A young man attempts to express his thoughts. It all sounds quite idealic, sir, but....
'Twas idealic! His older companion cuts him off. And from that night–for some time to come, it remained so. 'Twas like a portrait of a family harmony, suitable for framing and display!
I see, the young man returns, but what of...?
Aye, aye! the older man interrupts, impatiently. But first, we've time for another drink–and, mayhaps, a bite of grub. Yo, lassie!
When served, the old sea dog eats as though ravenous; and the young gentleman dares not interrupt until the last morsel has passed his lips and noisily flushed down his gullet. Mustering his gumption, the young man says (in a strident voice), Now then, sir, the hours pass well, but we've yet to–
Ah, you're right on the mark, lad. The older man is not about to relinquish his pulpit to a young pup–not even for the sake of one sentence finished.
April 19, 1718, at that shadowed corner table in the Boar's Head Inn, in Bristol, the grizzled old sea dog still sits with the younger man in gentleman's attire. And the story continues.
'Twas in the midst of another moonlit night, so serene you could believe that heaven descended through the clouds to embrace Nemusmar. On such a God-given night, it was more incomprehensible that the fragile, flickering ember of our existence should be overwhelmed by a conflagration so swift, so intense, so ferocious as to sear away the happiness of years and turn even memories to char.
Again, that night, I was down at the settlement with me mates. Ah, how can I describe that mood, when your spirit transcends your mortal coil? You seemingly float. You fly! Not like a bird, encumbered by its own substance; but absolutely unencumbered–unrestricted. As if flying with the angels! That was how light me heart was that night; I was flying with the angels! But soaring with the angels is not a mortal's lot.
Me "wings" were clipped and me spirit plummetted back to earth, when I heard a human voice shrieking in me ears, "Fire! FIRE! By Jesus, it looks to be hell's own fire!"
The fear in Higgins' voice matched the fright in his eyes. And Higgins was not a fearful man. This had to be bad. I burst out the door of the common house!
The entire sky seemed brightened, as if by some massive torchlight. Looking out 'cross the land, toward home and the water's edge beyond, the sky just above the horizon was crimson coloured–a thick blood-red, blotched with columns of pitch-black smoke. This could only be the backdrop caused by massive explosions and monstrous fires. And these could only be the result of a heinous attack on Nemusmar!
'Twas all at once evident; the greatest catastrophe to ever besiege Nemusmar was now at hand! As I ran from the settlement toward the conflagration, I imagined the worst. To paint the whole of the sky with such an unnatural hue, every wood structure at that end of the island must be afire: me quarters, me neighbour's, the captain's–oh, God, even our ship! If all that was given, then this was invasion!
I ran towards home as fast as me legs could carry me. Me mind was filled with horror. "What if Annalea...?" I could not, then, bring meself to put words to me thoughts–for fear 'twould make it happen. Even now, I cannot bring meself to utter words that contemplate the horrific demise of me Annalea!
Naught to do, but keep moving! Naught to think, but observe the display of mayhem which unfolded afore me! As I bounded down the path, approaching me quarters, I was overwhelmed by several others of our "tribe" scrambling helter-skelter away from the areas of devastation. Some were burned, some were bleeding; all were horror struck! Me shouts to stop them, and question them, were to no avail. I grabbed Brigstaff to halt him, but the fear in his eyes was maniacal and he fought like a raging bull to escape me grasp and continue his flight.
As I cleared the last rise, I saw for meself the truth of it–and me heart sank in me chest. Our ship, and all the rest were ablaze! And silhouetted by these flames–against the night sky–were more sails than a body could readily count! So many as to mask over the natural features of the sky. An eerie foreboding of doom swept over me. But I did not dwell on those clairvoyant messages. I could not dwell on such–as I was about to be deluged by soldiers! Uniformed, armed, blood-crazed British soldiers!
