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    The Pistoleer: Roundway Down
    The Pistoleer: Roundway Down
    The Pistoleer: Roundway Down
    Ebook540 pages18 hours

    The Pistoleer: Roundway Down

    By Skye Smith

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    About this ebook

    The spring of 1643 was cold and damp, so deadly flu's ravaged the army camps. King Charles was secure in Oxford waiting for his wife Henrietta to march down from York with her invading army and their much needed supplies. Parliament's core army was immobile at Windsor due to a political deadlock over whether to storm the king or make peace with him.
    Meanwhile the royalist flying armies were brutalizing the folk of the South West, of the Midlands, and of Lincolnshire. The locals scrambled to defend themselves with help from experienced officers such as Waller and Fairfax, but also from inexperienced militia officers such as Capt. O. Cromwell.
    * * * * *
    About The Author
    Skye Smith is my pen name. In 1630 some of my Manchester Puritan ancestors sailed away to Massachusetts on one of Robert Rich's ships. The Pistoleer is a series of historical adventure novels set in Britain in the 1640's. I was encouraged to write them by fans of my Hoodsman series.
    This is the seventh of the series, and you should read at least the first novel 'HellBurner' before you read this book because it sets the characters and scene for the entire series. The sequence of the books follows the timeline of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSkye Smith
    Release dateSep 11, 2015
    ISBN9781927699188
    The Pistoleer: Roundway Down

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      Book preview

      The Pistoleer - Skye Smith

      THE PISTOLEER

      ROUNDWAY DOWN

      (Book Seven of the Series)

      By Skye Smith

      Copyright (C) 2014-2015 Skye Smith

      All rights reserved including all rights of authorship.

      Cover Illustration is Battle Scene - Pistoleer by Edward Bird (1802)

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      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 are 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.

      Revision 0 . . . . . ISBN: 978-1-927699-18-8

      Cover Flap

      The spring of 1643 was cold and damp, so deadly flu's ravaged the army camps. King Charles was secure in Oxford waiting for his wife Henrietta to march down from York with her invading army and their much needed supplies. Parliament's core army was immobile at Windsor due to a political deadlock over whether to storm the king or make peace with him.

      Meanwhile the royalist flying armies were brutalizing the folk of the South West, of the Midlands, and of Lincolnshire. The locals scrambled to defend themselves with help from experienced officers such as Waller and Fairfax, but also from inexperienced militia officers such as Capt. O. Cromwell.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

      About The Author

      Skye Smith is my pen name. In 1630 some of my Manchester Puritan ancestors sailed away to Massachusetts on one of Robert Rich's ships. The Pistoleer is a series of historical adventure novels set in Britain in the 1640's. I was encouraged to write them by fans of my Hoodsman series.

      This is the seventh of the series, and you should read at least the first novel 'HellBurner' before you read this book because it sets the characters and scene for the entire series. The sequence of the books follows the timeline of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

      Prologue

      This adventure is as historically accurate as I could make it, however I have not included my endless references because the main character, Daniel Vanderus, is fictional. As a rule of thumb, if the character is a parliamentarian, or has a title, or has a military rank of captain or above, then they and their families are non-fictional. Otherwise the character is fictional.

      In the 1640's England was still using the old Julian calendar rather than the new Gregorian one. I have used the same dates for battles as are used by popular Civil War timelines. They use old fashioned Julian dates, rather than the modern (add 10 days) Gregorian dates, but treat January 1 as the start of a new year rather than March 25 as was used in the 1640's. In the 1640's Christmas day still fell on December 25, but the shortest day of the year was December 11, not December 21.

      Note that at the end of this book there is an Appendix which is organized like an FAQ. There you will find answers to dozens of questions such as:

      - What was William Waller's connection to Robert Rich?

      - Was there really so much looting and raping going on?

      - Who were the Campdeners?

      - Was the plague of 1643 Typhus?

      However, the next few paragraphs will set the scene enough for you to begin reading the novel.

      * * * * *

      The year 1643 began with Parliament's reformers split three ways between the peace party, the war party, and the middle party. The armies of the Stuart Regime had by then shown themselves to be brutal in battle, and vicious with anyone who would not bend to their will, especially womenfolk. Many of parliament's reformers were so fearful of how vicious the royalists were being, that their want of 'Reform' was being replaced by their want of peace. The common folk who had been pressed into the armies and the battles, and had suffered first hand the royalist's vicious lawlessness did not want only peace, but justice ... in kind.

