Caribbee Part 40

Jeremy gave his brother a stiff salute and pa.s.sed the order into the trench. A burning taper was handed slowly down the line of men, and each touched it to the tip of his matchcord, then threaded the glowing fuse through the serpentine c.o.c.k of his musket. He secretly rejoiced he had a new-style flintlock; at least there would be no lighted matchcord to betray his own whereabouts in the dark. He stood for a moment watching his men prepare, then glanced back at the squat outline of Benjamin Briggs. What, he wondered, was he doing here tonight?

Briggs was gazing down at the parapet now, critically scuffing his boots against the soft earth. "This trench of yours will do d.a.m.ned little to protect these lads from cannon fire if somebody in the fleet takes a mind to sh.e.l.l the breastwork. I pray to G.o.d it was worth the time and trouble."

A crew of indentures, as well as many of Winston's new men, had worked around-the-clock for three days digging the trench. The idea had come from Anthony Walrond.

"I'm betting on an invasion, not an artillery duel." Anthony nodded toward Jeremy one last time, a light farewell, then turned back to Briggs. "An open sh.e.l.ling with their big ordnance would be foolhardy; right now it's too dark to try and fire on our emplacements. Add to that, we have word the commander in charge of the army is a Roundhead rogue named d.i.c.k Morris. I know him all too well. He doesn't believe in a lot of cannon fire, when a few men can achieve what he wants. He'll just try to land enough men to overrun and disable our guns."

"Well and all, may Almighty G.o.d d.a.m.n our luck that it's come down to this. The last thing we need is war with England. But if it's fight we must, then I say give them our all. And don't let them catch us short."

Briggs gazed past Jeremy, down the trench. "Do all these men have enough matchrope, powder, and shot?"

Anthony felt himself nearing his limit of tolerance for civilians. All the planter had found to do since arriving was denigrate their readiness. "We've managed to get bandoliers, and 'the twelve apostles,'

for all the men"--he deliberately used the irreverent battlefield nickname for the dozen charge-holders of musket powder on a standard bandolier--"and there's plenty of matchcord, with what we got from the Dutchmen before they were seized." He tightened his eye-patch and surveyed the line of ragged planters and indentures marshalled down the trench, trying to envision them under attack. The picture was discouraging, at the very least.

How many here have ever taken musket fire, he wondered. This bunker will likely be overrun by the first wave of Morris' infantry. G.o.d curse Cromwell for sending him. He's tenacious as an English bulldog. And crafty as a fox. He'll land the pick of his troops, and the minute they open fire, it's odds this line of farmers will panic and run for those green hills. We've got superiority of numbers, but it doesn't mean a thing. What we need, and don't have, is nerve, experience, and most of all, the will to fight. I'll wager not one man in ten here tonight has all three.

"I'd like to know, sir, what's your true opinion of the plan that's been worked out." Briggs turned to Walrond, hating the man's arrogance and his royalist politics, yet respecting his military experience. He had led a royalist attack at the battle of Marsten Moor that was still remembered as one of the most daring maneuvers of the Civil War. "Do you think we can catch their landing force in a bind, the way we're hoping?"

Anthony moved away from the edge of the trench. "Taken all for all, it's about the best we can do. If it succeeds, well and good, but if it fails, we're apt to end up . . ."

Jeremy tried to hear the rest, but Anthony's voice faded into the dark as he and Briggs moved on down the parapet.

The night was closing in again. Having drained their flask of kill- devil, the militiamen were grumbling nervously as they waited in a line down the trench, backs to the newly turned earth. Again the sounds of the dark swelled up around them--the chirps and whistles, the monotonous pendulum of surf in the distance.

War. Was it mainly waiting?

Maybe there would be no landing. How preposterous all this would seem then. Tomorrow he would wake in his featherbed, dreaming he was back in England, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sense would prevail. The fleet would hoist sail. . . .

A volley of musket fire exploded from the direction of the breastwork.

Shouts. Then cl.u.s.tered points of light, the tips of burning matchcord on the infantry's muskets, suddenly appeared along the sh.o.r.e.

The first attackers had crept up behind the cannon and fired into the gunners with flintlocks, so there would be no smoldering ignition match on their muskets to betray them. Those in the second wave had somehow masked their lighted matchcord until their longboats pulled into the surf. Now, after the surprise attack on the gun emplacement, they were splashing ash.o.r.e, holding their muskets high.

Jeremy watched as the flickering red dots spread out along

the sh.o.r.e in disciplined rows. For a moment he had the impression Jamestown was being attacked by strings of fireflies that had emerged from the deep Caribbean sea.