No man could ever–with justice–call me a coward. Yet no man shall ever call me a fool. I turned tail and ran for me life. With so much commotion and so many fleeing "rabbits" to pursue, I was not certain if those "lobster-backs" had really even noticed me. Be that as it may, if discretion is the better part of valour, a flanking move was the better part of discretion, for me–at that moment. Soldiers, I knew, had the fortunate habit of boxing together and moving in straight lines, on a set course. This makes them difficult to confront, head on, but easy to avoid!
I made me way through scruff and bramble–most on me hands and knees, to diminish me profile. Once beyond the column of "lobster-backs," I sprang upright and bolted towards me quarters. Adding jeopardy to me already perilous plight, was the cannon shot still pounding from various ships. Seemed to me a dastardly practice, continuing bombardment when you've already a great company of men ashore, thus putting your own under the gun. But I reckoned as to how naval types have little use or regard for army types.
I could now clearly see the charred remnants of me quarters. Oh, to God! Nothing full-standing! Even the chimney was toppled by cannon shot! But of greatest urgency, the people! Where were me people? God forbid–they must not be under that rubble!
In a heartbeat, I was standing at the singed remains, screaming at the top of me lungs, "Annalea! Annalea! ANNALEA!"
No reply! I cannot say there was but silence; from all about me, screamed noises in me ears: gunfire, whizzing bullets, human shouts, human cries, the crackling and popping of timbers still ablaze! No reply did not mean no hope. They were here–they were alive–I was certain! They just could not hear me. So I must search them out! I moved about, pushing aside large objects–timbers, furniture, doors and the like–as I could, hoping to spy nothing. All the time, I was shouting toward the outskirts of the compound, "Annalea! Mam'! Estaban! ANNALEA!" hoping to hear something!
Me pleas were answered—wrongly! 'Twas as if two snakes hissed past me head, simultaneously. When a third ball ripped through me blouse and sliced me forearm, I knew those "hissing snakes" were bullets. I'd been discovered and was under attack! I saw six or eight of the bastards on the far knoll: three appeared to be reloading and the rest appeared to be aiming–at me! I did not tarry!
I was doubly angry at those mercenary assassins! On the second part, I could not engage the bastards–for I had no firearms. But the primary was that they prevented, or at least delayed, the rescue of me loved ones. Could I have remained alive, just long enough–magically avoiding their shots–I'd've been up that knoll like a whirlwind and ripped the head off each of those "lobster-back" murderers! But I had no magic–just resolve! And I would ferret out me loved ones, despite the annoyance of this nest of angry "hornets!"
As it turned out, there was nothing or no one to be found thereabouts–most likely, a blessing, considering conditions. I decided to make for the captain's quarters. Mayhaps, they'd all gone there to gather and defend. 'Though–from the look of things–that would be in the thick of it: the centre of the "hornets' nest."
Me present problem–and current danger–still was those "lobster-backs" upon the knoll. What little cover was offered, I'd taken when I spied those assassins about to loose a volley. This spared me skin, but prevented the discharge of all them muskets. In the meanwhile, the original shooters had reloaded. Unlike that column of soldiers on the march I'd met, these bastards would not simply move along. They were, doubtless, one of so many companies formed to scout out and capture or kill individual targets, such as meself.
Predicament. What to do? It was too flat and open thereabouts to make a run for it. Now, a British soldier is no skilled marksman–unlike a hunter who must spot and bring down evasive, fast-moving game. All the ski
ll required is to point (approximately) in the direction of the enemy, and pull the trigger. After all, a "lobster-back" and his opponent are usually standing still, each in a large horde of his own, no more than several paces from the enemy. Just pull the trigger and you are damned near bound to hit something.
So much said for their individual capabilities. It still was too risky to run through the open with a clutch of the bastards firing in your general direction. You might find your brains splattered, by a simple, random misfortune. And was I to stand stark still, like some stupid rabbit in tall grass, they'd simply come down off that knoll, muskets primed and ready, ferret me out, and blast me to kingdom come!