      This novel begins just after England had been invaded by her treasonous queen, Henrietta. Treasonous because she had stolen the Crown Jewels, pawned them in Holland, and then used the proceeds to buy munitions and to hire thousands of harden mercenaries from the continental wars. This army of foreign invaders landed on the coast of Yorkshire and then marched to York, but then bad weather and the threat of attack by General Fairfax's 'rebel' army kept them in York all winter and spring.

      Meanwhile the core army that Parliament had raised (mostly from around London), were not pressing their advantage of infantry and supplies to storm Oxford and capture the king. Instead they waited at Windsor for the result of the endless peace negotiations with the king. Parliament's Lord General Essex had no great desire to directly attack the king, which suited the king because he was stalling until Henrietta's invading army could join him.

      After a long hard winter came a wet spring and the march of smaller armies than those in Oxford and Windsor. The royalist army in Cornwall under General Hopton had called off the winter truce and began looting their way through Devon and Somerset, where they defeat every force sent to stop them. A royalist army was raised in Wales, and they put Gloucester under siege. Rupert, the foreign Devil Prince, led his flying army to loot Midlands, while his brother Maurice did the same to Wiltshire.

      The royalist flying squads were being encouraged to loot the kingdom. From the royalist point of view, if someone didn't willingly offer their help to the king's cause, then they were a traitors and deserved to be looted, or worse. The regional associations of militias were trying to defend the folk, but the flying squads moved quickly and their raids came with little warning. The big losers in any war, no matter who wins, are always the women and children - and 1643 was a very, very hard year for women and children.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Cover Flap

      About the Author

      Prologue

      Table of Contents

      Chapter 1 - The Taking of Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 2 - At the Swan Inn in Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 3 - Questioning Royalists in Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 4 - The Weapons Cache at Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 5 - Securing Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 6 - Sneak Attack in Lowestoft in March 1643

      Chapter 7 - Landing at Lyme, Dorset in March 1643

      Chapter 8 - The Defenses of Bristol in March 1643

      Chapter 9 - The Ruse to Catch Rupert in Bristol in March 1643

      Chapter 10 - The March to Malmesbury in March 1643

      Chapter 11 - The Siege of Malmesbury in March 1643

      Chapter 12 - The False March on Cirencester in March 1643

      Chapter 13 - Marching by Night to Cross the Severn in March 1643

      Chapter 14 - The End of the Welsh Army in Highnam in March 1643

      Chapter 15 - The Dragon of Bristol in Chepstow in March 1643

      Chapter 16 - Escaping from a Trap at Chepstow in March 1643

      Chapter 17 - Talk of Bermuda in Wellenhay in April 1643

      Chapter 18 - Trouble in the Lincolnshire Fens in April 1643

      Chapter 19 - Campdeners seize Crowland in April 1643

      Chapter 20 - With Oliver in Cambridge in April 1643

      Chapter 21 - With Courtesans in London in April 1643

      Chapter 22 - The Plague in Reading in April 1643

      Chapter 23 - The Surrender of Reading in April 1643

      Chapter 24 - Training Green Dragoons in Thame in June 1643

      Chapter 25 - Ambushed by the Devil in Chalgrove Field in June 1643

      Chapter 26 - The Clan arrives in Lyme, Dorset in June 1643

      Chapter 27 - The Battle of Lansdown Hill near Bath in July 1643

      Chapter 28 - With Robert Blake in Bristol in July 1643

      Chapter 29 - Trapping General Hopton in Devizes in July 1643

      Chapter 30 - The Storming of Devizes in July 1643

      Chapter 31 - The Battle of Roundway Down near Devizes in July 1643

      Chapter 32 - Appendix FAQ

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

      Chapter 1 - The Taking of Lowestoft in March 1643

      One man of the eight in the shore party leaped into the shallow surf and waded to the beach with the bow line of the longboat. With each swell he pulled on the line until the bow hit sand, and two other men dropped down into the shallows to lift the bow and push it further up the beach. Only then did the rest of the party scrambled over the bow onto dry land. With eight backs heaving, they hauled the longboat up above the high tide mark.

      The tallest of the men, Daniel, took a good look up and down the beach and then cast his stare along the rise behind the beach. There was no one in sight. So far so good. He waved to the small ship, the Friesburn Four, which had brought them to this lonely stretch of coast. Almost immediately the ship turned towards deeper water to wait for more signals.

      Daniel shivered, but not because of the North Sea fog. He was wearing a boiled-rawhide vest with a sheepskin lining, which was warm enough, but it also meant that he wasn’t wearing his steel chest armour. Already he was regretting that decision, for now that his feet were on solid gound he was feeling naked against the very real possibility of an ambush by musketeers.

