The Curse of Glenn Hall

WAR AND PIRACY
CHAPTER FIVE
The invasion came in the month of May in the year 1658. Cristoval de Ysasi recruited his forces from Mexico, and landed at Rio Nuevo, not far from Dunn’s River. His forces were much bigger than the small band that erected a laughable stockade two years before. Ysasi and his men instead built a strong fort on a cliff near the river’s west bank, and included a number of powerful cannon.

Owen Glenn’s hand actually trembled as he read the document sent to him by Captain Jonathan Barnett. He glanced at the sergeant in front of him, standing at attention, and hoped silently that he had not betrayed his fear. Where was Morgan? He missed his countryman, with whom he could have shared his fears and concerns. But the Welshman had quit the militia, and the last Owen had heard of him, Morgan had joined the crew of a trading vessel operating off the south coast of the island.

His eyes returned to the document, and he noted that Colonel Edward D’Oyley had summoned all officers to an emergency meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He returned the brief to the sergeant, exchanged salutes, and watched as the soldier marched out of his living room.

Owen turned, and walked slowly into the bedroom, casting his eyes towards the bed. Molly stirred, took her eyes off the wall, and met his. But the fire was not there in her black, piercing eyes. As Owen knelt at the bedside and took her thin hand in his, he observed that she was a shadow of the woman he had met in that pub a couple of years ago.

Molly forced a smile. “What was that about, Owen?”

Her voice was hoarse and weak. Owen tried to match her smile.

“These Spanish curs are coming back for another whipping. They have landed on the north coast.”

A look of concern came over her face.

“Do be careful, darling. Those Spaniards are dangerous men.”

“I will,” he promised, gently squeezing her hand. It was a sign of her weak state of mind that led to her stating the obvious. He was more concerned about the health of his mistress. She had taken ill with a fever, and the doctors were at a loss to explain it. Over the whole island, English men and women were dropping like flies, succumbing to one unknown fever after another. It was just two Christmases since Luke Stokes and have his settlers from Nevis were wiped out within months by unknown diseases. That horror story remained embedded in his memory, and Owen was fearful that Molly might have caught one of these deadly diseases.

“Go, Owen,” she implored him. “You are needed by your country. I will be all right, my love.”

Owen blinked as he fought back the tears. But, deep down, he knew she was right, and he knew that he really wanted to fight the Spaniards. He was just in his early twenties, but he felt like a war veteran. As a child, he had experienced the English Civil War. His four years as an indentured servant in Barbados were a hellish experience, and he felt liberated when he was able to join the army of General Venables, and then Colonel D’Oyley. Disturbingly, he was beginning to enjoy killing Spaniards. He had a lot of pent-up rage, accumulated during his time on a Barbadian plantation. Fighting the Spanish enemy seemed to be the most therapeutic way of letting it out. He relished seeing blood, guts and brains spewing from Spanish bodies. The thrill he derived from war even surpassed the joy of making love to Molly.

He was still thinking about these things when D’Oyley called the meeting to order the next morning. Once again, D’Oyley insisted on sailing around the island. However, Major Samuel Barry said that the element of surprise was gone, and that Ysasi had cannon that could rip their ships to shreds. D’Oyley countered by pointing out that a march through the formidable Blue Mountains was a far worse prospect. D’Oyley then called out seven hundred and fifty of the best-trained men, and a month later, they took to their ships to take on the Spaniards.

They arrived at the mouth of Rio Nuevo on the morning of the twenty-fifth of June, and from the deck of their ships they could see the impressively-built Spanish fort. It was made of wood, but it was much bigger and clearly much harder to storm than the stockade a couple of years earlier. D’Oyley was clearly in the mood for bravery, for he issued the order to sail into the small harbour. The cannon rang out, and Lieutenant Owen Glenn gripped the rail on deck out of nervousness. He saw the splash of water in front of him as a cannonball fell just short of the ship. Owen watched the fort, and felt a tightening of his stomach as he saw a group of Spaniards working feverishly at reloading the cannon. In the meantime, as the English ships sailed swiftly towards land, they came closer to the fort. Located on the edge of a cliff, the fort looked down on them, and Owen felt as if he was staring up at the cannon. They fired a second time….

