Flashman and the Throne of Swords
Chapter 21
by Technomad
As you can no doubt imagine, the modern comforts of Angus' ship, the Glasgow Lassie, were very welcome indeed. I'd had more than enough of pounding my arse into a pulp in a primitive saddle, more than enough of camping out in all sorts of weather, more than enough gloomy medieval fortresses, and more than enough bloody Westeros to sate me. If I could've kept an ounce of my credit, I'd have told Angus to make course for London, sharpish. The seasons here were out of whack with Home, but I thought that the Season (1) was soon to be upon us, and I'd be missing the house-parties, the dances, and the fun of London in general. I could have cursed Vicky's retentive memory, or the day she first fancied my lancer figure and tart-catchers.
As it was, though, a chance to relax, safe at sea from the many perils of traveling through a war-torn country, was nothing I'd have passed up. Angus did himself well in his accomodations, and he had space for passengers. "Aye," he nodded, when I brought the subject up, "David Livingstone's taken passage wi' me, more than once! That man's got an itch for travel as big as yours, Harry!" If he only knew! Given a free choice, I'd divide my time between London and our house, Gandamack Lodge, up by Ashby, and foreign travel could go hang. But, somehow, I never did get my own way on these things. I could resolve, swearing on a stack of Bibles a yard high, never, ever to stir from Britain again, and along would come some hideously unlikely set of circumstances, like a war with Russia of all the impossibilities (2) and I'd be off for the far horizons, my belly quaking and my liver, if folk only knew, as yellow as yesterday's custard.
Angus' Cookie was a true artist at his craft, and good solid British fare was just what I wanted after so long. I remembered Spring's Cookie aboard the Lady of Shalott, and felt a moment's unaccustomed pang of regret. Spring hadn't forgotten or forgiven his crew deserting us, and I was very glad I was not the subject of his ire, for once.
"Aye," Spring growled, "'twill be a dark night for those scoundrels when I catch up to them! Ira regis mors est, (3) to be sure…but the same can be said of me! Any captain is a king on his own quarterdeck!" He went on, in Latin and English, describing what he'd got planned for his absconding crew, and the parts I could understand chilled me to the bone.
Mind, I'd no particular tenderness for Spring's crew. They had abandoned us on a wild coast, known to be inhabited by a savage people, and 'twas no fault of theirs that we were alive, well, and in good state to be in Kings Landing in a few days. Just the same, knowing Spring as well as I did, I'd not have wished his wrath on my worst enemy. Even Rudi Starnberg (4), damn his eyes, deserved better! And Spring could go on and on about that subject, never repeating himself, like the never-wearied rook. I avoided his company as much as possible, as was wise for anybody when that accursed scar on his head was pulsing as dark as it was. I've never in all my life run into someone with a scar on his forehead who was good. Brain injuries ne'er made anybody better.
While I'd been congratulating myself on being safe at sea, the seas 'round Westeros were not perfectly safe, as I found out the morning after we'd set out from the Twins. We'd come to the end of the river, and were out in salt water, when the lookout in the mast shouted "Sail ahoy! Sail off the port bow!"
Angus was up in the rigging directly, leveling a spyglass at the strange sail. "She's not British, I can tell that much. She's got one large sail, a squares'l, and that means she's local."
This caught Spring's attention; he'd been in Westerosi waters for some time. He'd a spyglass of his own, which he'd kept by him in his traps somehow. Soon he had it out and was inspecting the strange ship. "Aye, Sir Harry, she's coming for us! What colors is she flying, I wonder?" With the wind in the direction it was, it was hard to see what flag she had. Behind my impassive façade, my yellow belly started to do the polka. Strange ships, when far-foreign (and you couldn't get much farther foreign than we were!) were not necessarily friendly, or well-disposed. And Westeros was a primitive enough country, even many ostensibly-respectable ships' captains were probably not above a spot of piracy. I remembered the Shipman in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, (5) and had devil a doubt that he had his counterparts in this world.
Angus returned to the maindeck, muttering to himself. "Aye, she may be harmless enough, but I'll no' take chances, not in these unchancy waters! Mister Trelawney, bring up loads and get the guns loaded!" Like any other well-advised British ship in exotic climes, the Glasgow Lassie mounted cannon (6). Her armament would've seemed risible next to a Royal Navy warship of her size, much less an East Indiaman (7), but in these parts, with gunpowder almost entirely a monopoly of ours, they would do very nicely indeed.
Soon, the cannon were loaded, with crews standing by, and the crewmen not needed to con the ship had been issued with rifle-muskets (I noted that they bore the VR stamp, (8) and wondered how Angus had come by 'em, but this wasn't the time to make awkward inquiries) so that we could give any unwelcome boarders a warm welcome. Cutlasses were placed in racks on the deck, so that any sailor who needed one could grab it quickly. And I'd seen how effective British cutlass drill was, in Borneo. (9)
Spring and I were also armed. I had the Whitworth in my arms, with one of the last precious rounds for the rifle down the spout, and my barker in my belt. To look at me, you'd think I was Dick Dauntless himself, when inside, I was wishing bitterly for some safe place to hide. Fighting off screaming mobs of piratically-inclined primitives is something I normally bar.
