The Pistoleer: Lyme 1644

By Skye Smith

By late 1643 the English Parliament had suffered so many battlefield disasters that they were forced into a Confederacy with the Scottish Parliament. This was bad news for Charles because the Scots had defeated him just four years ago, so he looked to Ireland and France for help. In order to land French troop ships he needed to control the southern coast, so he sent an army under Prince Maurice to make that so.
Maurice thought the taking of the port of Lyme would be a job done before breakfast. Meanwhile, down in the town Robert Blake was waiting for him, as he had waited for Maurice’s brother Rupert, in Bristol’s northern forts.

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 ninth in 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 time-line of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skye Smith
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781927699201

Book preview

THE PISTOLEER

LYME 1644

(Book Nine of the Series)

By Skye Smith

Copyright (C) 2014-2017 Skye Smith

All rights reserved including all rights of authorship.

Cover Illustration is Lyme Cobb Drawn for Henry VIII (1539)

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: 978-1-927699-20-1

Cover Flap

By late 1643 the English Parliament had suffered so many battlefield disasters that they were forced into a Confederacy with the Scottish Parliament. This was bad news for Charles because the Scots had defeated him just four years ago, so he looked to Ireland and France for help. In order to land French troop ships he needed to control the southern coast, so he sent an army under Prince Maurice to make that so.

Maurice thought the taking of the port of Lyme would be a job done before breakfast. Meanwhile, down in the town Robert Blake was waiting for him, as he had waited for Maurice’s brother Rupert, in Bristol’s northern forts.

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The Pistoleer - Lyme 1644 by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-17

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 ninth in 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 time-line of the Republic of Great Britain. The chapter headings identify the dates and places.

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The Pistoleer - Lyme 1644 by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-17

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.

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 time-lines. 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. 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 a dozen questions such as:

- What did the Forest Charter have to do with the Civil War?

- Why is the Civil War being depicted more as a revolution as the series goes on?

- What battle marked the turning point of the first Civil War?

- Why was Robert Blake’s career set by his defence of Lyme?

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

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The English civil war began as military sparring between two sets of elites. The elite who ruled by virtue of education and wealthy merchant companies had rebelled against an out of control king supported by the elite who ruled by virtue of birthright to entitled estates. By the summer of 1643, however, the sparring had turned vicious and every person in England was living in fear and hardship, especially the women and children.

In the summer of 1643, the royalists humbled General Waller at Roundway Down which allowed them to capture Bristol. After that the royalists won battle after battle, with the exception of the Siege of Gloucester. Eventually the royalists not only controlled all of the North and the West of England, but were encroaching on the rebel areas of the South and the East. This increased the number of turncoat rebel lords going over to the king.

The rebels were down but not out. They still controlled the wealth, manpower and factories of England’s main trading ports – London, even though they had lost the new munitions factories of Bristol. The Lord Admiral of the Navy was still the rebel Earl of Warwick (Robert Rich, the richest man in England), even though the naval commanders were still refusing to take sides on the grounds that their overriding duty was to protect England from foreign invaders while it was divided. King Charles was still based in Oxford with his main army, and rebel Lord General Essex was still keeping between him and London.

The king, however, also had a northern army under General Newcastle (funded by the Coal Barons), a western army under General Hopton (funded by the Tin Barons), and a Midlands army under his Bohemian cousin Prince Rupert. Typhus was still an issue for both sides, and an increasing issue for towns billeting the armies.

Charles Stuart was still the king in each of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. His sister Elizabeth was the Queen of Bohemia and his war hardened nephews, Rupert and Maurice, brought him soldiers and know how from the German wars. His Catholic wife’s (Henrietta’s) brother, the King of France had just died leaving France in the hands of a regent cardinal. His daughter Mary was betrothed to William of Orange Junior. Thus Catholics and foreigners (Irish, Scots, Welsh, plus continental mercenaries and governments and navies) were rallying to the king’s banner.

