Page 118 of By the Sword
Jonathan tossed his satchel containing his few books and clean linen down into the boat where it was deftly caught by oneof the crew. He made to grasp the ladder to step down but as he did so the master grabbed his arm.
‘I need no assistance,’ he began to say but the look in the man’s eyes gave him a warning and he twisted around to see soldiers, some six of them in the command of an officer in a leather coat and orange sash, running down the docks towards them.
‘I have him,’ the master shouted exultantly, tightening his grip.
Jonathan tried to shake his arm free of the master as the soldiers reached them. The officer stood panting, drawing his pistol from his belt and levelling it at Jonathan.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jonathan protested, wrenching himself free of the man’s grip. ‘I’m a bookseller and I’ve appointments on the continent to buy books. Who can you possibly think I am?’
‘You tell us,’ the officer responded with heavy sarcasm.
‘I’ve told you. I’m a bookseller. My name is John Miller. Search my bag if you like. You’ll find naught but books in it,’ Jonathan replied, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. ‘We will miss the tide if you do not desist.’
‘If you’re a bookseller, why do you carry a sword?’ the officer cast a pointed glance at the serviceable sword Jonathan carried on a leather baldric.
Jonathan’s gaze flicked around the circle of soldiers who surrounded him, their swords drawn and spread his hands. ‘Gentlemen, these are dangerous times. I carry it purely for self-defence.’
‘I tell you, he’s Charles Stuart,’ the master of the boat insisted. ‘I want that reward.’
Jonathan turned to the man who still held his arm in a vice-like grip.
If the situation were not so serious, it could be considered laughable, he thought. This surely could not happen to him twice? Not now he was so close to escape.
He shook his arm free and gathered his fraying nerves as he addressed the officer. ‘My good sir, I assure you, I most certainly am not Charles Stuart. Here are my papers.’
He handed over the papers, including letters of introduction to mythical booksellers in Amsterdam, purchased that afternoon from a forger in Fleet Street, recommended by his uncle.
The officer handed his weapon to his sergeant and squinted at the papers in the dim light of the ship’s lantern.
‘These look genuine enough,’ he admitted, ‘but in the circumstances. I have to insist you come with us.’
‘I’m not going anywhere with you. My papers are in order and I’ve appointments in The Hague that must be kept.’ Jonathan tried to keep the edge of panic out of his voice.
The officer dropped any pretence of cordiality and reclaimed his pistol. He advanced on Jonathan, the weapon levelled. ‘You’ll come with us, sir. Your journey must be delayed while we verify the truth of these papers.’
Jonathan threw his head back in a gesture of despair and frustration. He’d not spent the last five weeks on the run to be taken at the last minute.
His choice was simple: go with this man and try and bluff his way out or throw caution to the wind and fight for his freedom.
He narrowed his eyes as he weighed up the situation. The soldiers stood between him and the water. If he could fight his way through to the edge of the dock, he could always swim for it. One last reckless act, one last gesture of defiance; he did not intend to be taken without a fight.
With a swift movement that took the officer unawares, he knocked the pistol from his hand. Before any of the soldiers could react he had drawn his sword. For what seemed aneternity the soldiers eyed him until one, more daring than the rest, lunged forward. He took a sword point to the arm as a reward for his audacity and fell to the ground with a shriek of agony.
That goaded the others to action. As a body, they advanced on Jonathan. In the fast, furious fight that followed two more soldiers fell back, nursing painful but not fatal wounds. Jonathan felt his arm tiring with the old, heavy sword. Sweat poured down his face and he seemed no closer to the water.
‘Put up your sword.’
He turned on his heel and once more faced the officer’s weapon. At such a close range, the officer could not miss.
Panting from the exertion, he looked back at the remaining soldiers and conceded defeat. His sword fell to the ground with a clatter as he raised his hands in surrender. The officer advanced cautiously, placing the muzzle of his pistol under Jonathan’s chin.
‘Now, I’ll ask you again,’ he said. ‘Are you Charles Stuart?’
Jonathan laughed. ‘No, I’m not Charles Stuart. I assure you, sir, were you to meet him, you would see at once that I bear no resemblance to the King.’
‘Charles Stuart is no King in this country,’ the officer said with obvious contempt. ‘So, if you are not Charles Stuart, then who are you?’
Jonathan’s eyes flashed. ‘If you don’t know then I am damned if I’ll tell you. Find out for yourself.’