Spring, on the other hand, was itching for a good scrap. He was running his thumb down the edge of his cutlass, nodding approvingly to himself, "Sic semper piratis! (10) Those scum dare meddle with honest merchants, do they now? Well, too bad for 'em, but gladiator in arena consilium capit! (11)" He looked up at me and gave me a ghastly grin. "If they're hostile, we'll soon be at handwork with em! Aut cum scuto aut in scuto, eh? (12)"
I managed to give him a nod, keeping a grim expression on like the upcoming fight was just the very thing I wanted. It fooled him, but I'd been fooling far shrewder and saner folk than John Charity Spring for decades. By that time, the act was all but second-nature and the mask had grown to my face, or my face to the mask.
Closer and closer the strange ship came. One of our Westerosi crew came up to Angus. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, sir, but that's an ironborn longship. She's flyin' Ironmaker colours, sir, an' I've seen her before. She's the Sea Snake, Dagon Ironmaker's own ship."
"Are they likely tae try it on wi' us, or let us go our way in peace?" snapped Angus. The crewman shook his head.
"Dunno, sir. The Ironbreakers're not fond of the new ways, where they've been forced to give up reaving. They're not as dangerous as Euron Greyjoy is reputed to be, but wise men take no chances with 'em."
Closer and closer the ironborn ship came. Soon I could make her crew out, standing watching us like cats do mice. They were an unchancy looking lot, reminding me of Vikings with their heavy furry cloaks whipping in the wind. Their dark skin and hair also put me in mind of the pirates that had followed Suleiman Usman, the d—d nigger who'd dared kidnap my Elspeth (13). Neither association was one I contemplated with any joy.
Finally, the ironborn ship challenged. An arrow, launched by what had to be a very fine archer indeed, streaked through the sky and thunked into our mainmast. Across the water, a shout came: "Lower your colours, and get ready to receive boarders!"
"Mister Trelawney, you may return the compliment, if you please," said Angus, cool as though he were on the deck of HMS Victory. The gunner nodded, sighting down the barrel of the bow-chaser, and then stepped aside, pulling the lanyard. The bow-chaser roared, spewing out a cloud of sulfurous-smelling white smoke, and I could see the consternation on the ironborns' faces as the shot howled overhead. They hadn't expected such a warm welcome. Angus shouted back "Leave us alone! We're peaceful merchants, and at war with nobody in this world!"
"Peaceful merchants are our prey! We are the Ironborn, and we do not sow!" With that, the pirates began to shower us with arrows, and our crew began returning fire. The ironborn had never encountered firearms before, and if I'd been out of danger myself, I'd have laughed at their confusion. As their ship came alongside ours, Mr. Trelawney fired the other cannons, as they came to bear. Several round shot struck home, smashing big holes in the Sea Snake'ssides. She was lightly built, not intended to take much punishment, and I was surprised to see that the pirates didn't sheer off while the sheering was good. I'd've done so in a heartbeat.
By the most cursed foul luck, a shot from the Glasgow Lassie hit the ironborn helmsman. He slumped, pulling the steering oar with him, and the Sea Snake crashed into the Glasgow Lassie with a crunch that shook both ships. The ironborn yelled, swarming over our gunnels with their swords and axes, very like Vikings.
I was wishing I was safely up the rigging, but I hadn't thought of that in time. I fired the Whitworth, making sure to take careful aim, and took down a howling berserker who was just clambering aboard us. He slumped back aboard the Sea Snake with the back of his head blown out, and I slung the Whitworth, drawing my barker and wishing I had something with more authority, like a Colt Walker Dragoon or a Tranter. With my other hand, I snatched up a cutlass. My sabre was below, worse luck, but I've had enough experience to be able to handle a cutlass, although not as well as a trained Navy tar.
It looked to me like a lot of Angus' crew were trained Navy tars. They formed up and counter-attacked the pirates, their cutlasses rising and falling in unison, doing dreadful damage. I could see that the ironborn had not anticipated such fierce resistance. Their expressions were full of startlement and awe.
Unfortunately, awed or not, they had no give in them. I had noted before that whatever else Westeros had in abundance, it seemed to be severely short of cowards. And with others' eyes on me, there was nothing for it but to get stuck in myself.
John Charity Spring, damn him, was in his element. He'd emptied his revolver at the oncoming horde, and I'd give oath he put paid to at least two of 'em. He was always a dab hand with weapons of any sort, and with his berserker fury on him, I'd have said that the only man who could stand up to him, one-on-one, in Westeros was the giant knight Ser Gregor Clegane. In that state, I'd not have squared off with him for a pension and a title.
He hurled himself at the ironborn, screaming "Habet!" at the top of his lungs, for all the world like a Roman gladiator. Before they could do anything, he was in among them, laying about himself left, right, front and back in fine style (those evenings in the Oriel common room weren't wasted, thought I) and clearly having the time of his life. The other sailors yelled and charged on in to support him, and I came along right behind them, flourishing my cutlass and making encouraging noises.