Things looked worse and worse until the English and Scottish Parliaments formed a confederacy, which allowed the Covenanter army under General Alexander Leslie to march into England. After that the word ‘rebels’ was replaced by the words ‘confederates’ and ‘allies’, and the ‘fence sitters’ became known as ‘malignants’.

When rebel companies were defeated, the terms of surrender usually included an offer to the soldiers to join the royalist army, but if they did not then the soldiers were sworn to return to their homes and not rejoin Parliament’s army for some time period, perhaps six months. Once home, however, they did form or join ‘clubmen’ associations to protect their own villages and families from all of the foragers, looters and raiders. In the Fens, Oliver Cromwell was recruiting amongst the fen’s clubmen, while in Somerset, Robert Blake was rallying defeated soldiers into his own clubmen association.

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The Pistoleer - Lyme 1644 by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-17

Table of Contents

Title Page

Cover Flap

About the Author

Prologue

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Sneaking into Bridgwater in July 1643

Chapter 2 – A Bohemian Knight in Bridgwater in July 1643

Chapter 3 – A Pistol Duel in Bridgwater in July 1643

Chapter 4 – Peace comes to Bridgwater in August 1643

Chapter 5 – Maurice rides the Dorset Coast in August 1643

Chapter 6 – Passing through London in August 1643

Chapter 7 – Going home to the Ely Fens in August 1643

Chapter 8 – The Siege of Lynn in August 1643

Chapter 9 – Delivering Supplies to Hull in September 1643

Chapter 10 – The Battle of Winceby in October 1643

Chapter 11 – A Sergeants Battle of Newbury in October 1643

Chapter 12 – Finding Warwick in Portsmouth in October 1643

Chapter 13 – The Notterdam sails to Pool in November 1643

Chapter 14 – A Navy Spy in Rochester in December 1643

Chapter 15 – Finding a Crew in Lyme in April 1644

Chapter 16 – The Siege of Lyme in April 1644

Chapter 17 – The Siege of Lyme in May 1644

Chapter 18 – The Siege of Lyme in June 1644

Chapter 19 – The Parting of Pistoleers in June 1644

Chapter 20 - Appendix FAQ

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The Pistoleer - Lyme 1644 by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-17

Chapter 1 – Sneaking into Bridgwater in July 1643

To those men who were not mariners, the tidal bore which was sweeping the hulking barge through the utter blackness and up the River Parrett, was absolutely terrifying. It was wrenching the heavily laden barge back and forth and up and down to the point where even if they had been called on to use their pushing poles, they could not have kept their balance. The rudder was useless when the current was pushing, so the little control they had was from the sweep of the oars.

Robert Blake was perched on the prow, forcing his eyes to search for landmarks. Landmarks that may have been, would have been changed by the tides and shifting sand bars and sticky mud flats since the last time he had brought a ship into the Parrett. His best marks were the barely visible lanterns of the villages of Highbridge and Stretcholt away across the marshes. Now he too was losing his confidence, losing his courage.

All he need do is to miss the entrance to Stretcholt Pool, and they would be swept upstream to the village of Combwich. A village where the royalists were sure to have an outpost of watchers. Watchers in the pay of the royalist Governor of Bridgwater, Edmund Wyndham.

All he need do is to turn too soon into the pool, and the bore would slam the barge into mud banks. Likely the mud banks that had been caused by the small jetty of log pilings which kept the entrance open. Into the mud to lodge tight while the water of the bore would rise up over the gunnels and sweep every man from the deck. Off the deck and into the tempest of the thick brown water, which would likely drown them.

Samuel Blake, Rob’s younger brother, was at his side, also peering through the darkness. Not yet! he hissed into Rob’s ear when he felt Rob turning to give a command to the oarsmen. Wait until the lantern of Yearsey farm lines up with the Highbridge lights.

