best to be a competent, and valued, subordinate. Of course, Sir. The usual documentation fees apply, I assume?

Certainly, certainly, my boy. I don’t have the schedule to hand. What is the customary charge?

‘Minimum bribe, you mean.’ If Howell asked too much, he risked getting into the sort of discussion that had done for Mr. Buck. If he asked too little, he would be seen as a laughable stooge rather than a likely lad worthy of being taken into this man’s confidence. A pound, Sir. Twenty shillings. A month’s wages, when they bothered to pay him.

Oh, dear. I would have thought that a crown would have been more than sufficient.

That would have been fair if all this was being done in the offices of Shylock and Morley rather than in a ship’s cabin bobbing in an out-of-the-way fishing port while a theft was in progress. Howell smiled his best dutiful-subordinate smile. Yes, Sir, but under the present circumstances, two crowns seems more appropriate. Ten shillings. Half his opening bid.

Oh, very well. Sir Horace winked. I’m sure that I’ll get an exceptional job for such a princely sum.

Certainly, Sir. Howell slipped the proffered coins into his pocket. He could write the Lord’s Prayer, backward, in German, and he doubted that this twit would know the difference. Howell took up the pen, drew the ink well near, and began to consider the manifest he was going to forge.

Amongst the Musketeers – II

Giovanni del Valpo

Summer 1618

During the night, Mr. Buck found his resting place amongst the sharks and the crabs, and in the forenoon of the next day the ship found its assigned dock in the bustling anchorage of Genoa. While the former was done without art (or even ceremony), the latter required considerable skill to accomplish. The space between the piers was not generous, and there were many other vessels berthed on both sides of the narrow waterway. The sky above their heads was choked with masts and spars and gaffs and countless fathoms of rope. The stew-pot that was Genoa’s harbor festered under the rising Sun.

Howell stood at the ship’s rail, sweating in the Italian Summer and his English wool. He had donned shoes and hose, a simple linen shirt, a short doublet of honest grey wool, and a shapeless cap of this same material. He would rather have dressed like the listless dock workers that lounged on the pier beside their vessel, hoping for a day’s work unloading the newcomer. Most of these wore nothing but knee-length breeches and perhaps some rag tied around their heads.

Their garb might be more comfortable than Howell’s, but he knew their lives were not. He’d lived like them. He’d scrabbled for crusts and slept in doorways, until the day that Mr. Shylock had taken him off the streets to do the necessary work at the counting house. He’d taught Howell to do sums, as well, and Mr. Morley had taught him to read and write. Howell leaned casually on the rail. He’d been lucky, but he also had abilities, and now he had wages and prospects, and he would never again live like these wretches. He had just aided this Sir Horace fellow in a delicate moment and who knew where that new path might lead him? He had survived, and now he would prosper. More; he would be respected.

Behind the pitiable stevedores, a considerable city was wrapped around the water front. It was not like any other town that Howell had ever seen. The white stone buildings with their red tile roofs crept up the sides of the sharp hills that crowded the water and extended back into a line of jagged mountains beyond. The streets and docks crawled with shuffling processions of faceless porters weighed down with boxes, bags, coils of rope, and the endless, numberless barrels.

Presently a group of prosperous-looking gentlemen approached down one of the streets, their beater before them clearing a path through the commercial crush. They made their way directly to the pier, then began to troop up the gang plank toward Howell, happily calling up Permesso? for leave to come aboard. These were undoubtedly the rightful owners of the ship’s cargo.

Captain Pathwaite came down off his quarterdeck to greet them, exchanging introductions and handshakes. The Italian merchants were in a good mood, and why not? Their investment had survived the voyage and their profit was in the hold beneath their feet. Howell took his place at Pathwaite’s side. He felt proud to be part of the administration of the ship. He was nearly a head taller than anyone else in the party, so he took a young man’s pride in his physical gifts, as well.

The Captain and a punctiliously dressed, older Italian spoke briefly and then the visitor asked to see the ship’s papers.

Boy? Pathwaite extended his hand.

Howell was startled by this word, but handed over the folio smartly. Then the Captain waved him away.

Howell was shocked at being treated in this wise. He had imagined that his status was improving and here he was being treated in this contemptuous fashion. He was skilled, he was clever, and, though he might not have many years behind him, he most certainly did not think of himself as a boy. Howell fumed as he walked to the opposite rail. He tried to stand casually while his fingers drummed on the rail.

The junior members of the welcoming committee were men not much older than Howell. Their breeches were tied under their knees with bright ribbons. The sleeves of their doublets were slashed from shoulder to cuff so that their crisp linen shirts shown through the gaps. They all wore swords. They talked amongst themselves and one laughed rather loudly. Howell doubted that any of them would allow himself to be addressed as ‘boy.’

The leader of these men, meanwhile, read through the papers that the Captain had given him, considering each one carefully before moving on to the next. Then the manifest that Howell had ginned up reached the top of the stack. The senior Italian frowned. He turned to his colleagues. For how much lead did we pay?