The situation on deck deteriorated rapidly into a mad scramble, with blades flashing everywhere, interspersed with the bark of pistols. With nowhere to run, I slashed at every ironman in reach, yelling incoherent obscenities and threats. From what I could see, the British had the upper hand, and I had hopes that the fight would end without me having to take more than a nominal part.
Alas for hope! A huge ironborn, roaring like a wild beast, charged through the line of sailors, straight at me. He had a huge sword in his hand, and drew it back to cleave me from crown to crutch. Instinctively, I stop-thrust at his chest, and although the cutlass I was using wasn't really designed for such uses (a cutlass is a slashing weapon, not a thrusting one) skewered him right through his breastbone, neat as you please. A torrent of blood came out of his mouth, his eyes rolled back and he fell onto his knees, hitting the deck with a thump like the fall of an oak of a thousand years.
This seemed to be the signal for the ironmen's morale to break. Suddenly they were scrambling for the gunnels, trying to get back aboard the Sea Snake. I stared at the man I'd killed, trying to make sense of what had happened. When they were back aboard their ship, the ironmen began pushing with anything they could find, trying to untangle themselves from the Glasgow Lassie. Mr. Trelawney encouraged this with several shots from the cannon. At point-blank range, a blind idiot couldn't have missed, and I could tell that he was a crack gunner. The balls smashed into the Sea Snake, and she began to break up. As we disengaged, I could see the ironmen's ship sinking under them. I'd heard that they worshipped a "Drowned God." If so, I hoped they were ready to meet him, since they would, very soon.
There were a few casualties aboard the Glasgow Lassie, but not so many as to make her difficult to handle, at least for prime seamen such as these. Most of the bodies strewn about the decks were ironmen. I noticed that the crew were looking at me, and Spring, in some awe. They apparently hadn't expected "landlubbers" to be such men of their hands.
The Westerosi crewman had survived, and was staring at the man I'd killed. "Ser Harry," he quavered, "do you know who this is?"
I shook my head, suddenly dreadfully weary. I was tired…tired of this horrible country where everybody seemed to be trying to kill me, tired of the sea, tired of everything. "No. Should I?"
"That's Dagon Ironbreaker! He's the son of one of the Iron Islands' main noblemen! This'll make your name!" The rest of the crew raised a weary cheer, while I tried to look modest. Inside, I was wishing there was someplace private where I could go spew up my dinner.
Even John Charity Spring was looking at me with reluctant respect. "Apparently, your reputation doesn't tell the half of it, does it, Sir Harry?" he grunted. "And here I'd always discounted most of it as exaggeration or lies." He shook his head. "Aye, well…I've been wrong before."
The crew began clearing up the mess, putting the bodies by the rail to be prepared for burial at sea, and I sank down on a capstan, my head aching. I wished with all my heart that I was back in Kings Landing, or, better still, in London.
If I'd known what awaited me in Kings Landing, I'd have swum away and joined the ironmen.
[1] "The Season" was the London social season, in which wealthy people visited each other, gave parties, and enjoyed themselves. The Flashmans were ornaments of it.
[2] The Crimean War. See Flashman at the Charge.
[3] "Ira regis mors est"-"the wrath of a king is death" in Latin.
[4] Rudi Starnberg had been part of the plot to force Flashman to impersonate a Danish Prince and marry the Duchess of Strackenz. He was not one of Flashman's favorite people for a good many reasons.
[5] See the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales. Many "respectable" ship captains in the Middle Ages were by no means averse to piracy, particularly against national enemies.
[6] Up until the late nineteenth century, many civilian vessels mounted cannon, particularly those likely to be in waters known to be infested with pirates, or during wartime to deal with privateer attacks.
[7] An "East Indiaman" was a huge merchant ship of one of the various East India Companies, often with as many cannon as a warship of similar size. Since they carried vast wealth, in dangerous waters, they had to be very well-armed indeed.
[8] The VR stamp marked them as being, or having been, government property. That said, it does not follow that Angus Morrison had acquired them illegally. At this time, the British army was changing over from the muzzle-loading Enfield to the breech-loading Snider rifle, and many muzzle-loaders were on the market very cheaply.
[9] Flashman had seen this while in action with Rajah James Brooke, against pirates in Borneo. See Flashman's Lady.
[10] "Sic semper piratis"-"thus always to pirates" in Latin.
[11] "Gladiator in arena consilium capit"-"the gladiator makes plans in the arena" in Latin. By this, Spring means that he's already ready for a fight.
[12] "Aut cum scuto aut in scuto"-"with one's shield, or on it" in Latin.
[13] Suleiman Usman, known in Britain as Solomon Haslam, had led a double life as a Borneo pirate and London businessman before becoming infatuated with Elspeth Flashman and kidnapping her, intending to "rescue" her from her husband, whom he knew to be unfaithful. See Flashman's Lady.
