Believe or Die (18 page)

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Richard Mead who waited until the derisive chortling and snorting had subsided then tossed Ketch’s purse on the ground between them.

“Mayhaps sooner than you think Master Shalley,” he stated.

The men had heard the ‘clink’ as the purse landed and now they just stared at it for some minutes unwilling to touch it least it disappeared. Finally, Doggett slowly reached out, gingerly picked it up, and opened the drawstring watched intently by his comrades. At length he withdrew a single coin, frowned at it for a while, turning it this way and that, and then bit it. He looked at his audience and grinned.

“The Lord shall provide,” he smiled.

Poulton and Hitch glared suspiciously at Mead.

“It’s half our owed back pay, both yours and mine; payment in advance for a task that needs doing. Other half gets paid when the job’s done.”

“Full arrears? No dithering? No treasurers begrudging every ha’penny?” demanded Poulton.

“Aye, full payment.”

“Who do we have to murder?” asked Hitch half-smiling.

“Well, there’s the rub,” admitted Mead.

There were no dissenters. Each had his own reasons for going. Mead held nothing back, their futures were worth nought if they refused, and their comrade’s pay would almost certainly never appear if they refused.

“Doggett, you and I will see to the mounts: five good riders and three for packs or remounts if required. Corporal Hitch, you and Shalley look to our provisions, also shelters, tobacco and clothing. Corporal Poulton, as soon as Doggett is happy with the horses, I wish you to accompany me to seek arms for the venture … why do you grin at me Poulton?”

“Well Sir, could be that we don’t have to seek too hard for armaments, eh lads?” and he exchanged a further grin with his comrades.

“Care to explain Corporal? You had to hand in your weapons to the provosts did you not?”

Unlike Mead, who, as a ‘Gentleman’ had been allowed to keep his sword and pistols, all other ranks not following the flag had been disarmed.

“Weapons, yes Sir. Aye, we handed in
arms
right enough. But the order just said ‘Arms to be handed in’. No one ever said it had to be
our
arms as was handed over did they boys?”

“Am I to believe you still have …?”

“A good ‘tuck’, a musket, and a brace of pistols apiece Sir,” beamed Poulton.

“Anything else Poulton?”

“Well, I couldn’t let ‘em have me hammer Sir, carried it for too long now.”

“And I suppose then that you, Corporal Hitch, still have your axe?”

“That be part of me Sir, wouldn’t be right to just give it away.”

“Shalley’s still got them fancy screw-together pistols he’s so fond of an’ all,” added Doggett.

“Has he indeed. Has he so! Is there anything else in our armoury?”

“Oh, just me old fowling piece, well an’me cutlass of course, an’ … ” Poulton’s voice trailed off into a mumble.

“AND?” demanded Mead.

“Grenades Captain.”

“Grenadoes! God cursed Grenadoes?” exclaimed Mead who had witnessed terrible accidents with the erratic, unpredictable devices. “Are you mad? They’re as dangerous to the thrower as they are to the enemy!”

“Not these un’s Sir. Made ‘em mesen,” replied Doggett in an offended tone.

“So you see Sir, with a good stock of powder and shot, by the Lord, we won’t have a fear for anything we meet on the road,” stated Poulton.

“On account of us being the deadliest pilgrims on the road like!” smirked Hitch.

“Very well then. It seems the Lord, who as we know works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, has provided. Even if he did so by means of such devious felons as yourselves! So then, let’s get to it.” And the party went to their allotted tasks.

Mead found an odd kind of enjoyment in the purchasing of the horses. It was a strangely satisfying experience after all the duplicity of humankind. The Provinder glared in disgust at the old nags Richard had put in as part-exchange, but he was clearly under orders and so held his tongue. Doggett took his time in selection but finally opted for five prime, and three not-so prime animals. The Provinder pursed his lips, grimaced, then summoned his clerk.

“How much are these mounts?” inquired Mead. No price had been mentioned, let alone been haggled over and Richard hoped they were going to cost Ketch a might of pain to his finances.

“What care you Sir? I am instructed to remit the bill to Master Ketch.”

“Idle curiosity. How much?”

“Ten pound apiece,” shrugged the man.

“Hah!” exclaimed Doggett. “We brought better than these for six pound at Huntington Fair less than a year back!”