      On the ship, of course, it had seemed a logical decision to leave the steel armour behind. The town up the beach, Lowestoft, was solidly controlled by royalists so the harbour was forbidden them. Instead they had to land a longboat through the shore break. During such a landing there was a very real danger of capsizing and being thrown into the water, in which case the steel armour would do its best to drown you. On the other hand, the sheepskin lining of the vest would float a man for a precious few minutes. That decision had been made at sea, but now they were on land. The boiled leather and the sheepskin would slow a musket ball, but not deflect it or stop it.

      Stop thinkin' so much and get a move on, Mick hissed as he grabbed Daniel's elbow and pushed him away from the longboat and towards the closest bushes. Mick was the master of the Freisburn Four, but he had refused to be left behind on the ship. There was no way of leaving Mick out of an adventure which may include the chance of a good fight, and why would you? In a scrap he was worth any three men.

      The two Yarmouth fishermen they had brought along as guides had already crossed the beach to the sparse cover of the bushes. They were wiry men with faces aged by years of working in the raw North Sea wind. The northern battery is on that hillock to the south of us, fisherman Nate growled once they caught up to him. The watch there will be the first to spot a troop o' riders comin’ down the Yarmouth Road.

      It should have been difficult to find two fishermen willing to guide them on such a dangerous venture, but back in Yarmouth the only thing that had been difficult had been choosing the best two out of the forty who volunteered. Earlier this month the staunchly royalist gentlemen of Lowestoft, led by a merchant and ship owner by the name of Thomas Allen, had raided Yarmouth's harbour and had captured and towed away a half dozen of the towns newest fishing boats. All were ships of the size and quality needed to fish for cod off Iceland. The Yarmouth fishermen wanted those ships back, and if they had to cut a few throats to do so, then so be it.

      The other four men were Wellenhay clansmen like Daniel and Mick. As a shore party they looked more like pirates on a raid than Fen's cottagers. Mick looked more like a pirate than any of them, for he did not share the tall, fair, easy good looks of his clansmen. He was shorter and darker and had lost his looks to his love of alehouse brawls. Mick and his clansmen were armed to the teeth, literally, for they had all been carrying their powder flasks hung from their teeth to keep them high and dry out of the water.

      The men carried a strange assortment of weapons, for each man had his own favourites, but all of them carried at least two pistols ... one normal single shot pistol, and one wide-muzzled dragon pistol loaded with bird shot, slaked-lime-grit and other nasties. None of them carried a sword. Rough skirmishers such as they had no great use for the most precious of gentlemen's weapons.

      Rough men lacked the fencing skills needed to defeat gentlemen who were well practiced in swordplay. And as costly as good swords were, they were not much good for anything else but slashing at folk. Not that slashing at folk was uncommon these days. Ever since the battle for Edgehill the royalist gentlemen had been using their swords quite freely on any camp followers or cottager who refused their bidding.

      It was Frisian blood which ran through the veins of these Fens clansmen, and the Frisians of the North Sea coasts had chosen axes over swords back before the times of the Vikings. Not that they carried huge old fashioned battle axes. These days they carried the haches preferred by French pistoleers. A hache head was a mix of three different weapons in one - an axe blade, a spear point, and a hook. A similar head mounted on a pole rather than on an axe handle would be called a halberd pike, but the shorter handled hache was lighter, more compact, and more versatile.

      The eight men set off in search of Lowestoft's northern battery of cannons, but it was slow work due to the need to keep to the natural cover of the bushes. If they were seen by the battery watch, they would lose the element of surprise, and possibly their lives. Even after finding the battery, it took them another half hour of crawling and listening and crawling and listening to reach the actual earthworks. The earthworks and the big guns had been placed there almost a hundred years ago by King Henry the Cock to protect Lowestoft from the Spanish navy. A few years ago the original rusting guns had been replaced, but the fishermen guides swore that the new guns had never been fired in anger.

      In the time it took them advance from beach to earthwork dyke they had not heard nor seen anyone. They took a moment to rest and refresh the flash pans of their pistols, but then as one they leaped up and scrambled over the dyke. This was the dangerous part. If they were expected, they would be shot down as soon as they were atop the dyke. They all crouched low, and stayed low even as they leaped down into the dark shadows inside the dyke.

      Where's the effin' cannons? Mick hissed. He had his killing pistol in his right hand and his dragon in his left, both cocked, and he was waving them back and forth as he moved from shadow to shadow. The other men joined him in his search of the shadows. No guns, no watchers, no supplies. Meanwhile Daniel was running to keep up with the fishermen who were legging it towards a low stone cottage just inland from the dyke. Of course. The watchers would live in the cottage, and that is where the supplies would be kept under lock and key.

