The Caledonian Race: A Pulp Adventure (George Glen Series Book 2) Read online

  England, 1623: After George and Richard return unharmed from France, their hopes of being appointed members of the Scottish Guardsmen quickly die. Instead of being allowed to proudly wear cloak and dagger, they have to make do with broom and apron for the time being. Three tests, each harder and deadlier than the last, must be passed before they can throw on the much-coveted red tunic. But which of the two friends will be lucky in the end, when there is only one vacancy to be filled?

  RICHARD BERGEN

  The Caledonian Race

  Historical adventure novel

  THE CALEDONIAN RACE

  Ebook edition

  Copyright © 2021 by Richard Bergen --- All rights reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or processed, duplicated or distributed using electronic systems without written permission.

  Contact: [email protected]

  The author on the web: en.richardbergen.de

  P A R T * O N E

  Survival

  Late Summer 1623

  Chapter 1

  The fog bank off the Blue Swallow's bow was nearly impenetrable. Fat swaths of the gray entity crept across the glassy water, grasping at the ship's wooden hull and rigging like ghostly hands. A few hours ago, we had left the English Channel behind us and entered the Thames estuary. However, the dying wind had caused the heavy galleon to move only at walking pace. I had positioned myself on the foredeck. Wearing only my worn-out, much too large linen shirt and torn pants, I shivered a little. I looked down where my filthy feet touched the planks of the ship. What I had called boots in my last adventure (in fact they had been leather rags tied together with some string) had been lost to me in France when I had jumped with André de Bellegarde into the stern windows of that ship. Now I stood barefoot and shivering slightly in the cold. Nevertheless, I felt good, downright strong and free. I had passed an adventure, had fought hostile Musketeers, even defeated their leader. Although our mission had ultimately failed, I had certainly not cut a bad figure. I had high hopes that my friend Richard and I would soon be made Guardsmen of the King. Even though we were only fifteen years old, I gave myself over to this dream. After all, I was old enough to marry a woman or end up on the gallows for my deeds, so why should the red tunic be such a distant goal? We certainly deserved to be accepted into the Guard. Richard and I were convinced of that.

  I proudly examined the heavy rapier in my hand, which I had not let loose for hours. The handle of the weapon was gilded. The guard showed fine chiseling - two wolves in battle - and the golden hilt was solid. It looked precious. A weapon like this was usually only carried by nobles. And indeed, I had taken it from a genuine nobleman, the Musketeer captain Jacques. By his fall deep into the waters of the English Channel, I had legally defeated him. I was entitled to his weapon, which is why I clutched it with fervour and pride. Still, I felt sick to my stomach. Richard and I had put up a good fight and not sold ourselves short, but the ship's voyage sent us back to the place where we had narrowly escaped death by executioner's axe. It was only because of my little knowledge of the French language that we had been sent along on the secret mission a few weeks ago. Now that our mission had not been fulfilled, I feared that Stephen Fletcher, captain of the Scottish Guardsmen, would treat us less kindly than the three Guardsmen had done in the meantime. Fletcher was a hard man, I began to realise. Rarely had I felt such a hard-hearted and completely emotionless look as in his eyes. He had only let us go to France out of pure calculation and had probably always been aware that we were expendable fodder for the cannons and nothing else. You didn't have to protect two rascals from the street or explain their loss to anyone. On the other hand, Tom, Wilbur and Vincent had come to see us as a valuable asset to the group. If they put in a good word for us with the big man, it could make a lot a difference. I looked out at the Thames fog and realised I was brooding too much. What was the point at all in thinking about future events? One could not change them, after all. One was always just a plaything of fate or divine providence. Nothing more.

