"Aye." Mewes passed his musket to one of the French seamen and was
gone.
"And that rusty pile of round shot I see down there by the breastwork?
Is that the best you've got?"
"That's all we have on the Point. There's more shot at Jamestown and
over at Oistins."
"No time." He motioned to Ruyters. "Remember our agreement last night?"
"Aye, and I suppose there's no choice. I couldn't make open sea in time
now anyway." The Dutchman's eyes were rueful. "I'll have some round
shot sent up first, and then start offloading my nine-pound demi-
culverin."
"All we need now is enough shot to make them think we've got a decent
battery up here. We can bring up more ordnance later."
"May I remind you," Bedford interjected, "we're not planning to start
an all-out war. We just need time to try and talk reason with
Parliament, to try and keep what we've got here."
Winston noticed Briggs and several members of the Council had convened
in solemn conference. If an attack comes, he found himself wondering,
which of them will be the first to side with Parliament's forces and
betray the island?
"There's twenty budge-barrels, Cap'n." Mewes was returning. "I gave it
a taste an' I'll wager it's dry and usable."
Winston nodded, then motioned toward Edwin Spurre. "Have the men here
carry five barrels on down to the Point, so the gunnery mates can start
priming the culverin. Be sure they check all the touch holes for rust."
"Aye." Spurre signaled four of the seamen to follow him as he started
off toward the powder magazine. Suddenly he was surrounded and halted
by a group of Irish indentures.
Timothy Farrell approached Winston and bowed. "So please Yor Worship,
we'd like to be doin' any carryin' you need here. An' we'd like to be
the ones meetin' them on the beaches."
"You don't have to involve yourself, Farrell. I'd say you've got little
enough here to risk your life for."
"Aye, Yor Worship, that's as it may be. But are we to understand that
fleet out there's been sent by that whoreson archfiend Oliver
Cromwell?"
"That's what we think now."
"Then beggin' Yor Worship's pardon, we'd like to be the men
to gut every scum on board. Has Yor Worship heard what he did at
Drogheda?"
"I heard he sent the army."
"Aye. When Ireland refused to bow to his Parliament, he claimed we were
Papists who had no rights. He led his Puritan troops to Irish soil, Yor
Worship, and laid siege to our garrison-city of Drogheda. Then he let
his soldiers slaughter our people. Three thousand men, women, and
children. An' for it, he was praised from the Puritan pulpits in
England." Farrell paused to collect himself. "My cousin died there, Yor
Worship, wi' his Meggie. An' one of Cromwell's brave Puritan soldiers
used their little daughter as a shield when he helped storm an' burn
the church, so they could murder the priests. Maybe that heretic
bastard thinks we've not heard about it here." He bowed again. "We
don't know enough about primin' and firin' cannon, but wi' Yor
Worship's leave, we'd like to be the ones carryin' all the powder and
shot for you."
"Permission granted." Winston thumbed them in the direction of Spurre.
The armada of sails was clearly visible on the horizon now, and rapidly
swelling. As the first streaks of dawn showed across the waters,
English colors could be seen on the flagship. It was dark brown and
massive, with wide cream-colored sails. Now it had put on extra canvas,
pulling away from the fleet, bearing down on the harbor.
Winston studied the man-of-war, marveling at its majesty and size. How
ironic, he thought. England's never sent a decent warship against the
Spaniards in the New World, even after they burned out helpless
settlements. But now they send the pick of the navy, against their own
people.
"Damned to them, that is the _Rainbowe_." Bedford squinted at the
ship. "She's a first-rank man-of-war, fifty guns. She was King Charles'
royal ship of war. She'll transport a good two hundred infantry."