Rob clamped his lips shut and nodded. He had forgotten that. He had been too long away from the Blake holdings around Bridgwater. Samuel, on the other hand, had been running their farms just inland from Stretcholt at the village of Pawlett since he had married Susanna. They had both been twenty one at the chapel, but that was twelve years ago. Their boys would be almost grown by now.

Sam nudged Rob’s shoulder and Rob called out Now! Called out in a hushed voice. Sound carries far on the water, and to survive the next few days they needed to sneak into the pool. Starboard oars give her your all. Port oars out of the water. He kept his eyes on the bank, searching for the row of pilings that marked the jetty at the entrance. He stayed aware of Sam’s movements, because Sam was more likely to spot them than he was.

The starboard oars had the barge almost sideways to the current before Sam nudged Rob, and Rob called out. All oars, both sides, hard. The barge was listing to starboard due to the force of the current. The pole men were ready with their poles but not with their feet. Pole men to the down side. They were land lubbers and wouldn’t know which side was starboard. Use your poles to slow our sideways movement. He squinted his eyes and prayed that none of them lost their balance. Poles in mud had a way of grabbing men from a deck.

Pull the oars in, fast, Sam called out in a panic. They were in the entrance and in a moment the oars of either one side or the other would be crushed against the jetties. Pole men to the stern, the back. Push us into the pool. In truth it was the bore that pushed them into the pool, and then slammed the barge hard into the mud bank at the far end of the pool and held them fast there. It took but moments to run a gang plank from the bow, across the swirling mud, to ‘almost’ dry land, and then men ran the bow and stern anchors onto the shore. It took another quarter hour of hauling on the stern line to bring the stern about so that the barge was broadside to the bank.

Danny, Rob said to the tall and handsome man behind him, a man now weighted down with chest armour, helmet, and guns. Take some men and set up pickets at each end of the pool and another at the crest of the road that leads to this pool. His old friend Daniel Vanderus didn’t need detailed orders, so he turned his back on him and continued organizing the other men.

Sam, take some of your local lads and find the quay and haul it into position. And no lamps. We’ll have to unload the barge without light. There was no fixed quay in this pool, but there was a moveable one – if you had enough men to move it. It was like a very wide gang plank on a frame of sloping skids. Once the skids were pushed down the mud slope and butted up to the hull, the gang plank sat almost level and became a bridge to shore.

Forty men, that was all. Forty of the men Rob had commanded at Prior’s Hill fort on the northern edge of Bristol’s defences. Thirty three of them were his chosen men from either Bridgwater, Taunton, or Lyme. The other six included Danny – a clan warlord from the Ely fens, Sergeant Henry Foster – a lay preacher from London, and four militia lads from London who stuck to Henry like glue.

By rights they should all be dead. After Bristol was surrendered to Prince Rupert by the traitorous Governor Nathaniel Fiennes, Rupert had given secret orders to the captain of his personal guard to get rid of them. He and Danny were to be ‘shot while escaping’ while the rest of the men were to be sold to the owner of this barge. Sold to be stripped of weapons and armour and then either sold on into slavery, or dumped into the Bristol Channel.

Henry and his lads had rescued Danny and he, and then together they had rescued the rest of the company. Not that they killed their captors. No, for that would have broken the terms of the surrender of Bristol, and would have given the Devil Prince the excuse he needed to slaughter the retreating army. They did, however, bind them and rob them. Robbed Rupert’s men of their fine armour and horses, and robbed the slaver of this barge and the cargo it carried. A cargo of armour and weapons and other loot from the last group of rebel prisoners he had dumped into the channel. He had surrendered Prior’s Fort two days ago. Only two days. The first attack on Bristol was only five days ago.

He and Danny had learned the ways of war while fighting for the Rotterdam militia in the Dutch wars. That war had been a time of long periods of uncomfortable boredom punctuated irregularly by a few days of intense and terrifying violence. This war was no different. Two boring days on this barge, making for home. Two days to think. Two days of swearing to himself that never again would he trust his life and the life of his men to the orders of officers whose only claim on command was who their father was, rather than being based upon their experience.

