David Cook's Blog - Posts Tagged "kindle"

'Captain, have you read about the Great Siege of Malta?' Grech asked.
'I have,' Gamble replied carefully.
'Then you will realise that the Turks and the French are more alike than you could possibly think.'
'How so?'
'It taught the world that a population; thought as nothing more than peasants, could unite in the face of invasion. That they could show courage and honour in desperate times, and dispel the destructiveness of religious hatred. Boys, who had become battle-weary veterans of the Italian campaigns, had sailed here to conquer Malta. But Captain, let me tell you, they have not. Have you heard of Fort St Elmo?'
Gamble stiffened, and threw away the stone. 'I have heard the name,' he said, wondering if Grech was trying to embarrass him by his lack of historical knowledge, but he considered it was something else.
'The Turkish fleet arrived with men who had conquered the fields of Europe with their scimitars, elite cavalry mounted on giant horses and devil-men who wore the skins of beasts. Their artillery numbered hundreds and they battered the fort's walls for days. Inside were Knights of St. John. And amidst that hell-fire they refused to surrender. Wave upon wave of screaming Turks then tried to capture the breaches, but the defenders repelled them all. They fought with pikes, swords, axes, blocks of stones and their bare hands. They invented fire-hoops; wooden rings, wrapped in layers of cotton, flax, brandy, gunpowder, turpentine, and ignited and rolled to the enemy. Trumps; hollow metal tubes filled with flammable sulphur resin and linseed oil; and when lit, blasted flame like dragon's breath. Many Turks with their flowing robes died from these new weapons. For thirty days the Knights held out. Eventually, they claimed their prize. But the Turks turned to Valletta. And they had done something utterly despicable which angered God. They mutilated the defenders, stuck their heads on pikes and floated the decapitated bodies of their officers across the harbour on wooden crosses. It was designed to cause distress and it would have, had it not been for God turning the tide.'
'God?' Gamble said, raising an eyebrow.
'Yes, Captain. God. The sun burned like a furnace, and it was said the dead left unburied in the fort blackened and burst spreading disease to the Turkish camp. They tried to take the city, but the defenders out-thought them and out-fought them. God had blessed them with plenty of supplies and ammunition. Even when autumn winds brought rain the defenders muskets and pistols felled the Muslim attackers. Then a relief force from Scilly smashed the Turks aside. They routed and were pursued across the island, dying in droves from my vengeful ancestors. It is said the waters of St Paul's Bay turned blood red. The Knights had won. Malta had been saved.'
'God,' Gamble said again.
Grech's eyes narrowed. 'Am I to believe that you are not a Christian?'
'I believe in a good musket,' Gamble replied flatly. 'I believe in the British Navy. I believe in wiping the earth of the bastard French.'
Grech grimaced. 'I see,' his grey eyes flashed at Zeppi, before turning back. 'We have been sent one company of men. Godless men at that, I might add.' He rubbed the ends of his beard through long fingers.
'Godless men who'll free your country,' Gamble said with a menacing glare. 'What were you trying to tell me with your story?'
'I want to see the French defeated,' Grech said. 'I want our people free. I want the world to see our victory as a beacon for Christianity.'
'You're doing this for God?'
'Yes,' Grech said, 'and so should you.'
Gamble shook his head. 'No, I'm doing this because I've been sent here by my superiors.'
Grech's mouth tightened with a smile. 'And just who told them to send you here?'

