1635: A Parcel of Rogues: Chapter Seventeen

    “Sure I saw something. Gleam like a Dutch-glass, chief. They’re after spying on us.”

    Finnegan raised an eyebrow. O’Halloran was definitely in the shallows in matters of scholarship and wit, and while there were a lot of telescopes in use around Europe, they were generally not used much in military business except by artillerymen, a trade O’Halloran had almost certainly never been near.

    “Don’t look at me like that, chief. There were plenty of the things about when I was with Wallenstein back in ’28, at Stralsund. There were great guns going off all the time and the gunners all had them. There’s a glint to them, and I just saw it again. And is it not that that woman has a Dutch-glass on her musket to see what she’s shooting?”

    “I’ve heard enough, O’Halloran, and well done with all the thinking. Go you over the cut, there, and tell Tully to bring his lads over and fall in on me. I’ll be here and gather the lads ready.” There might have been some sense in going over himself and leaving O’Halloran to watch out for that glint, but Finnegan decided he could recognise a glint for himself and there was no way he was going up on that bank in the plain moonlight for a legendary shooter to see. He settled in and began scanning further afield, looking in the treetops where O’Halloran said he’d caught sight of the fateful flash. Too much to ask of the silly bastard to actually remember which stand of trees it was, of course.

    Not half an hour later the bushes around him were full of his men, and Tully had joined him. “Be damned,” Finnegan said, “if O’Halloran wasn’t entirely right. I’ve caught sight myself, not that I’m going to point if they’re watching, but I’ve an idea of distance and direction and give it but a moment and we’re off a-skirmishing.”

    “Be hard to keep even open order in this shite,” Tully remarked.

    “You’re not wrong, but we’ll do what we do. Pass the word. We’re to move slow and low and give a cry if we come on anyone. Pile on the bastard, get a prisoner, and we’ll pull back.”

    “Not chase?”

    “Not chase. Remember those bastards we made bones of in the Slieve Mishkish a couple of years ago? They’d a plan for it, and both times we went hooring in after them? We had to cut our way out, and this is far better country for that kind of work than a lot of bare-arsed mountains. All we got back then was some cuts and hurts, here we’ll have corpses come morning if we’re not careful.” Finnegan still had a spot under his left shoulder that ached in wet weather from that. The throwing dart that was the traditional weapon of most cattle-thieves — much of Ireland’s militia levies, come to that — wasn’t likely to kill a man outright if he’d any armor at all, and a buff-coat would answer that need. Getting one stuck in a man’s flesh, even the inch or so that Finnegan had briefly suffered, hurt like the very devil, though.

    “Not on horse, either, I take it. Bad country for it.”

    “Bad indeed, and fuck my arse if I’ll sign a man’s death warrant by putting him in front of that rifle on horseback. We’ve enough bush and sedge to have a chance of going unseen, which is a fighting chance. Pick three lads to mind the horses, no, better, three lads to string the horses back to Earith. They’ll not expect that, and our beasts will be the safer for it. They might even have a plan to take the horses while we’re chasing them into this. It’s something I’d have thought to do.”

    Tully grinned back. “I’ve done the like myself. It’s amazing how fast cattle thieves give up if you steal their ponies. A man is like to stay at home and abide the law if he has to walk all the way to the stealing he’s after doing. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

    With the horses sent back along the relative safety of the cut, Finnegan got the boyos moving out across the fen. For all they made as much effort as they could to go silently, not a one of them having missed out on the traditional country sports of poaching and stealing livestock, they still didn’t know this country as well as they might and there were constant small splashes, the sounds of bushes being caught, and the other minor noises of a party of men on the move. If nothing else, the sedge-grass came up to the hems of their buff-coats, so off the few narrow tracks through the stuff, it was impossible to move without a hiss.