This time, Owen flinched and closed his eyes. He heard a sailor scream in agony as the cannonball ripped into the deck a couple of yards from where he stood. The ship rocked under the blast, but raced on regardless, and the sailor’s screams faded as his life slipped away. With a foreboding sense of dread, Owen watched as more Spaniards hurriedly reloaded the cannon once more. By the time they were ready to fire again, the ship had just passed the fort, but the blast caused almost as much damage as the previous onslaught. Soldiers and sailors ducked and dived for cover while two cannonballs struck the hull of the ship, rocking it once more on the waves. Owen feared for a moment that it would sink, but instead it steadied itself and made its way towards the shore. The young lieutenant breathed a sigh of relief, realising that they had weathered the storm from the fort. Another ship was behind them now, and they were bearing the brunt of the latest assault from the fort’s cannon.

Owen’s attention was distracted by one of the ship’s senior officers, who handed him a long, cylindrical instrument.

“A message from the flagship, sir.”

“In this?”

Owen eyed the gadget suspiciously.

“It’s a telescope,” the ship’s officer explained. “I captured it from one of the Dutch traders. It is used to see things that are far away. The magic glass inside makes small things look bigger.”

Reluctantly, young Owen put the telescope to his eye, and to his surprise he found that he could see D’Oyley’s ship much larger than it really was to the naked eye. The flagship was making its way towards land, the soldiers on board were getting their weapons together, and one of the ship’s officers was gesticulating towards land. Clearly, other officers had heard of this magic glass cylinder, Owen mused. He exhaled slowly, and lowered the telescope. His eyes returned to the ship’s officer.

“Did you see the message,” Owen asked.

“Aye, sir.”

“So, do you know what it says?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Well, let us make preparations to land. Please alert Major Tyson.”

“Aye, sir,” the sailor said a third time, and disappeared into the hold while Owen focussed his telescope on the coastline. He inhaled sharply as he saw a number of Spanish soldiers on the beach, accompanied by fierce-looking Negro Maroon warriors. D’Oyley clearly intended to take the beach, a prospect that was not particularly thrilling to the young Welshman. Where the hell was Major Tyson, he mentally asked himself, trying to contain his annoyance. That was when he saw Tyson stumbling towards him, holding his stomach, with a queasy look on his face.

“Are you sea-sick, sir,” Owen asked, with a grin on his face.

“I do not believe so,” Tyson muttered, leaning on the rail. “I have sailed with Penn and Venables throughout the Antilles. I have been through the disasters of Hispaniola, and I sailed from there to Jamaica, and not once was I sick. No rolling of the waves can do this to me. It must be a touch of the fever.”

“Everyone gets sick on the seas eventually. It happened to me when we were just outside St Christopher’s,” Owen explained, when he suddenly remembered D’Oyley’s order. “In any case, we have been given the order to make land.”

Tyson rubbed his eyes. “Egad, how did I miss that? I must have been in the hold. I need to marshal the forces.”

Owen put a hand on his friend’s forearm.

“John,” he said quietly, “you are ill.”

“That is of no consequence. I have to….”

“It is of consequence. If you go into the water in this condition, you will end up a corpse before afternoon. Please, stay on board, while I lead the first charge, and then, if I fail, you can take the second.”

Tyson leaned over, and rested his forehead on the railing, fighting the urge to retch. “All right,” he said quietly.

The lifeboats were lowered into the calm, blue waters, and Owen could feel his heart racing wildly. He checked his musket, and ordered the other soldiers in his lifeboat to do the same. The two sailors in the boat pulled at the oars. Then, the Welsh officer focussed his attention on the Spaniards standing on the shore.

“Wait for my order to shoot,” Owen said quietly.

He did not want to fire first, because that would immediately provoke a reaction. He wanted to delay engaging the enemy until as late as possible, since the Englishmen were on the boats and at an obvious disadvantage. But curiously, though they had the ground under their feet, the Spaniards were not firing. He wondered if the Spaniards had been ordered not to shoot until they saw the whites of their opponents’ eyes. Or maybe ammunition supplies were low, so they wanted to ensure that it was not wasted before the Englishmen came close enough for a more accurate shot. The air was thick with tension, and to make sure there were no trigger-happy soldiers in the boat, he repeated his instructions to his men. His second-in-command was a sergeant, and Owen recalled seeing him as a new recruit during the first Spanish invasion on the north coast.

“What is your name, sergeant?”

“Sergeant Richard Guy, sir.”

“Well, sergeant, I want you to make certain that my order is followed. I will hold you responsible if anyone shoots his musket before I give the order.”