It was necessary for me to cause them to discharge their firearms. I stepped boldly from me cover, stared up at them, shook me fist at them and–as loudly and crudely as possible–cursed the bloody birth of each of their mothers! Having acquired their full attention, I scurried back into me rabbit hole, while all those muskets popped in unison! Did you know that a well-trained, British soldier can repair and refire in a matter of seconds? I did! And I knew what I must do! While the crack of their shooting still reverberated in the air, and the cloud of burned-powder smoke arose from their firearms, I was on me feet, cutlass and dirk in hand, charging up that knoll, bellowing the most blood-curdling native war cry I could remember!
They were dumbfounded! Britain's best were under attack by an army of one raggedy old buccaneer: meself! They had no options (as I'd planned). They had to quickly collect their wits, grab their blades and move down that knoll, to confront me. Regardless the number, this is me advantage. In this kind of battle, I am the master!
I quickly–methodically–danced through and around the bastards, working me blades like a new scythe through dry hay. I carved each man at least once; and each cut made a gash–not a scratch! They were near helpless without loaded muskets. 'Twas less a fight and more like a cattle slaughter. Each blow I delivered was purposeful–not the wild flailings of a madman; but the depth of each cut was doubtless strengthened by anger–at the damage these assassins may've already perpetrated!
I felled each one, and ensured his demise. None would be left to suffer–or to tell of me whereabouts. I could not tarry to relish me victory. Every second must count. Even if still unharmed, me loved ones–as all of us–were still in peril, and might be mere moments from death!
Feeling morbid–and a bit dishonourable in the doing–I unclothed the dead soldier closest to me own size, and donned his coat and cap. These men were committing dishonourable and dastardly acts, themselves, so any compunction I had about doing as I had to do, soon evaporated. Were I strolling through Piccadilly Square, you might think me an odd-looking "lobster-back," and spot me as an outright fraud. But in the midst of that chaos, no one had much time for attention to detail.
Now I could hope to move, unmolested, toward land's end: into the absolute centre of the "hornets' nest"–the heart of the "beast." Me ruse worked! There was a confusion of "lobster-backs" moving to-and-fro, each too preoccupied to notice another. But I did take notice of them. It was necessary to study them and notice their actions, to ensure I was not discovered unawares–and to gain some intelligence of this operation. As much as was possible, I exposed only me back to those who might gaze me way; as the long back of that coat, and that cap, were me only disguise.
Most of those soldiers looked a pretty raggedy lot, themselves. Disheveled, dirty and bloodied, they'd obviously been shown, by me own lads, that–"hornets" or not–to attack Nemusmar was to step into a wasps' nest. Britain's "best!" I'd no doubt me mates could take them out, five or ten to one; but the numbers put upon us were overwhelming. An ant is nothing to an ox; but if you could gather all the ants in the countryside, they would take down the ox. And these bloody, red "ants" were swarming all over Nemusmar!
And the suddenness and ferocity of this attack were unbelievable! It must've been long in the planning, and a secret more closely guarded than the king's number of royal bastards. Me memory flashed to the captain's code word, "congregate." If the command had been issued, I'd certainly not heard of it. Was the captain even alive long enough to utter it?
I made me way, hastily, up to the captain's quarters, moving along that same path I'd so often–so pleasantly–trod with wee Annalea. As I made me approach, the signs of devastation were all about me. It is too sad, even now, to relate or elaborate all the details for you. But I'll tell you this much, 'twas obvious a stand had been taken. I came upon more than a score of "lobster-back" carcasses, near trail's end, and then, sadly, the bodies of half a dozen of our own lads–none of whose names I mentioned to you, afore, save one. 'Twas cook! That grizzled, grumpy, old pot-polisher–and self-appointed bodyguard to the captain. He was lying across what most recently was the threshold of the captain's quarters, a bloodied cutlass clenched in one hand and a spent pistol in the other.