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The quay was in place. Sam was back. The horses were being unloaded first. There were six, and none of them had been good sailors. Two of them were his and Danny’s, while the other four were the fine blacks of the Devil Prince’s own Bohemian guard. Black to match their currassier armour of finest German steel. Black to match their cloaks and coats and cavalier hats. Black to match their hearts. Meanwhile Sam was trying to fit himself into a chest plate of Bohemian armour.

Both Rob and Danny were wearing the Bohemian chest armour. They had first used the stolen armour as a disguise while trying to rescue their company. The steel chest plates were so light that they hadn’t bothered to take them off. Light in comparison to standard steel plates, that is. And not just light, but shaped in curves so that they were not only comfortable to wear, but so that there was not an inch that wasn’t curved. Curved steel, even such thin steel, deflects musket balls and sabre slashes.

What’s on your mind, Sam? Rob asked.

While you have the men unload the barge and move everything up to the old tithe barn, I’m going to pay a visit to Susanna’s dad. He’ll be able to tell me all of what is happening in and around Bridgwater.

Sam’s father-in-law ran the Shoulder of Mutton Inn on the Bristol Road in Pawlett. Everything that moved between Bridgwater and Glastonbury, or Wells, or Bath, or Bristol, passed by that inn. For the sake of good business, the man played at being a royalist while serving royalists, but he had no love of the king, nor did hardly anyone in Bridgwater. It was a parliamentary town occupied by the royalist nobility who held large estates in the hilly lands to the west towards Exmoor.

Good plan, Rob replied, but go mounted and dressed as a farmer. Leave the armour and carry just your pistols.

D’ya think there’ll be royalists at the Inn at this time o’ night?

They’d be fools not to have a picket close by. With Bristol surrendered under terms there will be a host of men heading here along the Bristol road. Under the terms, the Devon and Somerset defenders were sworn to go in peace to their homes, and not join up again for six months. Since the Cornish army was slaughtered in front of Bristol’s south wall, I expect the survivors will be deserting and heading home as well. Since the surrendering rebels were allowed to keep armour and weapons, but without powder or shot, then I expect that the Cornish men will be picking out stragglers to rob.

Sam’s eyes went wide. So that is your plan. Recruit the men retreating from Bristol. As what? Rebels or clubmen? Clubmen chose neither side, for they were sworn to protect their own villages and towns from all comers. Of course, since Parliament paid for what they needed, while the Royalists just took what they needed, the clubmen were usually defending against parties of royalists.

Clubmen, Rob replied with a grim smile. I am finished with Parliament and their general staff. They care no more for the welfare of the folk than does the king. They place the sons of Lords in charge of good men, and then those sons of bitches waste those good men. And when things go badly, what do they do. They change sides. No, I am finished with the lot of them. From now on, I am going to protect the folk of Bridgewater, Taunton, and Lyme – and the officers of both sides can go to the Devil.

Sam smiled, but to himself. Danny had often told them the same thing. For over a year now, Danny’s clan had been organizing the villages of the Ely fens to defend each other. They called it mutual aid, because villages, and clans, and families were signing mutual aid pacts. Woe be to any cavalry company, from either side, who decided to loot one of the villages around Ely, for they would be ‘disappeared’ into the fens bogs and lost forever.

I’ll take your mare, Rob, Sam said. The others are all too fine for a farmer. He motioned to a man carrying a saddle off the barge and then skipped ahead to walk with him towards Rob’s horse.

Rob hurried to catch up to him. Do you think the old tithe barn will be in good enough shape to shelter us for a few days? The tithe barn hadn’t been used for decades, but since it’s walls were of solid stone, only the roof had been ageing.

It’s the best we can do, Sam replied. No one goes there any more and the bush has grown high around it, so we won’t be spotted from afar. The stone walls will give us the protection we need, and even if the roof has fallen in, who needs a roof in this weather.