“Aye, sir.”

They were getting closer now. Owen could now make out the features on the faces of a lot of the Spaniards. However, all the Maroons looked alike to him. They were barefoot, wore tattered clothes that only barely obscured their bulging muscles, and their faces were shining black. They looked fearsome, and once again Owen had a foreboding sense of doom. But that was just for a moment. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a musket, coming from the shore. Then came another, and another, and in the barrage that followed, a young soldier collapsed in Owen’s lap, blood streaming from a facial wound. It did not make sense holding out any longer.

“Fire,” Owen screamed.

The Welshman watched as some Spaniards went down after being hit by English musket-balls, and they momentarily stopped their assault. However, they soon reloaded again, and they were matching fire with their combatants. Owen’s attention was quickly diverted by a splash in the water just next to him, and he saw the body of a dead English soldier floating away from the boat. He quickly realised that the Spaniards had a clear advantage so long as the English remained in their boats. The time for a change of plan was now.

“Sergeant,” Owen bellowed.

“Aye, sir,” Guy replied, as he poured gunpowder into his musket.

“How deep is the water?”

Guy looked at the dead soldier sinking slowly towards the shallow sea floor.

“I do believe it is four feet deep, sir.”

Owen nodded to himself. That was what he thought, too. The young officer unsheathed his sword, and moved towards the side of the boat. He raised his sword, and loudly shouted, “Chaaaaaaaaaaarge!”

Lieutenant Glenn jumped into the water, and he was momentarily taken aback as he felt the water level rise to his chin. For a moment, he feared that his head might have been submerged, too. Four feet indeed, he muttered irritably to himself, and made a mental note to have Guy drowned in a tub of wine when all this was over. During a breaststroke motion with his left hand, and keeping his sword raised with his right, Owen continued to shout as he half-ran, half-swam towards the beach. But as he did so, he was nervously aware that he and many other English soldiers were target practice for the Spanish musketeers on the beach. He quickly forced those thoughts from his head.

Owen tried to recall which historical character was drowned in a tub of wine for his crimes. Could it have been the brother of the hump-backed King Richard of York? He was known as the Duke of Clarence, if he recalled his history lesson properly, and he was drowned on the orders of evil King Richard. The water level was receding now, reaching his waist, making him able to run more freely. He became a little more conscious of musket-balls whistling around his ears, but he still refused to allow himself to worry about the missiles. Instead, he only allowed one thing to bother him. What was the Duke of Clarence’s real name?

Suddenly, it came to him. His name was George, and he was the younger brother of King Edward of York, but the older brother of evil Richard. Also, he was executed for leading a rebellion against Edward, and it was King Edward, not Richard, who put him to death. He should have been put to death for being named George! No right king of England would bear that ghastly name….

Owen reached closer to the beach, and decided to shift his focus from the War of the Roses to a Spaniard clad in loose clothing, who stood near the water’s edge. His history lesson had served its purpose. It kept the nerves at bay while the musketballs were flying around him. Several of the English soldiers who had followed him into the water were now floating corpses, but Owen was oblivious to that. The object of his attention was the Spaniard. His only protection was a chestplate and a helmet. But as Owen pushed through the waves, he felt the sinews of his muscles straining at the effort. Owen broke through the surf, and saw that the man was struggling to reload his musket. The Welshman made a beeline towards him, screaming something about the Red Rose of Lancaster as he did so. The poor Spaniard had no idea what Owen was saying, but the noise jarred him, and he fumbled with the gunpowder, finally getting it right just as the Welsh officer was upon him. Owen’s blade came down in an arc, and severed the arm at the elbow.

The Spaniard screamed in pain, and fell to the ground. But Owen could not follow up. Instead, he tripped and fell flat on his face. God, how he felt tired! He was almost too tired to fight. He just lay there, on the ground, his face buried in the white sand, waiting for the killer blow to come from a Spanish assailant. He remembered that there were many of them on the beach. Surely, this was the end of a short and brutish life.

But, somehow, the death knell never came. Instead, there was a lot of shouting, and striking of metal. As he pulled himself to his feet, Owen saw that he was in the middle of a pitched battle, and British soldiers were involved in hand-to-hand combat with their Spanish opponents.

“Glenn,” he heard a man shout. Turning slowly, he saw Major Raymond brandishing his blade ferociously in the face of a retreating Spaniard. “Pick up your sword, lieutenant! Your country needs you.”