I was heartsick. I turned him over, to gaze upon his countenance. His look was severe but composed. I'd expected to see his face twisted in pain, as was his body; after all, you see, they'd blasted his gut clear away! But his expression was near serene. That brave warrior knew death was imminent; but he did not fear it–he embraced it!
Once again, I plowed through rubble, hoping not to find trace of me loved ones. I could not tarry too long amongst the ashes; for–again–I thought even a moment's delay might prevent me rescuing me family. But I searched, thoroughly. I did not stand out, as several of Britain's bastard sons were poking about the ruins, seeking trinkets and souvenirs. I'd've kissed the devil's genitals to've been able to hand-deliver each of those corroded souls to his fiendish domain of eternal damnation–forthwith! But there appeared to be two full companies of British regulars posted guard on that compound. They'd doubtless realized 'twas the captain's lair, and they'd best keep it secured. Mayhaps they thought it would attract stragglers–like me.
I was having no success in finding even a clue as to the whereabouts of me family. I spied a young, innocent-looking, British soldier combing through the debris. He looked too inexperienced and unsophisticated to cause me any danger of discovery, so I decided to interrogate him. "Ah, laddie, are you finding anything?"
"Well, aye, sir," he replied, "a few things: mostly some coin."
"Very good! I've hope for such luck, meself. By-the-by, laddie, you look a right mess. Were you in the thick of the fracas to take this place?"
"Aye, sir, I was that! And it was holy hell! These pirates are the most stubborn bastards! They damned near killed me!"
"Ah, I know, it is terrible. 'Course these buccaneers are the world's greatest fighters!"
"What?" he seemed offended.
"Um. Curse their souls!" I added, to indulge the stupid pup. "But now, tell me lad, 'we'... uh... obviously overcame the 'pirates.' I've seen the bodies about. But were there more inside that needed killing or capturing?"
"No, sir. Not a soul was inside, when we broke through."
"Hmm," I pondered, "do you suspect some escaped during the fracas?"
"'Twas possible," he answered. "After all, the scum prevented us from surrounding the place 'til near the last man fell."
"Aye, the 'scum.'" I responded. I'd've twisted his head up his ass–just to further his education–but 'twas not the time nor the place for that. So–since he'd unwittingly provided me a bit of hope, I wished him "happy hunting" and departed. I wondered if these "lobster-back" bastards would ever discover that somewheres under their feet lie a subterranean vault, and–within–enough gold to ransom a king and his court.
I determined to make haste for the harbour, and discover if any of me people were held there as captive. I had to make me way through several platoons of soldiers to clear the compound. I came upon an officer addressing his cadre. Noticing me approach, he barked some command at me.
"Aye, aye, sir!" I responded, and continued to walk away.
I made water's edge, in m
oments. Here, too, was commotion. And all the king's men were preoccupied with their tasks: landing men and munitions, organizing, arguing strategy. And there were captives. Looked to be more than a score of our people: no men, just woman and children–and all blackies! These wretched souls, the bastards would keep alive–for the monetary value of their black hides. Doubtless, any whites they snared would've had no value to them–even women and children–and they'd've gone under the sword. I feared for the fate of me people, here bound, for I knew these soulless bastards would greedily return these sweet souls to slavery. And there was nothing I could do, at that time, to save them. These bastard soldiers–as so many others–acted in the king's name, with impunity. This king had much to answer for–and God shall be his inquisitioner.
In spite of the chaos all about me, I did take notice of one significant difference. The offshore blasts of cannonfire had ceased; doubtless because some of the ships' complement were ashore. Most–as I could see–were officers. And standing, talking to a man of captain's rank, were two familiar figures: those dreadful "barristers!" I was so overcome by the sight of these two vultures–here, on Nemusmar–that I did not heed what that captain spake to them. But I was struck–as if by lightning–when he ended by addressing one as "Mr. Pankhurst!"
Chapter XVI
Evacuation!