They ceased their chatting. Twenty-eight English tons, Signore. They nodded at one another in agreement.

Someone has obviously, and crudely, forged this manifest to show only twenty-five tons. The principle merchant displayed the paper to his partners.

They gasped as they looked at it for themselves.

It doesn’t even have a seal. The senior merchant looked dubiously at the Captain. The mood was no longer jolly.

Howell stared across the deck. What did this mean? For starters, it meant that these merchants of Genoa were not in league with Sir Horace as he had so confidently assumed. It meant that he’d been too clever by half. Howell was struck with the sort of fear he hadn’t felt since he left the streets for the quiet and safety of the counting house. This was the fear he’d known as a friendless, powerless child confronted by the gang leader with a knife-edged shard of pottery in his hand.

Across the width of the ship, the senior of the Italians angrily presented the concocted document to Pathwaite and spat out a demand for an explanation. The Captain took the paper and began to examine it. He considered for a moment, rubbing his jaw as though deep in thought. Finally coming to a conclusion, he stood up straight and began to speak.

The lead merchant started in surprize. Boy? What boy?

The Captain replied, nodding toward Howell, and suddenly the old Italian was looking across the deck at him in great consternation.

This was betrayal. Pathwaite was spinning some story that would make it appear that Howell had somehow stolen the Genoese three tons of lead. Howell had supposed that he was skillfully ingratiating himself when he’d forged the manifest. In truth, all the while he’d been nothing more than Sir Horace’s dupe.

The Captain added something else to the fairy tale he was improvising.

Omicidio? exclaimed the leader of their visitors. The gaggle of Italian merchants at the dock-side gangway all looked at him and the Captain, or looked about in confusion. They began questioning one another as though their friend might have learnt more than they did from that single, terrible word, ‘murder.’

This meant the noose. This meant these treacherous bastards were pointing Howell toward the gallows to answer for their own bloody crimes. Howell was transformed again into the embattled urchin he had been in London’s dark passageways. He banished everything but survival from his mind. The merchants and Captain Pathwaite blocked his escape down the gangplank, while behind him was a narrow strip of water separating him from the ships on the opposite pier. That is, the channel would have appeared narrow to someone who could swim. Howell needed a third way. He shouted out in the local tongue, The Captain says that all Italians are pimps!

The merchants looked about themselves in confusion.

Grab that boy! Pathwaite threw out his arm, and a dozen of his sailors looked to where he was pointing.

Beware, Italian fools! Howell stripped off his jacket and knocked off his hat in the process. Whatever route he found, speed would be required to pursue it. The Captain is going to have his men throw all of you overboard!

In his haste to get to Howell, one of the sailors bumped his way through the group of merchants, and the Italians took offense. A shoving match began and other sailors rallied to their shipmate’s cause. Both sides began yelling in a language that the other didn’t understand.

Howell threw his jacket in the face of the first sailor to get close to him. He directed a savage kick into the midsection of the blinded sailor and sent him tumbling to the deck. The Captain shits on your mothers’ graves!

The Italians exploded, lashing out at any sailor within reach. Fists were thrown and one of the merchants began swinging a cane. Captain Pathwaite was yelling himself blue, urging his sailors to lay hands on the fugitive.

Howell looked toward the ship’s stern, the only direction that was currently free of struggling men. Sir Horace was casually descending the steps from the quarterdeck where he had been unobtrusively watching his dastardly plan unfold. The Sun glinted off the links of the massive silver chain that peeked out of his shirt. His languid smile expressed his easy confidence and his utter disdain for the life he was offering up for the advancement of his schemes. How now, young Davis?

Howell turned and dashed along the ship’s side toward his betrayer.

Sir Horace’s face transformed from confidence to consternation. He attempted to take a step backward. Instead, he lost his footing and sprawled full length upon the stairs.

Howell would have gladly taken his revenge upon this faithless turd, but his priority had to be escape. He tried to gain the quarterdeck with one foot on the stair and the other on the man’s body, but the traitor twisted about, so Howell lost his balance and tumbled down upon him. Howell howled and Sir Horace thrashed like a rat caught in a dog’s jaws.

A sailor seized one of Howell’s ankles. Howell kicked free, lost the shoe, and scrambled up Sir Horace’s supine body. Someone struck Howell a mighty blow in his side, knocking him off the stairs and over the ship’s side. As he fell, Howell scrabbled frantically to try to get a grip on something that would keep him from falling into the terrible water. His fingers raked across Sir Horace’s chest, ripping the shirt. Howell suddenly found one of his hands clutching the outsized chain that encircled Sir Horace’s neck. Howell continued falling over the ship’s side, clinging desperately to the chain, and dragging Sir Horace bodily behind him. Their mutual progress into the harbor was checked when the strong hands of the sailors seized upon Sir Horace. Howell bounced heavily against the ship’s planking and looked up at his betrayer’s purpling face.

Sir Horace stared down at Howell with terror in his eyes. He dug his nails into his neck, trying to free himself from the man suspended from his necklace.