Owen looked around him quickly, and saw his sabre next to the blubbering Spaniard with an amputated arm. He snatched up the weapon, and sunk the blade into the Spaniard’s chest, putting an immediate end to his misery.

“Feel the righteous wrath of Lancaster,” the Welsh lieutenant shouted at the confused Iberian, as he watched the life ebb from the man’s body. Owen babbled on about the War of the Roses, working himself into a warlike frenzy as he did so, feeling a rising excitement in his loins. God, how he enjoyed war!

Gone was the tiredness, replaced by the adrenalin that gave him a second wind. He imagined he was a soldier in the army of Henry Tudor fighting against evil King Richard at the Battle of Bosworth. He felt the sword crunch against Spanish bone, and he could taste the blood and gristle in his mouth as the dismembered hand of his assailant flew past his face. Instead of feeling disgusted, Owen was inspired, and took his fight to another assailant.

“I am a Welshman,” he screamed, “like Henry Tudor, who vanquished the White Rose of York!”

However, as soon as his blade met that of the Spaniard, a horn was sounded, and the Spanish forces fell back. The Spaniard looked at him, his eyes filled with fear, and then he turned on his heels and ran like the wind.

Owen rubbed the blood from his face, and Raymond walked up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“What is this nonsense you keep chanting about Lancaster,” the major asked, mopping at the Spanish bloodstains that covered his tunic with his free hand. The hand on the shoulder was just for balance, Owen realised.

Owen spat out a piece of gristle, and grinned broadly. “It’s just something I say to get myself into the mood for war.”

Raymond returned the grin. “The War of the Roses was almost two hundred years ago.”

Owen said proudly, “Henry Tudor was a Welshman, like me. My family fought under the Red Rose. We still remember those days.”

Raymond raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“Aye, sir. It has even influenced the names we gave our menfolk. Henry Tudor’s father was Owen Tudor. I am Owen, and my father was a Henry.”

Raymond smiled. “You Welsh have always been fanatical maniacs.”

That night, D’Oyley set up camp, and the dead were counted, and the wounded treated. Fortunately for the British, there was not much of either. Most of the casualties were incurred during the taking of the beach itself, after which the Spaniards panicked. The next target was the large fort built by Ysasi at the top of the hill. D’Oyley called up the drummer and gave him a letter, with orders to deliver it to Ysasi. The letter contained terms of surrender, and the offer of a passage back to Cuba. Owen himself thought the terms were bold, considering that this time around Ysasi’s forces outnumbered D’Oyley’s, and that the Spaniards were in command of a strong fort.

It did not take long for the drummer to return to the camp. Ysasi sent him back with a jar of sweetmeats, and a politely written letter, turning down the terms of surrender. The business of letter-writing was now behind them, and it was down to planning battle strategies. The next day saw D’Oyley and his senior officers discussing ways of laying siege to the fort. Owen was extremely anxious, because his commander seemed to be leaning towards the most reckless way of attacking the fort. D’Oyley was advocating a frontal assault under cover from the fire of cannon currently in the English camp. Majors Raymond and Tyson strongly argued that such an attack ran the risk of decimating the English troops, especially since the Spanish troops outnumbered their opponents, and fought from the advantage of higher ground, and the security of a well-built fort. But D’Oyley overruled them, and the two majors went away, muttering to themselves, predicting doom and gloom.

That night, Owen slept fitfully, waking up periodically, with the fear that Spaniards would be invading the camp. But that invasion never came. After a while, he settled into a comfortable sleep, only to be rudely awakened by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. Owen rubbed his bleary eyes and focussed on the offender, who had his finger to his lips. It was Major Tyson.

“What the deuce…,” muttered Owen, as he looked at the darkness around him.

“D’Oyley wants to storm the fortress now.”

Owen frowned. “But I thought we would attack at the noon hour. That is what we agreed upon.”

Tyson nodded. “I know. But apparently that was just a ruse to throw a red herring at the spies. D’Oyley believes that Ysasi has spies amongst us. He wants to catch them by surprise.”

“What o’clock is it?”

“It is four o’clock. In the early morning hours.”