    Of course, the same went for their opponents, and so neither side would be able to hear the other unless they stopped and listened. With only eight lads following him, Finnegan was able keep them close enough together that he could have them in command with hand signals. Every forty paces he was stopping and just listening, mouth wide and eyes closed to pick up every little sound. Night-birds, the sounds of insects, the faint hiss of the tiny breeze. Nothing so far, but they were more than half way to where O’Halloran reckoned the spy had been with her glass.

    Two hundred yards away, Darryl was just as stopped, just as frustrated with how hard it was to stalk in this kind of undergrowth. From the sounds of it Finnegan’s men were having a harder time, since they were wearing armor and had much clumsier weapons than the modern pistols and small bags of improvised grenades Darryl had equipped everyone with. The bitch of it was going to be getting close enough to start Finnegan’s men chasing, but not so close they were ever in a position to actually catch or hurt anyone.

    And do it without killing or hurting more than maybe one or two of them — too many casualties and they’d break off pursuit. And, assuming there were still outlaws in the county, come back with a regiment and make life purest hell for the fen folk. That would leave Sir Henry no room in which to organise a proper resistance. Being as he was a local gentleman, any serious attempt at repression would be looking right over his shoulder if not outright demanding he join in.

    Another bound forward as Cromwell hooted softly. His owl-hoot wasn’t just realistic, it sounded like the local owls. Which made sense, since he grew up less than fifteen miles from here. From the sounds of it, Finnegan’s mob were on the move as well. Now they were getting closer, and with the wind blowing the right way, Darryl was getting able to pick out the sounds of a dozen men moving together. With only six in their own party, and Cromwell having shown them that a man made a lot less noise if he was walking behind another, and from the few glimpses Darryl had caught of moonlight gleaming off helmets — seriously, helmets? It was like they wanted to give their position away and ruin their hearing into the bargain. He’d a warm woollen cap on and that was going to have to be enough. The down-timer guys had gone for wide-brimmed felt hats, obvious ancestors of cowboy hats. Another glint up ahead, the distance was down to maybe a hundred yards. Cromwell hooted again and Darryl dropped into the sedge. They’d not be moving again, and it was going to be up to whoever made first contact to open the party.

    Finnegan’s nerves were stretched taut. He couldn’t show it in front of the boyos, no more could he. But they were nearly a mile into the fen and nothing to show yet. Once it started he’d be a lot —

    The words were out of his mouth before he’d even realised he’d seen a face amid the grass — “fucking get him!” — and he had his wheel-lock levelled and discharged.

    “Prisoner, chief!” Tully yelled, bounding forward, a stick he’d cut earlier out and brandished.

    Whoever it was that Finnegan had shot at jumped up himself, fired a pistol twice with no smoke — definitely one of the Americans, by God! — and started to running away. Finnegan blew a whistle of relief — after all the ranting he’d done about the need for a prisoner, if he’d hit the fellow he’d have looked a prize amadan — and strode out to bring up the rear of his men. Time enough to start running when he had his pistol away. He inhaled the brimstone reek of his own powder smoke.

    Time to chase! He felt so much better for the whiff of gunsmoke. No more nervous waiting for him!

    “Two of them!” There were more shots. The crack-crack-crack of the American pistols, and a deep, throaty bellow as someone gave fire in return with a wheel-lock.

    “Fucking PRISONERS!” Tully yelled into the ear-ringing silence after the wheel-lock shot.

    Finnegan made note of who had fired, the smoke hanging ghostly in the moonlight behind him. O’Halloran, as might have been known, the soft-headed fool. He’d have words with that one, after. He’d fired a signal shot, sure, but O’Halloran was just returning fire because he was too stupid to see that over fifty yards even if a man in buff and cuirass were hit, he’d not be harmed beyond perhaps a bruise.

    Finnegan broke into a fast trot behind his men. Ahead he could see their quarry — two of them — leaping and hurdling over hummocks of sedge, dodging about bushes.

    “‘Nother!” someone yelled, breathless. Now there were three. Finnegan grinned as he loped along. They only had to catch one, after all.

    More shooting. This time he saw the little flashes, nothing like the great long spout of flame and sparks you got with a wheel-lock, and certainly no flash from the priming. He broke into a dead run at where he’d seen the flashes.