      Nate reached the cottage door first and lifted one foot so that his speed would be stopped by the door. He kept going and ended up on his back on the floor of the doorway. The door had been on the latch but not barred or locked. Frantically he spun around on his back trying to find and pick up at least one of the pistols he had dropped.

      Calm down, Nate, Daniel told him as he stepped over him, the place is empty. He stepped back outside and gave his clansmen the signal to secure the area. The northern battery was theirs. But so what? There was nothing and nobody here. They had been sent by ship to make a beach landing and capture the battery so that the main force could march along the Yarmouth Road and reach the outskirts of Lowestoft before being seen. It was nearly midday, which meant that the main force would still be a few miles north of Lowestoft.

      Mick walked over to where Daniel was standing, silent, lost in thought. Mission accomplished then, Mick told him with a sarcastic snicker. He motioned to the cottage roof. Here, boost me up so I can take a good look all around.

      Daniel shrugged at him and pointed to the ladder laying down along the cottage wall. He helped raise it up and then held it steady while Mick climbed it to reach the thatch and then crawled higher over the thatch until he could take a peek over the peak. Daniel joined him there a moment later. Each man reached into his side bag and each man pulled out the scroll pipe that contained his Dutch made kijker, his spectacle-lens-looker. Each adjusted the length of the sliding pipes until they could focus at a distance, and then they began to search out the lay of the land.

      It was not just the dykes protecting this battery that were man-made, but also the hillock on which it stood. They knew this because all around them stretched a low, flat plain that would be used as a grazing common when it wasn't flooded by winter rains and tides. Inland across a stretch of this common was a ridge and a natural hill on which was built the town's navigation tower and light. The Yarmouth road must be up on that ridge but they couldn't see it from here. They had chosen the wrong guides in Yarmouth. They should have chosen herdsmen or carters, not fishermen.

      One at a time they slid down the thatch and then scrambled down the swaying ladder. Once on the ground they called in their men. They had a problem. How could they get across a few hundred yards of open common to the inland ridge without being seen? And not just do it, but do it quickly? Mick began discussing it with the men.

      We've no choice, Daniel interrupted. This is a royalist town which means it is ruled by rich gentlemen, which means their chosen way of fighting will be as cavalryers. We are on foot. We can't risk being caught out on that open ground by cavalry, so we must walk along yon drainage ditch. At least the ditch will be a barrier we can use to counter any mounted attack.

      Aye, and it has a path along it, Mick agreed. One side of the ditch is choked with bushes so we'll have some cover. He began to walk out of the battery towards the ditch, and the others fell in behind him. Had they more time, they could have kept low, or even crawled from cover to cover as they had done along the beach, but they were running out of time. Instead they trotted along at a good pace.

      If we are attacked, Daniel told the men, we retreat along the ditch back to the beach and signal the Four to come in and pick us up. She'll use her guns to give us covering fire. Though the Four belonged to their clan, it was chartered out as a patrol ship to the Eastern Association of Trainbands. She was just forty feet at the waterline, but she carried a six pound cannon mounted fore, and two swivel guns aft.

      The ditch led them to the base of a steep slope, but there was a path which traversed up the slope through the bushes. Daniel took the lead, because he had been the one to volunteer for this mission. The rest of them signed on because they trusted him. If someone was to catch the first musket ball, by rights it should be him. Again he felt naked without his Dutch-steel armour and he shivered. At least they had brought helmets. They were the steel skullcaps that were now so common with fighting men, not just because they could save your head, but also because you could flip them over, remove the inner leather cap, and use them as a soup pot.

      Just thinking of using it as a soup pot made Daniel want to retch. Last year he had fought in too many battles, too many sieges, and too many skirmishes, which meant that he had eaten too much over cooked horsemeat. Horsemeat was actually quite delicious when spit-roasted over hot coals, but boiling it up in battlefield water meant you had to cook it long enough to make sure that the water was fit to drink. Tough, boiled meat with a tang of metal and whatever else was in the water. Yuk.

      The path ahead was widening and leveling. They were near the top of the ridge. He signaled those behind him to hug the bushes, and then he crouched low and shuffled towards the crest. It was times like this that his experience hunting game in the Fens did him service. He calmed all thoughts from his mind to allow his senses to strengthen and come forward in his mind. From the smell of horse shit, there must be a bridleway or a cartway ahead. Or was that just his memory of French stew. Songbirds. The songbirds were in full spring throat, which meant that nothing was moving along the cartway.