He was right, especially about the weather. The fall of ‘42 had been wet, the winter brutal, and the spring a long time coming … but the summer of ‘43 had been glorious and hot and dry. The stout stone walls of the tithe barn would save them much shot and powder if they were discovered by the royalists.

Rob’s men were under the same terms as everyone else who had surrendered in Bristol. They had been allowed to keep their armour and weapons, but carry away no powder or shot. The only powder they had was what they had captured from the Bohemian guard and from the barge. Rob’s immediate problem, if he wanted to recruit Clubmen, was where to get a large supply of gun powder. The shot they could caste themselves from what was left of the lead in the roof of the local church.

* * * * *

Daniel walked into the centre of the tithe barn, turned around slowly until he spotted Rob, and then kicked a roofing board out of his way and walked over to him. Rob was standing on a crate and looking out of a window towards Bridgwater. You could town’s towers, both church and castle, glinting in the summer sun. First light had been early, perhaps by four, sunrise at five, so it would be after seven by now. Rob needed the crate to see out of the window, for he was a head shorter than the men around him.

Did you hear the shots? Daniel asked.

We did. Hopefully those were not ours. Rob replied. The last thing we need is to bring attention to ourselves before we find a source of gun powder.

Not ours, well maybe not, Daniel continued. I was changing the pickets when we heard them, so I had some of the local lads guide me in that direction to see what was afoot. We were on foot and staying low and keeping to cover so it took us a while to find the shooters. We caught up to them as they were pulling away on the Combwich ferry.

And?

A royalist Captain of array and his men had done the shooting. Daniel continued. We found that out from a wench at the White House Inn. They were just completing an early morning raid on Pawlett to grab any stray youths. A farmer had ridden up fast, too fast, to bargain for the return of one of the girls, and they shot him. They took the wounded man with them, and his horse.

Damn, Rob punched at the sky. So they are now pressing women as well as men. The bastards. Did the wench know who the farmer was?

Daniel didn’t want to say, but bad news was best said quickly. She didn’t, but I did. Rob, I’m sorry. Your horse was on the ferry. The farmer must have been Sam.

Rob went silent for a while, thinking. The fool. What was he thinking? He knew our plan required us to remain undetected for a few days, at least until we could add to our numbers and add to our powder supply. By now Governor Wyndham will know that the Blake’s are back in Pawlett. He will send a force to search for us.

I sent one of Sam’s lads to ask after him at the Shoulder o’ Mutton, and to tell the old man about what we found out at the White House.

All we can do is wait, Rob muttered angrily. Tell the men to put on their armour and to load up. If we are to be attacked, this will be an easier place than most to defend. At least we won’t have to worry about bystanders.

A short while later the lad arrived back from the Shoulder o’ Mutton. He had run both ways so was panting hard and had to catch his breath before he could tell the story. Meanwhile all the men gathered around him. When he spoke, he spoke directly to Rob. It was Sam. He spent much of the night talking with old Jeb before he fell asleep. Jeb woke him up with the news that a royalist press gang had arrived, and that he should hide. About two hours later a cousin arrived at the Inn to tell them that Mary had been snatched by the press gang.

Mary, Rob asked. Sam’s sister-in-law. Susanna’s little sister?

Aye, but she ain’t so little any more. She’s a right looker. Anyway, Sam lit out after them to bargain for her release, and there had been now word, and no Sam or Mary since. Makes sense them royalists would’a used the ferry to get back to Bridgwater, cause they’d a never made it back through Pawlett. Not with Mary in tow, they wouldn’a.

Rob didn’t even thank the lad. He just turned away from the rest of the men and wandered over to his bedroll over by the East wall and slumped to his knees. Whether to think or to pray mattered not. It was obvious to everyone that he wanted to be left alone.