“I can see it is not after noon,” Owen muttered under his breath, getting to his feet, and walking over to where Sergeant Guy lay sleeping peacefully. He was almost sleeping too peacefully, Owen thought, enviously. He kicked the young sergeant savagely on his leg, and told him to get his regiment ready. Over the next half an hour, a lot of grumbling English soldiers donned their armour, and waited for D’Oyley’s order to attack. As Owen lay among the bushes, straining his eyes against the moon-less night, he stifled the urge to yawn loudly. He wondered idly if he was going to fall asleep during the assault on the fort. He needed a way to motivate himself, to keep himself awake and alert….

Then came D’Oyley’s order, passed through the ranks in a hushed voice from one officer to the next. The young lieutenant jumped to his feet, raised his sword, and stealthily ran up the hill. There were no shouts about the demise of the House of York. The fort seemed a long way away, and any moment now he expected to see a Spaniard pop up between the turrets, and put a musket-ball between his eyes. But as he struggled up the hill, and the fort grew bigger to his night-accustomed eyes, he realised that the enemy really did not seem to be expecting a pre-dawn attack. They had just reached the walls when a horn rang out within the fort, and some Spaniards began to appear on top of the turrets. Owen could not believe that Ysasi could have been so unprepared for this assault!

That was when a number of ladders were thrown against the walls, and Owen was one of the first soldiers to tackle the ropes. With the blade of his sword between his teeth, he pulled himself up rung by rung, and was about to lay a hand on the top of the wall itself, when a helmeted Spaniard sporting fierce black eyes and a large red beard appeared above him. His sword was raised and ready to fall. Owen closed his eyes, convinced once again that he had breathed his last, and muttered a quick farewell to Molly. There was a lot of noise now, with gunshots ringing around his ears, as he waited for the fatal blow. But seconds passed, and nothing happened. He slowly opened his eyes. The Spaniard lay sprawled out in front of him, teetering on the edge of the wall, his forehead shattered by the impact of a musket-ball. Owen whispered a quick prayer of thanks, and resumed his climb. He discovered afterwards that D’Oyley had employed snipers to ensure that the first wave of invaders got over the walls successfully.

Over the wall, Owen raised his sword, and proceeded to engage the next Spaniard to come his way, muttering about avenging the deaths of the Princes in the Tower. Owen blocked his thrust, deflected his opponent’s blade, and disembowelled the man with a single swing of his sword. The man fell to his knees, clutching his bloodied midriff, and Owen moved on to the next man on the wall. He took a stab at the man, who clumsily struggled to get out of the way.

“Stand up and fight,” Owen shouted, “you hump-backed murderer!”

Then, the Welshman paused, and looked into the man’s face, which was heavily lined. He was not a hunchback by any stretch of the imagination, and his hair was speckled with grey, while his eyes looked tired and lacked fire, giving Owen the impression that he was older than he really was. But what caught Owen’s attention was the man’s leg, which was cut off at the knee, and in its place was a wooden stump.

“I know you, Spaniard,” the lieutenant said slowly.

“Si, senyor,” the man whispered. “And I know you, though my back is not humped.”

“Forget that,” Owen muttered, slightly embarrassed about his fighting fantasy. “You speak English. You were in Spanish Town during the invasion.”

The man smiled weakly. “Not Spanish Town. You mean, Santiago de la Vega.”

“It does not matter what it is called. You are now my prisoner.”

“Why do you not kill me, senyor?”

Owen shook his head and said nothing, leading his captive back to the camp at swordpoint. As the sun made its way over the mountains, and the first rays of sunshine bathed the battlefield, Colonel Edward D’Oyley proudly surveyed the scene of the fighting. The English soldiers clearly had the upper hand. The Colonel walked over to where his junior officer was questioning his captive.

“Who is this, lieutenant?”

“He can speak English, sir. I thought he would be more useful to us alive, sir.”

D’Oyley nodded slowly. “Very good, lieutenant. Tie him up, and put him in one of the tents.”

By the time Owen was ready to return to the fray, all he needed to do was participate in the mopping-up operations. Because of the element of surprise, the English soldiers had defeated the Spaniards, even though they were fighting with a numerical disadvantage. More than three hunded Spaniards were killed, and even more important than that, they had captured valuable supplies of food and arms. In addition, they had taken the Spanish royal standard, along with ten colours.

Despite the overwhelming victory, D’Oyley’s face was dark with anger.

“Damn,” he shouted, as he kicked the body of a dead Spanish officer. “Ysasi has escaped. There will be no peace until we have dealt with Ysasi.”

Owen did not realise how right D’Oyley would be….