“Indeed,” agreed Mead. “The New Model pay only seven pound and ten shillings for theirs, and four pound for a dragoon’s nag. Do you intend to cheat Master Ketch?”

“Not I!” spluttered the Provinder alarm spreading over him like a tidal wave. “Never in life Sir! I respond only to supply and demand. Perhaps my valuation was a little on the high side, indeed, maybes when I come to look more closely at the beasts … ”

“Stay. Charge Master Ketch your stated price, BUT, for that outrageous, nay, CRIMINAL, amount of coin, you will provide all tack, pack and harness. Do I make myself clear Master Provinder?”

“Perfectly clear Sir,” snarled the man between clenched teeth.

Shortly thereafter, Mead and Doggett, well pleased with their purchases, led the horses back to rejoin their companions. Doggett was a quiet man by nature, except in battle. When the fray was at its thickest, Doggett became a veritable cyclone of fury screaming like a banshee and his eyes ablaze with Old Testament fury. Then it would be over, and ‘Doggett the Berserker’ would fall to his knees and pray with tears cascading from his eyes. Now he was quiet, indeed, even quieter than usual, and that meant he was ether pondering on an issue or trying to remember something. Mead watched the big man out of the corner of his eye. The silence was indicative of something, something was on Doggett’s mind alright. Has he had second thoughts about the mission? Mead started felling apprehensive, then …

“Where did you say we was bound Captain?” asked Doggett.

“Gloucestershire. Not sure exactly where in Gloucestershire as yet, the truth to tell, but that is the county we must visit.”

Doggett nodded then resumed his speechless pipe sucking. They plodded on in companionable silence for another minute or two then Doggett spoke again.

“I was talkin’ with one of Oakey’s dragoons. They just come back from them parts.”

‘Have they indeed? Did they come across Ephraim Tatchell in their travels?”

“No, not so I heard. But this here dragoon, his brother used to live near me once, anyways, he said as how Gloucestershire was a nice, peaceful part of the world compared to much of what we seen nowadays.”

“Not so sure of that Doggett. By the Lord, Edgehill’s close by the county, and there was nothing ‘peaceful’ about that back in ’42!”

“True enough Captain. But this here lad I’m speaking of, though he didn’t come across no witches or such, he did bump into a body we know. Seems that someone’s set up a nice little business roundabouts that part of this Godforsaken land of ours.”

“Don’t talk in riddles Doggett, I’m far too tired. Who pray tell is this person we know? And in Gloucester for all love?”

“Annie Trivett Sir,” grinned Doggett.

Mead stopped abruptly causing the mounts to shy and protest.

“Annie is in Gloucestershire? Are you sure?”

“That’s what the dragoon said,” shrugged Doggett.

“But what business could … ?” Richard’s voice tailed off as the realisation hit him.

“Well, you know Annie Sir,” winked Doggett pulling the horses onwards.

They proceeded on their way. Richard Mead was now worried, very worried. Obviously, Annie Trivett had opened up a whorehouse somewhere in Gloucestershire. No doubt, even in these ‘pious’ times, it was a roaring success. No doubt too, it would be the talk of the county. And therein lay the problem. Whoremasters, or mistresses were very much a favourite target for Puritan outrage and Tatchell, self-appointed Witchfinder, was abroad in Gloucestershire.

Wil Pitkin had gone beyond despair, far beyond any previous nadir in his pitiful existence, and into a realm he’d never known existed, a kind of twilight world that was both mentally dark and physically painful. Yet the tall Moor in the sombre clothing, whom he now knew (courtesy of a now dead fellow slave) to actually be a Dutchman called De Rood, had been right. Hatred was indeed a powerful motivator and it had enabled him to survive thus far. By focusing his mental venom upon Richard Mead, he had found an inner strength that had propelled him through one miserable day at a time. But the ‘poison’ had spread through him like a contagion. He now had a profound loathing of all mankind. Pity had been removed from his make up and the deaths and torture he witnessed on an almost daily basis now left him totally unmoved. The weak shall inherit the Earth? Not in this world’s lifetime! He found it difficult to believe now that he had once fought in a war that had largely been caused by religion. What did those petty Christian bickerings amount to? Here on the Barbary Coast, Jesus, Jehovah, Christ, God, call these deities by whatever name chosen, none of them existed here! Pitkin had seen preachers and followers of every creed whimper and die in the slave pens. He had seen all species of the devout blister and perish under the merciless African sun, forsaken by their
Gods.
Religion now equated with weakness in Pitkin’s eyes. A pox on God!