He was left to himself for but an hour, but it was an hour of tortured thoughts. Returning to his home had almost immediately brought disaster to his family. Even if Sam were not wounded, he was captured. Wyndham would string him up. Since Wyndham was a royalist lord controlling a rebel town, he did so by virtue of fear, nay terror. He hung any troublesome locals from the sign post of the George Inn, just over the river bridge, where everyone passing through the town could see them. No trial. If there was any mercy shown, it was to be saved the noose and forced into the slavery of the king’s infantry.

There would be no mercy for Sam. He was a Blake. The Wyndhams had hated the Blakes ever since Rob’s father had been the mayor of Bridgwater and had allowed the merchants to pull down much of the castle’s outer wall to use the stone to expand the quays, and to fill in the holes with warehouses. This war had given the Wyndhams an opportunity to persecute the Blakes. Thankfully most of his family had moved to the safety of Lyme, a staunchly rebel town, including Sam’s Susanna and her two boys.

The village and farms of Pawlett were still owned by the Blake family or by their cousins on his mother’s side, the Williams family. Sir John Williams, his grandfather, had lived at Pawlett manor, and had owned farms in every hundred around Bridgwater. On his death the farms were split between John’s two daughters, that is, his mother and his aunt.

Rob decided that he had been sitting alone long enough. He needed to discuss this evil development with his men. They had families too, and their families were close by. Did he have the right to risk all of their lives and livelihoods? Not without their permission. He walked towards a shady place where most of them were sitting and from there he motioned to the rest of them to gather around.

Tom, he said with a nod to Thomas Trowbridge, a man who had returned from the Americas to his home in Taunton to collect his family, but had been caught up in this war. Tom will replace Sam as second in command. Everyone murmured their agreement with his choice, and he scanned the faces to find Danny, to see if he also agreed. No Danny.

Where is Daniel? he asked of the lad who had brought him the news from the Inn.

He geared up, mounted up, and left. Sergeant Foster told him before the lad could say anything. He’s gone to the castle pretending to be a captain of Prince Rupert’s personal guard, just to have a look see what is happening.

What you mean is that he has gone to rescue Sam! Rob replied in anger. How dare he leave without asking me first. And you let him go?

You ever try to hold Danny back? Foster asked. The other men snickered. It was a rhetorical question.

He left right after I told him the rest of my news, the lad finally got in.

Rest of what news?

After you went to sit by yer self, the lad continued. I told everyone the rest of what old Jeb told me. That Wyndham had snatched up all the fair young lasses from around Bridgwater and Taunton as hostages to keep their families in line. But now that Bristol is won, and the whole of the Southwest is royalist, that he doesn’t need them as hostages any more. Instead he is going to use them as whores to service all the men who are making their way back from Bristol. You know. Sex slaves to get all those men to part with their loot.

The words took Rob’s breath away. Wyndham had always run Bridgwater’s brothels, so he had never allowed any tu’penny whores on his streets. He had always rounded them up and pimped them in his ‘clubs’. But that was tu’penny whores, not farm girls, not village girls. And then he exploded at the lad. You told Daniel that Wyndham was abducting girls to be sex slaves. Please tell me you didn’t. Didn’t you know that Daniel kills slavers out of hand. No trial. No mercy. No discussion. Just instant cold blooded murder.

How was I to know? the lad said, pulling back meekly.

You knew, Rob said pointing accusingly at the sergeant, and then at some of the other older men. You’ve all heard enough of his stories. Daniel was a fabulous story teller, and he had a lot of adventures to tell about. You should have roused me. This changes everything. He hasn’t gone to the castle to rescue Sam, though he will if he can. He has gone to murder Wyndham.

Sound’s good to me, guv, the lad said softly.

Don’t be a fool. If he murders Wyndham there will be reprisals. As like as not, they will loot or slaughter anyone who has ever even done business with the Blake family. Perhaps half the town. Certainly all the farm villages on this side of the river. The other royalist land barons of the county will demand it. Not just the Wyndhams, but the Luttrels, the Trevelyans, and the Stawells as well, and all of their thieving kin from up on Exmoor will be urging them on.