A bullet snatched a Marine backwards. Gamble felt a ball fan past his head. He turned just in time to see a Frenchman approach the nearest window of the barracks and lunge with a bayonet-tipped musket. Gamble brought his sword up and knocked the blade aside as the Frenchman, who had a gold front tooth, pulled the trigger. The musket spat angrily, and sent a gout of hot smoke into thin air. Gamble lunged and the heavy cutlass scraped against his assailants ribs. He let the man fall away onto one of the sleeping cots.
Somewhere a man was crying pitifully and another was gasping and breathing hoarsely like an exhausted animal. The goat was bleating madly and two of the horses had bolted free to entangle the group of French by the steps. A musket banged; it was a lighter, smaller bang, and Gamble knew it had been a carbine.
'Lieutenant Riding-Smyth!' he called out.
His little subaltern appeared immediately. 'Yes, sir?'
'Take ten men into the barracks and clear the rooms out.' Gamble didn't want any enemies threatening his rear as he advanced. 'Go in with the steel, and prod the bastards out.'
'Yes, sir!' Sam blanched, but disappeared with Corporal Tom MacKay's section.
Gamble looked at the remainder of his men. 'Advance! At the double!'
The French fired again and another Marine hit in the leg, fell against the well. He stood, hobbled a few steps, then had to steady himself on the masonry for support as bright blood spread on his breeches above the knee. A Frenchman, barefooted, tripped on the araar's roots and as he got up Corporal Forge shot him through the forehead, spattering blood and brain matter over the hanging washing. Marine William Marsh knocked an enemy to the ground, then stepped over his body to shoot dead a Frenchman who was aiming a pistol at Forge.
Gamble could sense that this fight was almost over, could feel it in his instincts, and his blood and bones. He knew they had won. Then he looked up to see Zeppi fighting desperately with the French sergeant. Gamble cursed. The damned fool! What the hell did he think he was doing?
'Take command, Archie!' he said to Powell. 'Press them hard! Zeppi!' he yelled with cupped hands to his mouth and ran through the powder-stink of the volleys.
Five Frenchmen had already given up and each one had thrown down his weapon in submission. Two were bent down, hands touching the ground. The officer still at the doorway pulled up a small pistol and trained it on Gamble as he surged through the smoke and pulled the trigger. The bullet smacked into the stonework of the barracks. The French officer cursed at his haste and saw that the Marines were too close so he closed the door and bolted it shut. Gamble jumped a body killed by the Marines volley, and flicked bayonets away with his sword as he approached the steps. He saw a Frenchman, naked to his waist, aim his musket, but had to trust that the bullet would not strike him. He heard the snap of the doghead and saw the muzzle flash, but the ball missed him as he ran on. A French artilleryman tried to kick Gamble in the face, but Gamble let the leg come forward and caught the boot and tugged hard so that the man fell backwards onto the steps. Gamble heard his head smack painfully on stone. Then man attempted to move but Gamble kicked him in the jaw for good measure, and the man slid down the steps grasping his face. A musket exploded and a bullet slashed against the top part of Gamble's leather boots as he ran forward.
'Zeppi!' Gamble saw Kennedy knock a Frenchman down and kept him prone with his pistol. 'Harry! I thought you were watching the bastard!'
'I'm sorry, sir,' Harry replied, 'he just ran ahead without warning.'
'Zeppi!'
The guide had managed to break free of Kennedy's watchful eye and, armed with a long knife, charged with the Marines when they stormed across gun emplacements. He watched as a Marine and a French soldier try to bayonet each other, the clash of blades rang like smiths hammers, and he ran up and plunged his knife into the Frenchman's neck.
'You Godless animal!' he hissed like a lit fuse.
Blood pulsed as he disengaged to stagger away and collapse on the steps. Zeppi, driven by hatred, pounced on the dying man, but an enemy appeared below him and a long French bayonet went through his side. Zeppi howled, collapsed and tumbled down the steps. He looked up to his enemy to see a bearded man with a bony face and knew death when he saw it.
And it was coming for the Frenchman.
The French sergeant raised his bayonet to finish off his prey, but then turned when he saw the Maltese man look past him. The British officer was running straight at him, cutlass gripped in two hands, and he swung it with a roar and with such force that the heavy blade cut through the sergeant's neck like a scythe reaping grass. The head toppled down the sand-strewn steps and the body crumpled to ooze like a broken wineskin.

The 28th left Rotheheim in a terrible snowstorm.
They were the last regiment to leave the town. Two troops of cavalry: a Light Dragoon and a French émigré protected the rear-guard, but in the driving snow it was hard to see the man in the next file let alone if the enemy were close, or who was who.
The wind brought snow and ice into the men’s eyes causing them to curse and stumble. One man who had lost his boots a month before, and whose toes had all turned black, collapsed from exhaustion. His body instantly spotted white and as the wind howled across the fields the British cavalry passed him unnoticed and forgotten. Men sobbed and shuffled in the storm. They were benumbed with cold and bitterly hungry as no food or wine had been left for them at the town.
They passed frozen corpses lining the road, like markers showing the way to hell. They were humped grotesque shapes, like snow-covered barrows. Hallam stared at one. The man had been a redcoat and had been there for many days. His face was blackened by wind and half-buried in snow so that his grotesque face seemed to watch the men who passed him by. They passed the bloated corpses of horses then Hallam saw another body and almost wept.
In his long service career he had seen some terrible things. He’d seen men shredded into ribboned meat by canister, a friend decapitated by a roundshot and another die of a horrible wasting disease, but nothing had prepared him for this. The body was a young woman. Late teens. Her hair was copper-coloured and she resembled Isabel for she had been strikingly good looking in life. Her eyes were blessedly shut and her thin mouth closed. Her bodice was open, her breasts were exposed and the lower half of her was hidden under snow. Hallam bent over, not to gaze at her body, but because he couldn’t make out what was lying next to her. He had to hold a hand to his eyes to shield them from the weather. Beside her, in a tight bundle and as though it had been tossed aside, was her child. Its little face was blue and its eyes were open. Hallam struggled to keep what little food he had in his stomach down.
‘Nice tits,’ said one of the redcoats who saw woman.
‘Eyes front!’ Hallam turned on the man with a sudden fury. He stood and spoke to the rest of the company. ‘If I so much as catch one of you bastards looking at her, you will be put on a charge!’
‘Is that a..?’ Stubbington started, but blanched.
‘Yes,’ Hallam said solemnly.
Stubbington stood aghast. ‘How did this happen? How?’ he appealed.
Hallam could offer no reason. ‘You best return to your post,’ he could only think to say.
When the ensign had gone, Hallam wrenched a frozen saddlecloth from one of the horses to cover her waxen body. He tucked the baby underneath it and said a brief prayer and, because he was not a God-faring man, he couldn’t recite much. When he finished he stood for a while in solace. He shivered and pulled his scarf closer to his neck and mouth. Then with nothing more to say, he glanced back into the pale sour light behind where nothing moved and walked on.