“Not a wise thing to say Englishman,” admonished the Dutchman scaring Wil witless. Yet again he hadn’t seen or heard De Rood approach, and certainly hadn’t been aware he had been talking out loud.

“You have need of God,” continued De Rood. “By that I mean the God who rules this land and all other domains to the East. Bear this in mind. And now, have you suffered enough yet Englishman? Is your hatred for your fellow man now sufficient for you to change your life?”

Pitkin squinted up through the sweat and glare trying to focus on the dark figure.

“How can
I
change my life Lord?” he almost laughed, but knew he must not, not only was it forbidden, but his precarious grip on his sanity might not allow him to ever stop once he started. “How Lord? I am a slave, worthless.”

“Worthless only if you choose to remain that way. Worthless only … if you remain a Christian.”

Pitkin sighed heavily and lowered his eyes to the ground.

“I am no longer a Christian Lord.”

“I believe you. Yet neither are you a follower of the Prophet, blessings be upon him. Thus, you are nothing at this time.”

A kind of tentative realisation clambered feebly through Pitkin’s ragged brain.

“You want me to turn Moor?”

“What I want is of no consequence. Just as, if you continue in your dismal apathy, your very existence is of no consequence to me. However, if you wish to become free, free of your current slavery that is, you must turn to Allah, the one, true, and only God. From this, other things will follow.”

“Other things Lord?”

De Rood looked carefully around. Pitkin wondered if he was making sure no one else was in earshot.

“Just so,” said De Rood. “Wealth, power and all the trappings of a successful man. In short, a new life.”

Pitkin found he was trembling; perhaps it was the sun.

“Well, my old life has done me no favours Lord,” he tried to smile but it hurt his blistered lips. “What must I do?”

“You will presently be unchained. You will, soon after, give your oath to my Master Yusef. You will also give your oath of personal loyalty and fidelity to me and believe me Englishman, that is not an oath you will default on in any way. Should you ever give me cause to regret my decision in having you released, retribution will be long, agonising, and final.”

Pitkin nodded.

“What happens now Lord?”

De Rood barked some orders to an overseer who salaamed mightily and disappeared.

“Now you will be unchained, taken from this place and cleansed. Then you will renounce the Christian Trinity and raise your forefinger. This means you apostatise and embrace Islam.”

“Is that all Lord?”

“No. You will then be hurt and humiliated. And when I say ‘hurt’, believe my words.

Once this process has been started, you must see it through to its conclusion. Show any hesitancy and the manner of your death will be excruciating.”

“Will it be worth it Lord? You make me think of going from the frying pan to the fire.”

“It will if you wish to begin a new life. Remember, you are very close to escaping from your current Hell. This you can do if you are strong enough. Now come, let us begin the preparations.”

The shackles were removed from his limbs and Pitkin gasped at the sudden bout of pain this caused.

“One question only Lord if you please?”

“Well?”

“What I am about to experience, did you go through the same?”

“I did. Now come.”

Having bathed and been fed, after a fashion, Pitkin found himself housed with four others, one being an Englishman of middling years and another a young Scot of perhaps eighteen or so. The youngster seemed to be having second thoughts and was worried that once he’d converted, which he was really doing to escape further beatings, his family would not be able to ransom him. Pitkin looked at the lad uncomprehendingly. Ransom? What was this? The older Englishman simply guffawed and shook his head pityingly. After a while he looked up and glared at the Scot.

“Know you how long I’ve been in this cesspool boy? Fifteen years as near as I can reckon it. Fifteen years! I gave up any thoughts of being ransomed long ago. These pirates have been raiding our coasts for nigh on fifty years and have taken countless poor souls into slavery. And how many pray tell have been ransomed back? None that I know of! Never a one! Even if your kin could raise enough money, your country doesn’t give a shit, be it King or Parliament who rules. They don’t care about the likes of us. And do you not get to thinking that by turning Moor you’re going to be freed. Not ‘free’ the way you are a-thinking. If you’re valuable to these heathen demons, make your mark with ‘em like, you’ll do well enough, but you won’t be
free
boy and that’s a fact. If you don’t come up to the mark with ‘em, you’ll be back in the pens in the wink of an eye.”