meant that all the Roundhead infantry had landed. Now they were to be
drawn inland with a feigned retreat.
The plan worked out was to resist strongly until all the infantry were
ashore, to damage them as much as possible using the protection of the
parapet, and then to fall back into the trees, luring them away from
their longboats. When their lines were thinned, Hugh Winston would lead
a cavalry charge that would drive a wedge along the shore, between the
infantry and the sea, cutting off their escape. Next the longboats
would be driven off, and the invading infantry slowly surrounded. They
would be harassed by irregular fire and, with luck, soon lose heart.
Cut off from their escape route, the demoralized invaders would have no
choice but to surrender. Then, so the strategy went, Commander Morris
and the admiral of the fleet would seek to negotiate.
Jeremy fired blindly into the dark, then reached down for his pike. As
he touched it, his eyes met those of the dying freeholder lying beside
him. Blood now streamed from a gash in the man's tattered jerkin, while
a red rivulet flowed in pulses from the corner of his mouth. The sight
flooded him with anger.
"No!" He heard himself yelling as he groped down his bandolier for
another charge-holder. "No retreat." He turned to the startled men
around him. "Reload. I say no retreat!"
"But that's the orders, Yor Worship." A bearded militiaman had already
begun to scramble up the back side of the trench.
"Devil take the orders. Look." He seized the militiaman's jerkin and
yanked him back, then pointed to the dying freeholder at their feet.
"Aye, that's Roland Jenkins, may God rest his soul. I'm like to be the
one tellin' his wife." The freeholder gave a quick glance. "But there's
nothin' to be done, Yor Worship. Orders are to retreat."
"And I say damn the orders." He was yelling to all the men now. "There
are men here, wounded and dying. I'm staying with them. What kind of
soldiers are we, to leave these men to die? It's wrong. There're higher
orders to be obeyed. I say no."
"An' we'll all end up like this poor sod, Yor Worship. There's no
helpin' a man who's gone to meet his God." The man threw his musket
onto the fresh dirt at the bottom of the trench and turned to begin
clambering to safety. "For my own part, I can do just as well not
greetin' the Almighty for a few years more."
Jeremy seized his pike and marched down the trench. "I'll gut any man
who tries to run. I'm in command here and I say we stand and fight. Now
reload."
The men stared at him in disbelief.
"Do it, I say." He brandished the pike once more for emphasis, then
flung it down and seized a charge-holder on his bandolier. Without so
much as a glance at the other men, he began pouring the grainy black
powder into the barrel of his musket.
The world was suddenly a white, deafening roar.
Later he remembered mainly the flash, how as the smoke seared his eyes
he recalled his own negligence, that he had forgotten to scour the
barrel. It was a fool's mistake, a child's mistake. He was still wiping
his eyes, seared and powder-burned, when he felt the musket being
ripped from his hands. As he groped to seize it back, rough hands
shoved him sprawling against the soft dirt of the trench. His face
plowed into the earth, which still smelled fresh, musky and ripe, full
of budding life.
"We've got another one, sor." A brash voice sounded near his ear. "A
right coxcomb, this rebel."
"Damn you." Jeremy struck out, only half aware of the cluster of
infantrymen surrounding him.
"Just hold yourself, lad." There were shouts as several of the wounded
militiamen were disarmed. He tried to struggle, but more hands
brusquely wrestled him down. "This one's not taken any shot. He's
lively as a colt. Let's have some of that rope."
He felt his arms being pulled behind him and a rough cord lashed around
his wrists. There were sounds of a brief conference, then a voice came,
kindly, almost at his ear.
"This is a first-class fowling piece you're carrying. I'll wager you've
brought down many a plump woodcock with it, haven't you lad?" A pause,
then again the gentle voice. "What's your name, son?"
"Damned to you. What's your name?" There was a sickening hollowness in
his gut again. The fear, and now hatred--for them, and for himself.
"It's better, for the time, if I ask the questions and you answer
them." The voice emanated from a man wearing a silver helmet and
sporting a short goatee. "Why didn't you run, like the rest of the
rebels?" He laughed lightly as he moved closer. Jeremy felt a palm cup
beneath his chin and felt his head being twisted upward. "By my word, I
think your musket misfired. Your face is black as a Moor's. I'll
warrant you'd have run too, if you could have seen the way. Could it be
you're naught but a coward too, lad, like all the rest?"
The speaker turned to a young, blue-eyed man standing nearby. "Well,
sir, who'd have reckoned it'd be this easy? You can tell Admiral
Calvert this island's as good as his for the taking. This militia of
theirs is nothing but a batch of scared planters, who scatter like
rabbits the minute they hear a gunshot. And a few young gallants like
this one, who scarcely know how to prime a musket. There's no reason to
fall back and hold this position. We'd as well just go on after them,
chase them back to Bridgetown, and have done with it."
Jeremy felt a flush of victory. They had fallen into the trap. They
thought Barbados wouldn't fight! In minutes they'd be surrounded by the
militia and begging to surrender. As soon as the counterattack began,
he would . . .
"I think we'd best take this one back to the ship, to find out who he
is and if he knows anything." It was the man standing next to the
goateed commander. "It's a damned bother to have prisoners to feed, but
I'll warrant this engagement's got three days at most to go before they
all throw down their arms and sue for peace."
"Damn your smug eyes." Jeremy reached down and seized his pike, which
had been lying unnoticed against the side of the trench. He turned and
faced the commander. "You'll never even get back to your ship. Men died
here tonight and they didn't die in vain, by all that's holy."
