Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 18 - Becoming Acquainted with Goats

Have you ever been on the receiving end of a volley of musketry?  No?  Good, then pray you never do.  It is the single most terrifying thing that I think I have ever experienced and I've experienced it more than once.  After my years as a buccaneer, you would think that I would relish the experience but no, I do not.  I'd rather have clean breeches and the correct number of holes in me rather than face a firing line again.  On this occasion, my first true combat, my arse was squeaking with fright. 

At Cholmeley's signal to advance, a rank of soldiery dashed up the street and stationed themselves between him and us.  With a clattering of equipment, muskets were raised to shoulders and hammers pulled back into the firing position with an ominous, echoing click that reverberated from the walls of the narrow lane. 

"Present!" the Governor cried. 

Seeing what they were about, Ramsbottom cried, "C...c...c...c!" and threw himself under the cart with his hands above his head, still yelling the same thing. 

Not understanding what was about to happen since this was my first time facing battle, I craned my head to see what these men were about.  Seeing what was going to happen, Jack yanked at the collar of my coat and hauled me back behind the cart. 

"Get your fucking head down!" 

"Give fire!" 

Momentarily I wondered whether anything would happen because there was a considerable delay between the order being given and anything happening. I have since become acquainted with the intelligence that this adjustment in one's sense of the passage of time is commonplace among combatants.  In actuality, there was almost no delay between Cholmeley's order and the roaring volley that clattered against the cart, spraying splinters everywhere, filling the lane with a stinking cloud of gunsmoke. 

Screams beside me told of the accuracy of the shots.  A shipmate whose name I never knew had fallen to the road clutching a torn mass of flesh to his face.  Teeth and shreds of flesh were sprayed across my right sleeve.  I bent to help the poor fellow who was howling in agony through the bloodied mass of his jaw but Jack pulled me away before I could achieve anything useful. 

"Get down, you twat!  Jones is going to see to those bastards!" 

"But I need to..." 

"You fucking don't, Tom's done for and so will you be if don't follow my lead!" 

Jack crouched low, keeping as much cart and cartwheel between him and the soldiers.  

"Fix bayonets!"  The order rang clear through the drifting smoke.  

Chilled, I risked a glance and was just able to make out the shapes of men slotting the new style plug bayonet into their muzzles.  I thanked sweet Jesus that they would not be able to shoot again but a quiver within my bowels betrayed my fear.  I did not relish a hand and a half of hot steel slicing my belly open. 

"Advance!"  Cholmeley cried. 

"C...c...c!"  Ramsbottom wept from beneath the cart. 

"We'm fucking for it now, boys!"  another shipmate moaned. 

Two-Tusks Jeremiah, a toothless Cornishman from Port Isaac, who had escaped hanging only because he cut the throat of the chief witness against him, forcing him to flee the wrath of his village, took his cutlass to Ramsbottom's backside.  A sharp prod had the boy scuttling out from beneath the cart, like a crab from beneath a rock.  "You'll do fuck all fucking about down fucking there.  Now fucking get fucking up here and get your fucking gear fucking ready!" 

That was when Jones sprang up from behind the chests on the cart with a grenado in each hand.  His cigar was almost incandescent as he pulled in a huge breath, then touched the fuse of each grenado to the glowing tip.  Smoke and sparks poured immediately from each bomb like a fountain and Jones cast them deep into the street before they burnt too low.