      He should have known that the road would run along this ridge for it was the closest place to the beach that would be dry even in the winter floods. Slowly he moved forward until he could see the surface of the road. It was wide enough for carts. Cautiously he poked his head out from the last bush and looked left towards the town. The navigation tower was two hundred yards south. To the north he could see a sharp bend in the road about two hundred yards away. Across from him on the other side of the road was a cut in the bushes. The continuation of this path.

      Mick was now at his back with his dragon cocked in his left hand. See anything? Anyone?

      There's no one on the road. The path continues on the other side. I'm going across. Wait for my signal and then have the men come across one at a time. With that, Daniel looked both ways again and then without rising above a crouch, scurried across the road and into the bushes on the other side. He was right. The path continued. He waved to Mick to send the first man. One by one they crouched and waddled across.

      Once there were two men on his side of the road, Daniel left them working with Mick, while he followed the new path through the bushes. After less than thirty yards of bush, the path opened to a clearing. Cautiously he crept forward to have a look. One look told him all he needed to know. The town was expecting the troop of men who were marching here from Yarmouth. When the other's caught up to him, he told them so. Each of them had a look for themselves.

      Well that's the effin' trouble with civil wars, ain't it, Nate whispered. Everyone’s a spyin' on their neighbours, and there ain't no way o' tellin' whose side they's on.

      Well at least that solves the mystery of the missing cannons at the shore battery, Mick added.

      The clearing they were peering into was on a rise at the northern end of the town. Just inland of the clearing was the first crossroads of the town where the Yarmouth Road jogged a bit and became the High Street. The road they had just crossed, the ridge road, joined the Yarmouth Road at that cross. The clearing lay between the two roads.

      The three cannons from the battery had been moved into the clearing and had been set up pointing towards the crossroad and the Yarmouth Road. The gunners would wait for the Eastern Association's troopers to reach the cross road, and then they would let loose a fury of grape shot. The guns were culverins big enough to do damage to ships at sea, so perhaps sixteen pounders. Each of them would shoot over two hundred pistol balls at a time. Six hundred pistol balls in the first salvo. It would be a slaughter, plain and sure. Even if the troopers were saved by their armour, the balls were sure to cause panic in the horses. Being bucked off a horse could kill you just as surely as a pistol ball.

      Of all the men, Daniel had the most battlefield experience, and by far. In his youth he had lived in Rotterdam and had done service with the Dutch militia as a pistoleer skirmisher. It was a trade he knew well, too well, and more than once in the past year he had been called on by parliamentarian officers to use that experience to help them. Here he was again. He passed his looker around so the other men could see the situation.

      The only men around the cannons are the gunners, he told them. The rest of their force is behind the barricade down where the buildings begin on the High Street. They've narrowed the road with a barricade at the first building, and have run a chain across at chest height to stop a mounted charge. He waited while the next man had a look. It's a simple strategy, and it will work well enough. Too well. When the leaders of our troops arrive they will see the barricade and the chain, so they will stop just out of musket range, say a hundred yards. The other troopers will bunch up behind them while our officers discuss the situation and call out a greeting to those behind the barricade.

      And while they are all bunched up, Mick's mind leaped to the obvious conclusion, they'll eat grape. It's diabolical.

      Nate had Mick's looker. That's Cap'n Allen down at the chain. With that bastard in charge it's bound to be diabolical, ain't it?

      Did anyone get a count of the men at the barricade? Daniel asked.

      Over forty. About a dozen with swords.

      That means there will be at least a dozen horses hidden behind the buildings. Daniel told them. Once our troopers retreat from the grape, the king's gentlemen will chase them away from those wounded by the grape, and then the men behind the barricades will run out and take them hostage. This raid on Lowestoft will be over before it gets started.

      So now what? Mick asked. What can we do? We are but eight, and lightly armed.

      We rest, Daniel replied, and hide and wait for our troopers to arrive.

      Oh aye, that makes sense, Nate added with a nod. Once our men come into sight we can run to them along the ridge road and warn them.

      Why should we warn anyone? Daniel asked softly, menacingly. When Cap'n Allen has made such a blunder.

      * * * * *

      There were about fifty mounted men riding three abreast towards Lowestoft along the Yarmouth Road. Behind them were fifty infantry on foot, and behind them about another thirty mounted men as a rear guard. There was a row of perhaps forty heads and muskets along the barricade. The gunners in the clearing were quietly watching, and waiting for the signal to fire. The big guns were already loaded and aimed and hidden behind cut bushes, so all they need do is put a torch to the powder vents and all hell would break loose down at the crossroads. Then the gunners real work would begin, for it was nasty, filthy, hot, hard work to reload big guns and restore their aim ready for the next shot, and to do it quickly.