  My eyes went back overboard. The surroundings had changed. On the right bank of the Thames, a monstrous structure peeled out of the haze, consisting of four towers with onion domes enclosing a huge fort. The gloomy walls rose into the dull and cloudy sky. I imagined I could hear the distant cries of lost souls echoing far across the water, but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only the silhouette of the Tower of London. Immediately, goose bumps involuntarily covered me. This was the place where my friend Richard and I were supposed to be beheaded. I shook myself in disgust and turned away. If I didn't look, maybe I could get rid of the shiver. Sure enough, the furrowed silhouette of London Bridge with its nineteen arches now loomed directly in front of us, taking my mind off things. Like a row of half-fallen teeth on a mandible, it spanned the river in the middle of the city. Some of the multi-storey buildings on the bridge were ancient. They had supposedly already stood under Edward the Second. The bridge formed the only crossing over the Thames and was usually hopelessly congested with arriving and departing merchants on their carts and horses. During the first weeks I spent in London, I had always managed to steal a few apples or turnips on the bridge that had fallen from the traders' carts. The dense crowds had always been good camouflage.

  A jolt went through the whole ship as the helmsman hit hard to starboard. I stumbled slightly at first, but then managed to catch myself. The Swallow was now heading for the jetties that jutted out into the Thames near the Tower. Dozens of ships were already moored there; smaller merchant ships, but also huge warships with strong armaments.

  I heard footsteps behind me and recognised Tom, the leader of the Guardsmen. He looked across the harbour with a serious face, ran a hand through his thick, grey beard and finally said: "Lots of warships. Apparently a fleet is sailing out to the New World again to fight piracy in the colonies. The King has taken it upon himself to step up the fight against the filibuster pack."

  I had no idea what Tom was talking about. "Filibuster pack?"

  Tom laughed at my ignorance. "Well, they're largely deserted sea soldiers, failed livelihoods who will attack anything and everything in order to funnel profits into their own pockets. Nothing against privateering, as long as one worships his pinch of the crown like Francis Drake once did. But these filibusters are dishonourable traitors who work only for themselves and plunder our trading posts in the Caribbean as if they owned them. It's about time the King put his foot down!" Tom looked thoughtful. "Too bad I don't have any good news for him today. I don't think the loss of the breeding stallion will make him happy."

  I nodded silently. What was I supposed to say? On the one hand, I had captured the animal, but on the other hand, the bullet from Jacques' pistol had spoken the final word. The cadaver of the snow-white stallion was still lying below deck. I had deliberately kept away from it. The fact that the faithful animal was no longer with us on earth was too painful.

  Tom patted me robustly on the shoulder, pulled his woollen coat tighter around his torso and trudged towards the stern. Richard's head now emerged from a cargo hatch. Sleepily, my friend wiped sand from his eyes and came shuffling towards me, yawning. Noticing the port, he was suddenly wide awake. "That was quick."

  "Quick?", I asked in astonishment. "That wasn't quick. You must have slept like a rock for two days, Rich. I tried to wake you up at one point, but there was nothing I could do. You just snored and moaned. Dreaming of your little French whore, I suppose?"

  At first Rich looked at me sourly, then he grinned all over his face. "Yeah, she was a loose one. Nice of the
Guardsmen to pay for my first time, eh?"

  "Yes, very nice," I returned, pressed.

  The Blue Swallow had now reached a free jetty. Ropes were thrown and wrapped around iron bollards. A wide plank was pushed through an open side hatch and served as a gangway. Now a hustle and bustle began on deck. The sailors opened the wooden hatches, brought pulleys into position and routinely began to unload the cargo. Crate after crate left the lower deck of the ship. We just waited for a sign from the Guardsmen to be allowed to disembark. Finally Wilbur and Vincent stepped out of the stern of the ship and straightened their weir hangers. Wilbur, a blond hunk with arms like tree trunks, wore an impressive full beard into which he had even braided a few plaits. Two wheellock pistols, which were always loaded and ready for action - his trademark - stung in his broad harness at the height of his chest. Vincent looked almost dainty next to this giant, although he was of ordinary stature. His long black hair was neatly combed, his Henri Quatre beard carefully trimmed, his cheeks freshly shaved. He probably smelled of rose oil again, I thought slightly wryly. Vincent was a vain fellow, but a good fighter and phenomenal ladies' man. The two were now joined by Tom. Although the leader of the Guardsmen measured the least height, he made it clear to everyone who was in charge by his dignified bearing and calm, level-headed manner. Wilbur and Vincent not only respected him, they even admired him and would go into any battle for him, as they had proven more than once.