Howell dangled from the chain with one hand and slapped futilely at the hull with the other. If Howell relaxed his hand and dropped into the water, he would drown. If he allowed himself to be pulled back onto the ship’s deck, they would hang him. He groped with his free hand on the ship’s smooth planking and could find no purchase. A sailor leaned over the rail and tried to get a hold on Howell’s shirt. Another sailor crowded in beside the first and beat on Howell’s fist, trying to get him to release the chain. Howell lost his grip.

For one terrifying instant Howell was in free fall before he plunged into the awful water. He was engulfed in the smothering liquid. He thrashed madly. He couldn’t breathe! By Providence or random chance, however, his head broke the surface and he filled his lungs greedily. It might only have been a temporary reprieve except that his frantically questing arms chanced upon a bit of wood bobbing in the filthy harbor. Howell clutched it to his chest in desperate hope. He sank back into the water, but his face remained just above the surface. He could take another breath. He began to calm himself. If he remained absolutely still, he was safe.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a clutch of sailors peering at him from the ship’s side. None of them was attempting to follow Howell into the oily harbor, so they couldn’t swim, either. One of the bastards threw Howell’s shoe at Howell’s head, but missed.

Another face appeared at the ship’s rail; the half-strangled visage of Sir Horace. Howell found it weird, being close enough to the man to hold a conversation and yet unable to do the cheat the slightest harm. His betrayer spared Howell a furious glance, but his attention was largely occupied in readying a pistol for firing.

‘Bloody Hell!’ Howell kicked his legs to turn his body in the water and get his face aimed at the opposite pier. This was a necessary first step, but it didn’t get him any closer to safety. He kept one hand on the balk of timber that was preserving his life and began digging in the water with the other. He slowly began to make a little progress. He kicked his feet. His remaining shoe came off, but his pace improved. A row boat was tied to one of the pilings ahead, and a ladder on this column led up to the dock. Howell had an escape route.

His ears were filled with the noise of the water he was splashing everywhere. Then, above all the racket he was making, he heard the distinct crack! of Sir Horace’s pistol firing, followed immediately by a sensation that was just as though he’d been violently kicked in his rump. Despite his confusion and the pain, he did not let off paddling. On the contrary, this unexpected form of attack spurred him to a burst of speed.

Howell reached the pier. He clung to the piling though it was encrusted with barnacles and slippery with sea weed. He was almost witless with exhaustion. In a moment, though, he’d recovered sufficiently that he was merely panting. He rubbed his sore rump but found that his hand came away without blood, so he concluded that the ball from Sir Horace’s pistol had been right on line for his head, but a trifle low. The water through which it passed had slowed it sufficiently to transform it from a death blow to the proverbial pain in the arse.

Around him was the filthy harbor and its vast and varied collection of ships. Above him was the pier. He could hear men walking up there, and rolling barrels, and pushing carts. He’d calmed himself so that his breathing was something close to normal now. He looked across the narrow channel, to the opposite dock. A party of Captain Pathwaite’s sailors was being formed. They brandished a variety of makeshift cudgels. The Captain strode to their head carrying a sword. They could have but one objective.

Howell forced himself to start climbing the ladder. Whether or not he was recovered from his exertions, he had to move. When he reached the top, dripping wet, he paused to wring out his long hair and tried to get it to stay behind his ears. On the opposite side of the channel he saw Pathwaite and his band of cutthroats striding manfully down the dock, aiming to cut him off.

Howell summoned all his remaining energy and took off at a dead run. If he let his pursuers reach the end of their pier before he could reach the end of his, the game would be up. His wet, stockinged feet slapped on the boards as he dodged between piles of cargo and groups of sweating laborers. He came to a place where the pier changed from wood to stone. To his right he caught a glimpse of the English sailors not quite keeping pace with him. They were yelling and pointing at him. Dead ahead was a street leading up into the town from the harbor and to escape. Unfortunately, Howell also saw a group of Italian guards moving to block his way. They had heard all the shouting and seen all the chasing, and now they were going to want answers. Each was armed with a longish club, and they were all looking at Howell.

He weaved in and out between the barrels and the stevedores, never slacking his pace. They’re coming! Howell yelled in Italian, pointing at Pathwaite’s party, Santa Maria! Save us!

The guards looked at the sailors and at one another in confusion.

Allarme! Howell gestured frantically. They’re here! Howell ran directly up to the man who seemed to be in command of the guards. Skidding to a stop, he wrapped his arms around this fellow and shrieked in his face, It’s finally happened! They’ve come! Santa Maria! Although he towered over the fellow, Howell made sure that the man got a good impression of his panicked face and then he bear-hugged him. When Howell released the man he turned to see Pathwaite and his band of buccaneers coming along the shoreline toward them right on cue. Sell your lives dearly! The guards wouldn’t have been human if they hadn’t turned their attention to the pack of armed men striding up to them. Howell began to back through the thin line of the peace officers.

Make way there! bellowed Pathwaite. He wore a black hat and a black, long-sleeved jacket over black breeches and grey wool stockings. The contrast between his somber clothing and everyone else’s