      There were twelve gunners, four per culverin, but they were watching the barricade for the signal, or watching the column approaching the crossroad. Like gunners everywhere, they were hard of hearing, so it took Daniel three yells to get them to turn around and face his voice. What they saw was a line of eight men, each holding two big pistols, and all the pistols were cocked and aimed ready to kill them.

      Now that Daniel had their attention, he yelled an order at the dozen big men. Run away and we won't kill you! Now! Do it. As he yelled he pointed his killing pistol right between the eyes of the closest gunner. The man blanched, pissed himself, and began to run out of the clearing and down the slope towards the barricade. The other eleven join him in his sprint away from sure death.

      Right, yelled Mick. Everyone lend a hand. Let's get the first of these cannons turned towards the barricade. Don't mess with the elevation, just turn the aim. He looked down towards the crossroads. The lead troopers were slowing and stopping. Already the riders behind them were bunching up. Get whistlin', Danny.

      Every man, woman, and child in their clan's seafaring village of Wellenhay lived with a whistle hung on a thong around their neck. It was just common sense. The Fens was a place of mists and marshes, so if you got in trouble, your whistle was your best friend. It was the same aboard a ship or a punt. If you ever fell overboard, your whistle was your best friend. Daniel stood on the low rubble wall to one side of this hastily made battery and he blew on his whistle for all he was worth, all the while waving one of the gunners' six foot torches.

      You've got their attention, Mick called to Daniel. Both our troops and Cap'n Allen's. He put his looker to his eye and found Allen at the barricade. The captain was staring back at him through his own looker. That made sense. These days every ship's master had one of the Dutch wonders, despite the cost. He ain't pleased. Them gunners is lucky he hasn't shot ‘em yet. Looks like he's orderin' some of the king's gentlemen up here to do for us.

      Some riders have already broken off from our column, Daniel called back to Mick. By the time Allen's men mount up and ride the long way around to reach us from behind, we'll have lots of help.

      Oye, give me that torch, Nate told Daniel. My guns aimed right at Allen's head. Let me be the one to take it off.

      It's grape, not a ball, Daniel told him. You wouldn't just kill Allen, but ten men on either side of him.

      Yeh, right, so what's yer point. Give me the torch, Nate replied. Shit, it's too late. The men at the barricade are walking out with their hands high. Oh, let me do it anyway. I've never fired a cannon before.

      The riders who had peeled off from the column had reached the makeshift battery. Daniel pointed to the other side of the battery, the town side, and told them, There'll be eight or ten of the king's gentlemen trying to flank us from the town. Keep riding and cut them off, for once they realize that the barricade has surrendered they'll be scattering and making for their homes.

      The lieutenant who was leading the flying squad put a finger to his helmet in acknowledgement and then spurred his horse and his men on. They ploughed through the bushes to get back onto the ridge road, and were gone.

      Everyone form a watch all around, and with pistols at the ready, Daniel yelled out to his men. Let's not make the same blunder that Allen made.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

      Chapter 2 - At the Swan Inn in Lowestoft in March 1643

      Daniel was alone at the Swan Inn, that is to say, he was the only one there of the eight men who came ashore with him from the Friesburn Four. Now that the town was controlled by parliament's forces, the other seven had walked back to the longboat to go back on board the Four and sail her around and into Lowestoft's small harbour. Meanwhile he had been asked to attend the questioning of the fifty prisoners, which was taking place at the Swan. The prisoners were locked up down in the cellar and were being brought up one at a time for questioning.

      He had been ordered to attend, yes, but instead he had been told to wait in the tap room, where there was nothing to do but sit, and rest, and share a jug of best ale with Sergeant-Major Sherwood. Not that he minded talking with Sherwood. Of all of the men who marched into Lowestoft today, Sherwood was the man with most field experience. He was an old soldier from the German Wars who was now earning his crust by training the militia bands of foot over in Norwich.

      That was a pretty piece of work at the crossroads, Danny me boy, Sherwood said as he clinked his pot of ale against Daniel's.

      Don't thank me, Daniel replied, once he had emptied his pot, thank that Cap'n Allen. Don't yee love it when gentlemen play at being soldiers.

      There was a harrumph from the third man at the long bench table. Tom Mighells was a wealthy merchant of the town, and it was he who had seen the hopelessness of defending the barricades against the three culverins that Daniel had captured. He had been the first man to walk out from the barricade and surrender. Allen thinks too much of himself. If it is his idea, then obviously it must be perfect, so he will countenance no criticism. He acts as if Jesus himself speaks from his anus.