"What say, lad? Pray, who's to stop us?" The commander glanced at the
pike, seeming to ignore it. He waved back several infantrymen who had
quickly leveled their muskets at Jeremy. "Your bold militia here has
taken to its heels, one and all. A bloody lot of royalist cowards."
"There're braver men on Barbados than you know. You'll not take me, or
any prisoners, back to the ship. You'll see Bridgetown soon enough, all
right, at the point of a gun."
"Perhaps that's so, lad, but not at the point of a pike. Now put it
away. This little engagement's over." The man with the goatee was
studying him with admiration. "You're a brave one, lad. Too brave, by
my life, or too foolish. . . ."
"You don't suppose there's something behind this lad's bluster." The
other man turned to the commander. "Could it be their militia might've
run on purpose? To thin out our lines for a counterattack?"
The shouting had died down now, as strings of captured militiamen were
being assembled and placed under guard. Some were joking with their
captors, clearly relieved to be out of the battle. Jeremy suspected
several had deliberately surrendered--small freeholders who didn't care
a damn whether Cromwell's fleet took the island or not. As he watched
them with contempt, he felt ashamed to be one of them. Suddenly the
horror of it all swept over him and he flung down the pike in disgust.
"Now that's a good lad." The commander nodded, then turned to the other
man. "Vice Admiral Powlett, for once you may be right. In truth, I was
beginning to wonder the same thing. This could all have been too easy
by half."
"With your permission, sor, I'll put the young gallant here in with the
rest of the rebels." One of the infantrymen had seized Jeremy's arms.
"No, leave him here a minute." The commander was pointing toward
Jeremy. "The lad's no planter. He doubtless knows more of what's going
on than these others do. Something he said just now troubles me."
"Should I bring up the men and start to move in, sir?" A captain of the
infantry appeared out of the smoky haze that now enveloped the
shoreline.
"Hold a while and keep your lines together. It's too quiet."
Jeremy looked up and saw the goatee next to his face. "Now tell me,
lad. There's been enough killing here for one night, as I'm a
Christian. Is there going to have to be more? If you don't tell me,
it'll be on your head, I swear it."
"This night is on your head, sir, and the Roundhead rebels who've
stolen the Crown of England. And now would try to steal Barbados too."
The man waved the words aside. "Lad, I'm too old for that. Let your
royalist rhetoric lie dead, where it deserves to be. My name is Morris,
and if you know anything, you'll know I've seen my time fighting your
royalists in the damned Civil War. But that's over, thank God, and I
have no wish to start it up again. Now give me your name."
"My name is for men I respect."
"A sprightly answer, lad, on my honor. There's spark about you."
"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. "God 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 God 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. "Essex, 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 damned 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
balls. 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 passed 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 shore, 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 midships. 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 damned to you." Several infantrymen were splashing
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 shivering 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 onshore 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 damn 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 bloody 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 coxcomb'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."
Ahead, the proud bow of the Rainbowe loomed above them in the dark,
lanterns dangling from its masts. Seamen in the longboat tossed a
grapple over the bulwark of the mother ship and then a rope ladder was
dropped. Jeremy felt his hands being untied. Next he was urged up the
ladder, shoved onto the deck, and immediately surrounded by jeering
seamen, shirtless and wearing black stocking caps.
"This is the one, sir." Powlett was standing over him pointing. Next to
him stood Admiral Edmond Calvert.
"I certainly can see he's a man of breeding, just as you said." Calvert
studied Jeremy's ornate doublet in the flickering lantern light.
"Aye." Powlett's voice suddenly rose. "'Twould seem he's the brother
of Sir Anthony Walrond. I say we strip him and put him to work carrying
slops out of the gun deck, as an example to all royalists."
"Not for a minute, sir. Not so long as I'm in command of this fleet."
Calvert seemed to bellow at Powlett, almost too loudly.
A seaman was roughly yanking Jeremy to his feet, and Calvert turned on
him. "You, there. Release that young gentleman, unless you'd like a
timely taste of the cat on your back." He then approached and bowed
ceremoniously. "Admiral Edmond Calvert, sir, your most obedient
servant."
Jeremy stared in confusion and disbelief as the admiral continued,
"Walrond, is it not?"
"Jeremy Walrond, and . . ."
"I'm honored." He turned and signaled to his quartermaster. "Have
brandy sent to my cabin. Perhaps Master Jeremy Walrond would care to
share a cup with us."
The seamen parted, doffing their caps to the admiral as he escorted
Jeremy up the companionway toward the Great Cabin. "I can scarcely tell
you, Master Walrond, how grateful I am to have the privilege of
speaking face to face with a man of breeding from this island." He
reached to steady Jeremy as he lost his footing in a roll of the ship.
Then he smiled and gestured him ahead, down the lantern-lit walkway
toward the stern. "First thing, we'll try and locate some dry breeches
for you and a brandy to drive off the chill." He was still smiling as
he shoved open a heavy wooden door. The Great Cabin was empty save for
Colonel Richard Morris, now seated at the center table and rubbing the
dirt off Jeremy's flintlock musket. Morris laid it carefully across the
table in front of him when he saw them enter. Calvert smiled toward
him, then continued, "I understand, Master Walrond, you've already made
the acquaintance of our infantry commander."
Morris rose and nodded as Calvert gestured Jeremy toward an ornately
carved oak chair. "After we've all made ourselves comfortable, Master
Walrond, I hope you and I and Captain Morris here can become better
acquainted. We've got much to talk over tonight." He flashed a quick
look at Morris as he smiled. "Mind you, strictly as gentlemen."