  With a slight nod of his head in our direction, Tom made it clear that we had to follow. Like trained dogs, we immediately obeyed. Our group started to move. Before we passed the plank, Tom chatted briefly with the captain, finally tapping him on the shoulder and tossing him a small purse. Presumably this was the reward for our transfer and a small compensation for the stern window that I had destroyed together with André de Bellegarde.

  A little later we found ourselves on the quay and merged with the tumult of dockworkers and sailors. Then a booming voice rang out. "Halt! In the name of King James, I arrest you for high treason. Lay down your weapons and follow!"

  Chapter 2

  My knees instantly trembled. Richard felt the same way. For a moment I thought about fleeing, but the darkly dressed figure in front of Tom had already drawn his rapier and taken up a threatening posture with his head bowed. Our leaders had formed a semicircle and were waiting for the attack of the stranger. Tom gripped the hilt of his rapier as the opposing figure raised his head. Under the wide-brimmed hat I now recognised Edwin, the charismatic, white-bearded Guardsman who had once given me and Rich the inspiration to join the Guard.

  "You lousy old whoremonger!", Tom laughed out and now hugged the elderly veteran stormily. At the same time he patted him brutally affectionately on the shoulder. "Edwin, you rotten criminal! Old as the woods, but only nonsense in your head." Tom let go of him again. "How did you know we were coming?"

  "Oh, an informer of ours sent a pigeon after you left the port of Calais. Fletcher knows about it. He wants to see you immediately! And then you two will have an audience with Her Majesty. By the way, where is that magnificent animal?"

  An awkward pause arose.

  "I guess I'll have to explain something to you," Tom finally admitted contritely.

  Fifteen minutes later Edwin was on top of things. The dream of an English horse stable full of snow-white Bellegarde horses was over. Disillusionment spread. Tom set off with Edwin to tell the King the sad news. We had not been invited to the meeting, which on the one hand annoyed me as I could not explain anything, but on the other hand pleased me as I did not have to face the callous Fletcher.

  "Where are we going?", I asked Vincent, who was striding along beside me.

  "To our clubhouse, the 'Scottish Breeze'."

  I could tell immediately from his pressed tone that a maximum exchange of information had been reached for him. That was all I would be able to elicit from him. Wilbur and he looked dejected and exhausted after admitting our failure. Pestering them with further questions could end dangerously, so I refrained.

  We walked along the quays, passed the Botoll shipyard, squeezed through densely packed fish stalls, pushed aside begging children and finally reached the wide Thames Street. Here we could already breathe a little more freely, even if the smell of fish waste still wafted through the air. We moved in a westerly direction. My feet touched road mud and horse manure, which was no new experience to me. In the distance we could already see the mighty cathedral of Saint Pauls as we turned into smaller, winding side streets. Richard and I were very familiar with this area, it was the waterfront, my old home and hunting ground for the Club of the Wolves. The neighbourhood had been built of narrow but tall stone buildings that contained countless taverns and shops. The upper floors mostly served as warehouses for trade goods of all kinds. Here we knew every nook and cranny.

  The Guardsmen moved purposefully in a southerly direction and soon reached a larger square, the centre of which was dominated by a solitary building. The name 'Scottish Breeze' was carved on a wooden sign above the entrance. Outside the entrance, about fifteen horses were tethered to a railing, idly drinking water from a trough. Three small children had the task of watching over them. The door, which Wilbur now creaked open, had been painted blue. Two white lines formed a thick cross on this blue ground. That was the flag of Scotland, I realised. The Guardsmen still seemed very attached to their old motherland.

  "Welcome to our clubhouse!", Vincent announced solemnly before we stepped through the door.

  Inside the building there was quite a noise. Most of the tables were full of rakish-looking guys playing cards, carousing or chatting with each other. Every single one of them wore a vermilion ribbon on their right upper arm. When we were noticed, a wild, even euphoric shouting started. A couple of men jumped up to hug Wilbur and Vincent fiercely. "How have you been?" The men were curious.