      While the man continued to speak of Allen's failings, Sherwood and Daniel sat in silence while they pondering the merchant's big, educated words, and guessed at their meaning from their usage. Meanwhile Daniel was watching the merchant's face as he spoke. Since the bloodless surrender had been Mighells doing, he had been allowed to wait here in this taproom, rather than in the cellar with the others. As Mighells spoke his eyes were shifting about nervously to see who else might be listening.

      He was typical of wealthy men of the kingdom these days. Most were stalling for time and playing a nervous game of fence sitting, hoping that they weren't asked for a full commitment to one side or the other in this war, at least until it was more clear who was likely to win. His words were condemning the actions of the men who were already committed royalists, such as Allen, even though he had stood shoulder to shoulder with them at the barricade. The first casualty of war was the truth.

      So why didn't Allen have guards and watchers at the cannons? Sherwood interrupted. You obviously knew we were coming 'cause you set up the battery.

      We set up two batteries and barricades, one at each end of High Street. To do that we had to move the guns from both the northern shore battery and the southern shore battery, but we did that over a week ago. The southern end of High Street led to Norwich, and the northern end to Yarmouth.

      So what you are saying, Daniel asked, is that your force was split between the two barricades, so you didn't have enough men to guard the guns properly? His question earned him a kick in the leg from Sherwood, and a warning look not to put words in the man's mouth. Daniel gave him an apologetic nod. In court that was called leading the witness, and this man's interview later today would be a form of court.

      Not at all, Mighells said almost proudly. We were watching the Yarmouth Road from up on the light tower, and the Norwich Road from up in the church steeple. When we saw only one force approaching and that it was coming from Yarmouth, we ignored our southern barricade and called everyone to the northern one.

      Daniel noticed that the man stopped talking abruptly and said no more. To account for his sudden silence he pretended to take another drink from his pot, but their pots were all empty, as was the ale jug. What had Mighells just given away? He played the mans words back through his head. Sherwood had his eyes closed. He was doing the same.

      Martha, more ale, Mighells yelled out so he could turn his face away from the handsome man sitting on the other side of the grizzled old trooper. He felt uncomfortable under the younger man's unwavering stare, and he shivered. Martha! Where are you?

      A colourfully dressed woman appeared carrying a jug . She was neither young nor pretty, but not by much. Suffolk had so far been spared the vicious side of this civil war that elsewhere in the kingdom had the women dressing for mourning. Dressing for mourning either because they were, or because they didn't want to be. Martha was wearing bright colors and was showing plenty of ankle and cleavage, all of it framed in white lace. She quickly filled Mighell's pot, and then Sherwood’s, but then she lost herself for a moment in the younger man's blue eyes and slowed down while pouring his ale.

      Without a thought, or perhaps with a few thoughts, she arched her back which raised her cleavage towards those dreamy eyes. His eyes were drawn to cleavage, as she knew they would be, so she took a deep breath which pumped up her breasts above her bodice and lace and almost showed her nipples. This view was for him, dreamy eyes, and not for the others. All they saw was her back. She almost sighed as his nose slowly and gently delved her cleavage until his eyes, his dreamy eyes, were pressed against the plumped up flesh of her breasts.

      Daniel never could resist a woman's offer of cleavage. He felt his eyes relax against her warm skin. Nay his whole body relaxed. This was that magic place on every mother or would-be-mother. The goddess place. An alter for worshipping the goddess in every woman. The goddess of the moon, of the tides, and of creation. The goddess Freyja. He prayed a thanks to the goddess for the lack of bloodshed today, and for keeping his clansmen safe.

      Her free hand slowly moved to the back of his neck and gently caressed his long blonde hair. Lovely long threads of gold. Wasted on a man. His free hand slowly moved to the small of her back so that she wouldn't pull away before he was finished his prayer.

      Ahem, came a throat clearing grunt from behind Daniel. The moment of magic was lost and Martha straightened up and finished pouring the ale. Daniel turned to see who was behind him. It was a lad not much older than eighteen.

      Excuse me sirs, the lad said politely and actually bowed a bit while he said it, though there was no way of knowing if that was for the men, or so he could get a better view down Martha's cleavage. Mister Mighells, they will see you know. If you will come with me, sir.

      Martha stayed by Daniel's side during the scraping of stools and hollow clumping of heavy boots on the wooden floor. Wooden because there was a cellar underneath. As Mighells passed near to her he hissed whore at her, but then accidentally tripped over one of Daniels boots. The second casualty of this war had been the virtue of the women. They were either victims, or trying not to be.

      During the commotion of the trip, and of the lad helping Mighells back to his feet, she put her mouth close to Daniel's ear and whispered, What room are you in?

      Six, but I'm married, he whispered back.

