Page 32 of Dawnlands

Ned raced up to the quarterdeck and took the telescope that Monmouth offered him. He could see the pale outline of a yacht with no lights, broadside to them, ready to fire again, grappling hooks at the ready and the crew preparing to board. He focused on the flag of the States General. “Aye. Looks like they’ve got their warrant. That was a warning shot. They’re signaling us to hove to. They’re preparing to board.”

“We’ll run for it,” Monmouth decided. “Captain, cram on sail, get us away. Ferryman—tell them a round of cannon, to keep them back, but make sure to miss. We can’t sink them!”

“Yes, sire,” Ned said and jumped down to the deck and slid down the ladder to the gun deck. The crew were ready, each standing by their guns, the hatches open, the guns rolled forward, each gunner waiting the command, the gun commander halfway up the companionway, ready for his orders.

“Fire to miss,” Ned told him. “Fore and aft the ship. Make sure you’re wide. Don’t hit it.”

“Aye, aye,” the man said steadily. He turned and raised his voice to his crew. “Fore and aft. Wide. Everyone wide. On my word—” He glanced down the waist of the ship to see that they were all poised and ready. “Fire at will!” he yelled.

There was a roar of explosions and a rumble as each cannon spat out flame and rolled back into the ship, each gunner leaping aside to avoid being crushed by the recoil. At once they swarmed over the guns, ramming down gunpowder, wadding, and another cannonball and readied the pan for another round. Above them on deck they heard the crackle of musket fire. Ned prayed briefly that Rowan was hidden.

“Hold your fire!” Ned yelled. He peered out through a gun port.

“Hold fire!” the gun commander confirmed.

“They’ve dropped sail, they’re not pursuing,” Ned said. “Stand by.”

He waited a moment longer, and then Rowan’s head appeared, leaning down into the hatchway. “The ship’s turning,” she told him. She was pushed aside by a tall man who scrambled down the companionway.

“And who the hell’re you?” the man demanded in a strong Scots accent.

“Well done, lads!” Ned said to the gun crew. “Stand down, stand easy.”

They gave a ragged cheer, rolled back their weapons, and closed the gunports. Each man cleaned his cannon, tidied his station, and closed the store of gunpowder. Ned tipped his cap to the man, obviously a gentleman, one of Monmouth’s officers. “Ned Ferryman, sir.”

“An’ who gave you the order to fire?”

“Monmouth.”

He was thrown. Ned looked around to see that everything was safe, especially that lights were out, and moved towards the ladder.

“I am in command of the gun deck,” the man insisted. “I should have given the order. I am Andrew, Lord Fletcher. Commander of the cavalry.”

“I must report to the duke.”

“I shall report to the duke,” Andrew Fletcher insisted.

Ned stood back to let him lead the way up the ladder and up the companionway to where Monmouth was waiting on the bridge.

“Cannons discharged and rolled back, sire,” Andrew Fletcher said.

“Thank you,” Monmouth said briefly. He turned to Ned. “Will you stay up here on the bridge now, Ferryman? Take a watch. You’ve been of great service to me today. I won’t forget it.” To the steersman he said: “Set a course. Southwest coast of England. Devon.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Monmouth went below and Andrew Fletcher followed him without another word as Rowan appeared out of the darkness.

“You go and sleep,” Ned said. “I’ll come and find you at dawn.”Obediently, she turned to go. “Were you afraid?” he asked her curiously. “When the cannons fired?”

She gave a little shrug of indifference. “The worst has already happened to me,” she said simply. “Anything now is just finishing Misery Swamp.”

“When your king was killed?”

“Killed by a traitor when we were already defeated. Killed before us, and his wife and son captured, and me taken with them,” she said. “We’d rather have died than lose them. But we didn’t die. I saw him go down, and then they took her and his son: our boy.”

He reached for her and turned up the collar of her cloak as if to keep her warm. “There will be a dawn,” he told her. “You’re a child of the Dawnlands. It seems like very dark night now for you, but you’re young, you’ll see a lot of dawns—and they’ll be happier than this one, I promise you.”

THE COFFEEHOUSE, SERLE COURT, LONDON, SPRING 1685