Part 42 (1/2)
”The name on this musket looks to be Walrond, sor, if I make it out right.” One of the infantrymen was handing the flintlock to Morris.
”Walrond?” Morris reached for the gun and examined it closely, running his hand along the stock and studying the name etched on the lock. ”A fine royalist name. By chance any kin to Sir Anthony Walrond?”
”My brother, and he's . . .”
”Your brother! You don't mean it.” Morris' goatee twitched with surprise as he moved next to Jeremy and studied his face. ”G.o.d is my witness, it's scarcely a name you need blush to give out. England never bred a braver, finer soldier, royalist or no. Is he your commander here tonight? You couldn't have one better.”
”I have never heard my brother speak well of you, sir.”
”Anthony Walrond? Speak well of a man who'd rid England of his precious king?” Morris laughed. ”He'd sooner have G.o.d strike him dead. He's never had a good word to say for a Puritan in his life. But he's a worthy gentleman, for it all, and an honorable soldier in the field.”
He turned to an officer standing nearby. ”Ess.e.x, regroup the men. I think we'd best just hold this breastwork for now. It could well be Anthony Walrond's in command of this militia. If he is, you can wager he'd not countenance a retreat unless he planned to counterattack. I know his modus operandi. And his pride.”
”Aye sir. As you will.” The captain turned and shouted, ”Men, fall back and regroup! Form lines at the breastwork and reload.”
”Now if you like. Master Walrond, I still can order all these men to march off into the dark and let your militia ambush and kill half of them--likely losing a hundred of their own in the trade. Would you really have me do it? Is this d.a.m.ned little island worth that much blood, over and above what's already been spilt here tonight?”
Jeremy gazed down at the line of dead militiamen, bodies torn by musket b.a.l.l.s. Beyond them the Roundhead infantry was collecting its own dead, among them the man he himself had killed. Now it all seemed so pointless.
A blaze of musket fire flared from a position just north of the breastwork, and a phalanx of whooping and yelling militiamen opened a charge down the north side of the beach. Jeremy watched Morris' eyes click. The kindly man was suddenly gone. With an oath, he yelled for the prisoners to be hurried to the longboats, and the devil take the wounded.
The infantry at the breastwork was returning the fire of the attacking militia, but they were now badly outnumbered. Jeremy made out what could have been the tall form of Anthony, wielding a musket as he urged the militia forward. Then he was pa.s.sed by a wall of men on horseback.
The cavalry. The lead horse, a bay gelding, was ridden by a tall man holding a pistol in each hand.
The infantry holding the breastwork began retreating down the south steps, on the side opposite the attackers. Jeremy could make out Morris now, ordering his men to make for the longboats.
”Get along with you, rebel.” A pike punched him in the back and he was shoved in with the other prisoners. Now they were being hurried, stumbling and confused, in the direction of the water.
Part of the Barbados militia had already swarmed over the abandoned breastwork, while others were riding along the sh.o.r.e, muskets blazing, hurrying to seal off the escape route to the longboats. They intercepted the retreating infantry midway down the beach, and the gunfire gave way to the sound of steel against steel, as empty muskets were discarded in favor of pikes and swords.
Jeremy felt the warm surf splash his legs, and he looked up to see the outline of the waiting boats. He and the rest of the prisoners were on the far south side of the breastwork, away from the fighting, forgotten now. He was a prisoner of war.
Directly ahead, two longboats were being towed in through the surf-- wide, hulking forms in the dim light, with sails furled and rows of oarsmen mids.h.i.+ps. As he watched them approach, he suddenly remembered his lost flintlock, a gift from Anthony, and the thought of its loss completed his mortification.
”Get in or be d.a.m.ned to you.” Several infantrymen were splas.h.i.+ng through the surf behind him now, half-pikes raised, urging on malingerers with the blades. Jeremy felt the hard gunwale of the longboat slam against his shoulder, then hands reaching down for him and grabbing his arms. He was yanked up, wet and s.h.i.+vering in the freshening wind, then shoved sprawling onto the boards.
”One move, any of you, and there'll be a pike in your guts.” An infantryman began tying the prisoners' hands.
As Jeremy felt the rough cords against his wrists, he looked up and glanced over the side. The retreating infantry had drawn itself into a protective circle, knee-deep in the surf, yelling for its longboats to be brought in closer. At the perimeter of the circle two scrawny soldiers struggled to keep their footing in the pounding surf. They both seemed weak, almost staggering, and when a large wave slammed against their backs, they toppled headlong into the spray. The Barbados militiamen were there, pulling them up and dragging them back through the surf to the beach.
So, there'll be prisoners on both sides, he realized with relief. Now there'll be hostages onsh.o.r.e too.
The battle seemed to be thinning now. No one wanted to fight waist deep in the dark churning sea. The Barbados militiamen were slowing in their chase, turning back to congratulate themselves that the invasion had been repelled. Finally, as the longboats rowed closer and the infantrymen began pulling themselves aboard, the militia halted, content to end the rout by hurling curses above the roar of the surf.
”At least we spiked most of the cannon, and d.a.m.n the rebels.” Two officers were talking in the bow of the boat. Jeremy realized that both sides were planning to claim victory. Were there any wars ever ”lost,”
he wondered.
”Though we've b.l.o.o.d.y little else to show for a night's work,” an oarsman in a dark woolen cap mumbled under his breath, ”save this fine new collection of bellies to fill.” The man suddenly reached and ripped off a piece of Jeremy's lace collar. ”This c.o.xcomb'll learn soon enough what 'tis like to live on salt pork and slimy water, same as the rest of us.” He flung the lace back in Jeremy's direction. ”No fancy meat pies and brandied puddings for you, lad. A seaman's fare will soon take the fat out of those cheeks. I'll warrant it'll do you good, young rebel.”