      So am I ducky, so there's no problem, is there? Not that I'm promisin' anythin'. It's goin' ta be right busy in here tonight, so likes as not I'll be done in by the end of it. Don't throw the bar on yer door, just in case.

      I won't, he replied, but that was a polite white lie. As much as he had enjoyed praying into her cleavage, she wasn't worth risking the French pox for. Lowestoft was a port town, after all, and not a holier-than-thou farming town.

      Besides that, he knew what she was likely about. She was an experienced alewench and there was method in her easy seeming ways. An army was in town. The officers were staying here at the inn. She would spend the slow hours lining up some likely allies amongst them, just in case. Later on if things got a bit mad when men were into their cups, she may have need a few heroes to wade in and save her from being stretched over a table and ganged.

      Mighells and the lad were gone. As she plunked the jug down on the table in front of him, she gave him another good look at her own jugs before she slowly pulled her lace back into place. With that she twirled in a swirl of skirt, and strutted away towards the kitchen door with her back arched and her chest out.

      How is it? Sherwood asked, once he had fully appreciated the strut of Martha's round bottom, that you've come through so many skirmishes and yet you've kept your face. His own face was pock-marked from battle field plagues, scarred from battle field blades, and always looked a bit grey and dirty from the constant burnings by flash powder.

      Back when I was younger and wiser and building up my clan's trading with the Dutch in Rotterdam, Daniel explained, I was told that I must volunteer with the militia if I wanted to live and make business there. On that day I went out and bought myself a horse. Most folk in Rotterdam keep punts not horses, so because I already owned a horse, I was outfitted and trained as a militia pistoleer. Mounted infantry. Flying skirmisher. Pistoleers don't fight hand to hand down in the mud. It's in the mud that you catch camp fever, and it's in blade fighting that you gather scars.

      Bullocks! There's more to it than that.

      True enough. Since then I have been protected by a guardian angel, Daniel told him as he reached down to the bench he was sitting on and picked up his dragon pistol and passed it across the table to Sherwood. It was his guardian angel.

      Sherwood actually fondled the brute in admiration. I've never seen the likes of it.

      I own two, Daniel told him, but with no hint of smugness. I was given the first by a friend up in Scotland, but it was Swedish made, and had silver plates and ornate workings, so it was worth enough to kill me just to steal it. This one is a copy without the flourishes. A friend of mine, a gunsmith in Rotterdam, made it for me, just so he would know how to make one. It's butt ugly in comparison to the original, but it serves just as well. Next time you're in Rotterdam look up a gunsmith called Jock, a Scot with one leg already in the ground. He just may have one to sell.

      It's a bloody wonder, Sherwood said as he worked out how the smith had been able to put a normal small bore pistol barrel offset underneath the big bored dragon barrel, so that both flint dogs could be aligned on the same side of the gun. So why is this dragon your guardian angel?

      The dragon is just a dragon. It's the smaller, lower barrel that is the angel. Just as your enemy decides he can take advantage of your spent dragon, the angel sends him to his maker, thus saving you from a similar fate.

      I want one.

      Everyone wants one, once they've had a good look at it, Daniel replied. It's beyond me why gunsmiths have so little imagination, considering what they are earning these days. Surely by now they should be able to provide their customers with a gun for better than one shot a minute. I mean, there must be a way. On one of my ships I have a breach loading swivel gun that came from the East Indies. It came with a set of removable breaches, each of which you pre-load. With it we can fire up to six times in a minute.

      One of your ships? Sherwood interrupted.

      One of my clan's ships. We have a dozen small single masted ships plus one two master. They are the fastest ships on this coast.

      The ones the Association charters for moving men and supplies.

      That's them. Triangle sails. Can't mistake them, though the Dutch now have a few too. Copies of ours. They call them sloeps, though god only knows why.

      Slopes? Sherwood muttered the word aloud. Like in the slope of the triangle sail?

      Oooo, not O. Sloooowps. Sloeps, Daniel exaggerated the pronunciation. The Dutch for slope is helling. Hmm, not a bad name for the cut of a nimble ship. I'll have to suggest it to the clan. Besides the Dutch tend to cut off the top of the triangles. Their coastal ships are more like barges with short masts, so they cut the triangle mainsail short and rig a gaff to hold up the squared top.

      Now you're speaking Greek to me as well as Dutch, Sherwood guffawed. Bloody seamen and their bloody special names for every bloody part of a bloody ship.

      "Oye, when yer keeled over in a gale, it's a bad time for someone to be letting go the wrong line. Every part has to have a special name. A boom is a spar that holds the bottom of a sail down and out. A gaff is a spar that holds the top of

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