    “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m hit!” O’Halloran again. Couldn’t be serious, not at this distance. Wouldn’t feel like that to him, though. Finnegan grinned.

    “Toole! See to O’Halloran!” he yelled, vaulting over where the man was on the ground clutching at his belly. No time to see if he’d been really unlucky and had a ball go through his coat. Unlikely, but it happened.

    Darryl pumped his arms and legs for all they were worth. He’d fired once, a fast group of three. Hopefully he’d aimed high enough to miss everyone that was chasing them. He wanted a bit more of a gap before he slowed down enough to turn and fire again. He passed Cromwell, who was crouched ready.

    Crack! Crack! Crack!

    There was a scream. Cromwell hadn’t aimed high enough. It was a common beginner’s mistake for guys used to the old muzzle-loading pistols. They expected the things to buck right up on firing so they aimed low to compensate. Took a fair bit of practise to drill them right on the new firearms. Cromwell hadn’t had it.

    Darryl pumped out a dead sprint for another hundred yards and turned in the shade of a low willow tree, not much taller than he was. He spat to clear the leaves out of his mouth. The bad guys were still coming on, hampered by heavy coats and armor. They’d only fired the two shots, and someone over there had definitely yelled something that sounded like “prisoner” — if that was what passed for an Irish accent down-time, it was going to take some getting used to after the brogues Darryl had heard on TV. He brought his pistol up as he spotted Cromwell coming, haring past him with a grin on his face. Turned out the big guy was faster over this rough country than Darryl. Not a big deal, but he could see he was going to come in for some ribbing over it later.

    He realised he was in a proper shooter’s stance and thought no, damn it, always wanted to do this. He flipped the pistol on its side and fired one handed, using the kick of the weapon to fan half a dozen shots in the general direction of the air over the bad guys’ heads. A couple of them, gratifyingly, went headlong into the dirt as the rounds cracked over their heads.

    As he turned to run again, he grinned to himself. Sure, you can’t hit shit that way, but if you don’t want to, it surely is fun. More yells from behind. None in pain, more in outrage. More shots — real shots, not wheel-lock nonsense, getting hit at this distance with one of those meant you probably shouldn’t have got out of bed that morning — and the attention of the bad guys was on someone else for the moment.

    He could concentrate on running, then, and this kind of ground needed it. What wasn’t tussocks was hummocks, and what wasn’t either was flat-out squishy. It was quite comfy underfoot, right up to the point where it took your ankle over or face planted you. Cromwell had made them spend a couple of hours earlier practising running over the stuff. Man believed in preparing properly for things, and that was to the good. What wasn’t was that he regarded a whole lot of prayer as part of proper preparation. Bearable, though.

    There he was again, he’d picked a clump of something thorny this time. Darryl pounded past him, slacking off the pace enough to rummage in a back pocket for a spare mag. Clutch between teeth, check. Old mag out, check. Into back pocket, check. Fresh mag, check.

    Fortunately the headlong fall was right into a nice, soft tussock of something with lovely little whitish flowers. By daylight, a sort of pinkish-white. About the same color as the stars that flashed across his vision.

    He grunted. By some miracle he still had gun and mag in his hands, and applied one to the other as he rolled over onto his back. Cromwell came pounding over. “Up, lad,” he grunted, stopping to extend a hand down to Darryl.

    “Thanks,” he gasped back, coming to his feet to see a helmeted, breastplated guy with a big stick in his hand pounding up.

    Aim for the head he’s got armor, something in the back of Darryl’s mind shrieked and then centre of mass! No time! Three quick shots, the first snatched, headed off to Lincolnshire somewhere, the second close enough to make the guy wince and the third producing a satisfying tonk as it hit metal and the guy spun over and went down in flail of limbs, roaring something foul-sounding. There was a flurry of sparks and then a dull, rupturing thud as the man’s pistol discharged, but by then Darryl and Cromwell were already turning to run.