All of the local men were now worried, very worried. Not for themselves but for their families and extended families. Sam’s best friend spoke for them all when he said, I have a two sisters. Right now they could be chained to a bed in the castle. So why are we sitting around here lookin’ at each other. Not because we need more men. There are men walking towards us from Bristol. They need powder and horses. We need powder and horses. There’s powder and horses in the castle. Let’s take the powder, then take the castle, then take the town, then arm the men walking towards us, and then take the whole effing county. And if that means doing for every Wyndham, Luttrel, Trevelyan, and Stawell who crosses our path, then so be it.

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The Pistoleer - Lyme 1644 by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-17

Chapter 2 – A Bohemian Knight in Bridgwater in July 1643

On Daniel’s ride into Bridgwater along the Bristol Road every person he passed stopped and stared at him. At the tall man in the costly black floppy feathered hat, and black cloak, in the costly black armour, on the costly black saddle, on the costly black stallion. Everything on him had been taken from a Bohemian captain save his guns and his horse. The horse he had taken from a royalist colonel. Since he didn’t know the real name, he called him Blacky.

As Blacky trotted happily along, happy to be off the barge, Daniel practised being a German ass hole. If it was normal for an English ‘Sir’ to walk around with their nose in the air while treating real folk with contempt, then a Bohemian ‘Sir’ must keep his nose doubly high. As he rode he put himself through various scenarios of meeting mixes of classes and sexes. He also practised his German accent. Not his German, mind you, but his German flavour of English. To an Englishman his Dutch flavoured German would sound real enough, though he knew no Bohemian at all.

A large painted sign was hung at the east gate of the town - ‘Bridgwater’. He had once asked Rob why they always left out a letter, and he had replied I don’t know, but yes you are right. There should be an ‘L’ before the ‘T’. He continued along Eastover road and stopped on the crest of the arch of the stone bridge. From the bridge he had an unobstructed view of the closest corner, the south-east corner of the castle’s outer wall, and the rhyne used as a moat along the southern wall, and the river quays along the eastern wall. The Wyndhams had been busy in the two years since last he had been here. They had filled in the gaps in the crumbling outer wall to above a man’s height, and they had removed the small bridges that used to cross the rhyne at each of the main gaps in the wall.

‘Rhyne’ was the Somerset word for a drainage ditch. That was another local spelling that Daniel could not fathom. He stared along the buildings between the river quays and the wall, and they all looked more Rotterdam than Bristol Many Dutch had escaped the endless religious wars in Holland and had settled around Bridgwater and Taunton, and yet they did not use the Frisian or Dutch word for the ditches, ‘sleat’ pronounced sley-ut.

What with the low flat land crossed with sleats, and the quaint brick buildings, he felt like he was in a Dutch Republic. No wonder this was a rebel town. The local Dutch had been through all of this before on the continent, and had brought that knowledge with them. Not just their knowledge of drainage and merchandising and lace making, but also their knowledge of republics and how well they work.

His fond memories of his life in Holland were crushed by the sight of the George Inn sign post. A body was hung there. He urged Blacky forward until he could stare up at the corpse. It was Sam. Sam was a good hand, a good husband, a good father, a good brother, a good farmer. Had been. His flood of grief was interrupted by a man close by, who was also looking up.

Cap’n Doone’s been tempting the fates again, he grumbled. He doesn’t like wasting the target practice, so ‘e doesn’t just hang ‘em. He gives them a chance, by havin’ them challenge ‘im to a duel. See, look at the pistol hole in his forehead. Not much of a chance. Doone is a master pistoleer, and ‘e kills without blinking. He’s Wyndham’s champion, Doone is.

In truth there were two pistol holes in the corpse. Another in the leg. So they hung a dead man? Daniel asked with a thick German accent.

Oh aye. Just like Doone don’t like wastin’ the target practice, Wyndham don’t like wastin’ the warnin’.

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