"Prepare to fire." He heard a voice giving the order, and was vaguely astonished to realize it was his own.

The trench sounded with the clicks of powder pans being opened and hammers being readied.

"Take aim." That was the phrase; he had started practicing it five days before, when he was a.s.signed the command. But now, what next? Aim where? The fireflies were inching up the sh.o.r.e in deadly rows. There looked to be hundreds. They would spew lead shot the moment the militia's trench was revealed.

He knew that the order to fire the first round must come from Anthony.

Why was he waiting? The Roundhead infantry must be no more than fifty yards down the sh.o.r.e. He felt his palm grow moist against the ivory of the stock, and for a moment he thought he smelled an acrid stench of fear down the trench.

More muskets blazed from the rear of the brick fortress, followed by screams and shouts of surrender. In the jumble of musket fire and lanterns he could tell that the Jamestown breastwork had been circled and seized: its gunners overwhelmed, its cannon still directed impotently out toward the dark sea. Only two culverin had been fired.

He watched heartsick as the invading infantrymen, breastplates shining in the lantern light, swarmed over the guns.

The militia manning the cannons had been sacrificed. Deliberately. To draw in the rest of the invading force. He felt his anger welling up.

In war the men who actually fought counted for nothing.

Where was the rest of the militia? Were they waiting at the right perimeter, as they were supposed to be?

He knew that the plan all along had been to let the guns be seized. But now that it had happened, he felt a demoralizing pang of loss and defeat. Why should the gunners be exposed to a musket attack? Surely there was some other way. . . .

"Give fire!"

He heard Anthony's command and felt his heart jump. The infantry was practically in pistol range. This was going to be near to murder. The trigger felt cold against his finger as he sighted into the dark, directly toward one of the approaching tips of fire.

The gun flashed and kicked upward. The parapet was suddenly bathed in light as the long line of muskets around him discharged. He gasped for breath as the air in the trench turned to smoke--burning charcoal and saltpeter. The points of light danced in chaos, and then he heard screams.

The man next to him, a grizzled, frightened freeholder, had clambered up the loose dirt of the parapet to gain a better view of the fighting at the breastwork. Jeremy realized that this man, too, had never witnessed a battle before.

Then came a row of flashes from where the red dots had been, like the long string of exploding rockets fired over the Thames on St. George's Day. The freeholder beside him suddenly groaned and pitched backward, his smoking matchlock plowing into the soft dirt of the parapet as he sprawled downward into the trench. Then another man, farther down, screamed and doubled over his gun.

"Half-c.o.c.k your muskets, disengage your match," Jeremy heard himself shouting. "Prepare to recharge."

Anthony had coached him that one of the primary duties of a field officer was to call out orders for priming and loading, since men in battle often forgot crucial steps. With a live matchcord attached to the hammer, it was all too easy to set off a musket while you were ramming in the charge.

"Prime your pan." He tried to bellow above the din as he began pouring priming powder from a flask on his bandolier into the flintlock's powder pan. "Close your pan. Prepare to scour."

As he and the men quickly cleaned the barrels of their

muskets, then began to ram in more powder and shot, he kept glancing toward the approaching infantry. They too had paused to reload. He could see the outlines of the men now, and hear the shouts of officers.

Which men were officers?

At the end of one row of infantrymen stood a tall man in a silver helmet who seemed to be issuing the commands for reloading. He must be one, Jeremy realized. He's faster at reloading than the others. He's almost ready.

That man, tall and comely, would make a pa.s.sing good companion to share a hunt, afield and stalking grouse on a dew-laden morning. If we were both back in England now . . .

Except . . . he's here to kill me.

"You!" He shouted a challenge as he climbed up the parapet, readying his flintlock. There were shouts from the militiamen behind him, warning him to come down, but he did not hear, did not want to hear.

The officer in the silver helmet looked up and spotted the outline of the brash youth standing atop the parapet, brandishing a musket. He knew.

Jeremy watched as the man drew up his musket and took aim. He waited a moment in fascination, savoring what it was like to face death, then drew up his own flintlock and sighted the man's chest down the barrel.

There was a flash of light and a whistle past his ear, the sound of a hurried horsefly.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

The Roundhead officer opened his mouth noiselessly and seemed to wilt backward. He fumbled for his musket as it clattered against a jagged lump of coral beside him, then sprawled onto the sand, still as death, his helmet circling in drunken arcs down the slope toward the surf.

"Sir, mind you take cover!"

In the flush sweeping over him, he scarcely felt the hands tugging at his boots. He was still gripping his flintlock, knuckles white, as the other militiamen dragged him back into the trench.