    There was a second one almost on them, and Darryl put his head down for another sprint, blowing and heaving to get air back into himself as much as he could. It’d be a bastard to get a stitch right now. He’d never been unfit, track and football all through school followed by mine work, but he’d just spent a whole damned year cooped up in the Tower. Exercise hadn’t been on his list of priorities beyond a regular stroll along the walls and some work on building the steam laundry. They hadn’t been out long enough to get back to peak condition, not hardly at all. Cromwell was just as bad; he’d maybe started out fitter, but he’d been locked in one room for a year.

    More shots, more swearing, and a loud thud as whoever was behind them either dove for cover or tripped. Could be either.

    Cromwell grunted. “Stitch.”

    “Got it,” Darryl grunted back, and stuffed his pistol into its under-arm holster. He had a couple of sore spots from falling over, and he knew those were going to give him trouble tomorrow, but he was damned if he was going to say anything. Besides, they were now in the “getting away with it” phase of operations and the important part here was getting away. He dragged his zippo out of his pocket — a down-time one, the flint was bigger and the case prettier — and stopped.

    One, two, three strikes. No flame. With the other hand he was pulling a short lump of dynamite out of his pocket. Three, four, five — and then it caught.

    Turned. Close. Fuse lit.

    He tossed the fizzing thing at his feet and lit off again. Maybe two or three seconds of fuse and — CRACK!

    He staggered and stumbled, ooofing out all his wind momentarily, and with a hasty drag of cool night air dug deep for a faster sprint. He had to hope the others were ready for that as he was. Not likely he’d killed anyone, unless someone was stupid enough to step right on an obviously-burning fuse. No compression, no fragments, and a small charge. Not much more powerful than a Fourth-of-July firecracker — okay, a pretty big one — and you’d have to be right on top of it to get hurt. The flash and bang would have rattled everyone’s teeth and —

    CRACK! From the sounds someone else had thought the bad guys were getting a bit close. Good. Stuff needed using up. He’d cleared out his own stock that he had in the Tower and replaced it with a box of Harry’s, but it was getting on to six months old and he’d had to be elaborately careful cutting the sticks down and fitting them with squibs.

    He caught up with Cromwell. “Can. Ease. Off.” He puffed out in time with the breaths he was taking.

    Cromwell gasped back. “Match.” He had pulled out two lengths of slow-match. “Light. Bombs.”

    A moment’s thought, and yes, that ought to work better than stopping to spark his lighter. Could he get it lit on the run?

    Cromwell had thought of that, and stopped and took aim behind them. Darryl stopped too. Their pursuers had dropped back some, cautious about the explosions. Cromwell emptying his magazine in their general direction sent three guys Darryl could see dropping for cover, and in the time that bought them he got the matches lit and someone else threw another stub of dynamite.

    He handed off one match to Cromwell as they turned to run and both of them got stubs out. He watched Cromwell do his first — hold the fuse to the match, blow on it, drop the stub, run like hell.

    He did the same, another sprint away from the blast, and they settled in to a steady lope that would let them open the distance a little, but not too much.

    Ten more minutes of running and the sounds of pursuit had faded to their rear. By now, everyone had converged on the same spot and slowed to an easy jog. Cromwell looked like he was getting a second wind. The four professional soldiers looked in better shape, but then they’d not been cooped up for a year with no good exercise.

    “This. Is why. I went. For cavalry,” Leebrick panted out. “Horse. Does. The work.”

    “Little Downham,” Cromwell panted out, pointing off to their left, where a village was visible on a small rise. “Half way.”

    “Ambush. At the road?” Leebrick asked. They’d hoped to have more of a lead at this point. By the time they reached the road with its banks and ditches — from which they could deliver a volley of bullets and bombs before running again — and got dug in and the pursuers caught up, they’d only just have their breath back. Ready for another three miles of running.

    “As planned,” Darryl gasped out. Even a short break was better than no break, and they didn’t want the pursuers getting … unenthusiastic.