  "I'll tell you all about it," Wilbur explained moderately. "But first, I need a nice big ale for me and my friends."

  We sat down at an empty table and an extremely good-humoured barmaid brought four earthenware mugs and a large jug of the much-coveted drink on a tray. I wanted to stay away from booze, but my thirst was greater than my good intentions. Besides, the top-fermented liquid was only low in strength. I took a hearty sip and listened to Wilbur, who now began to describe our journey. He was a good narrator, made theatrical pauses and got loud when things got dramatic. However, after a short while, I noticed that he was studiously downplaying Richard's and my contribution to the venture. Our breakneck climb on the façade of Darrieux Castle, for example. Or the fact that I had freed the Guardsmen from the wine cask. Richard's idea of camouflaging the horse with damp earth to evade the Paris city guards. All this was hardly mentioned. Only my escape on the back of the white stallion was finally a topic. I was rather miffed and when I noticed Richard's look, I recognised the same lack of understanding. Why didn't Wilbur tell the story as it had happened?

  When he finally reached the tragic end, silence prevailed in the 'Scottish Breeze'. The men were bitter and angry about the outcome of the story. "Damn Jacques!" one of them shouted.

  "He won't be any more trouble," retorted Wilbur. "He went off the ship in the middle of the Channel. Nobody survives a thing like that."

  "Bread and ham, lads." A middle-aged blonde lady pushed her way to our table with a large tray. She was buxom, round and blessed with a heaving bosom that loomed behind the fully laden serving tray and claimed all my attention.

  She placed the tray in the middle of the table and turned towards me. "I'm Rahel Baker, the landlady." Up close, she did appear a little older to me than I had already assumed. Fine laugh lines surrounded her funny little eyes. The chubby cheeks shone reddish. As she eyed Rich and me, she asked Wilbur, "Who are the two new arrivals?"

  Instead of Wilbur, Richard replied, "We are future Guardsmen of King James."

  A guffaw of laughter broke out. Really, every single Guardsman doubled over with laughter. One even had a coughing fit and
went unsteadily to his knees.

  Richard had turned deep red. I recognised shame and anger in his face and felt it equally. The fact that Wilbur and Vincent were also laughing their heads off made it even more unbearable for me. I had basically almost saved the whole mission and in return we had to be laughed at? What kind of God was this that allowed this to happen? I would have liked to get up together with Rich and walk out of this place with my head held high, but I was nailed to my chair. Was it shame? Or hunger? Ham and bread were within reach. One thing was for sure, there was no table set outside in the street.

  Rahel had not laughed. She looked at Richard with empathy. "Brave you seem, little one. I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot more from you."

  "The other brat's name is George," Wilbur explained after he had calmed down. "The two of them accompanied us on an adventure and didn't do too badly. Have a word with Brawley!"

  Rahel indicated a nod and moved away from the table. As she did so, I saw Wilbur quickly pull his hand out from under her skirt and look around in surprise. When he was sure no one had noticed the action, he closed his eyes, smelling his finger with relish. 'What a scumbag!', I thought to myself. I would have loved to smack the guy. But he was twice my size and probably three times my weight - not a very good plan. Frustrated, I took another big gulp of ale and wiped the foam off my downy beard. I reached for my knife with its rusty blade, which I always carried on my waistband next to the wooden spoon I had carved myself, and sliced off a thick piece of ham. I did the same with the bread. When I finally chewed with relish, a large part of my anger had already disappeared. When I thought about it, I even felt a certain sympathy for Wilbur. What could he have done? Admit that he, Vincent and Tom had only been extras in this adventure? How did he look when he had to admit that a fifteen-year-old street urchin had almost single-handedly accomplished the mission? His comrades would have laughed at him, so he probably just lied. He would probably apologise to us later. I looked at my sword with the golden hilt and thought for a moment whether I should tell how I had captured it and - above all - from whom. But it seemed wiser not to. Instead, I cut myself some more ham and washed it down with a hearty gulp of ale. For that one moment, I was satisfied.