‘For pity’s sake, Mr Crowley, put that thing away.’ After the gun had been replaced under the table, he said, ‘You will need to get very close to him if you plan to use a musketoon, otherwise you will injure half the congregation.’

  ‘Oh, we shall get close to him, Mr Nayler,’ said Cotter. ‘You need have no worry about that.’

  But Nayler did worry. He lay awake for half the night worrying. Their planned ambush was much too public for his liking. He even considered leaving the town at first light. If an official of the Privy Council was discovered directing an assassination on foreign soil in a neutral country, it would cause a diplomatic outrage. In the end, he decided it was his duty to see it through, and when he rose the next morning, he loaded his pistol and slipped it into his pocket.

  The church of Saint-François stood in the middle of Lausanne, about a mile from his auberge. To reach it demanded a stiff climb through crowded, winding streets. A bell began to toll. He emerged from an alley into a cobbled square, the church on one side, shops on the others, outside one of which – a barber’s – lurked Cotter, Crowley and Rierdan. Absurdly, despite the summer weather, they were all wearing cloaks. Worshippers were walking purposefully towards the church door. Nayler searched the crowd for someone who might be Lisle, and spotted him immediately – he was as conspicuous as his waiting murderers – a portly figure in a periwig, wearing the robes of an English lawyer, with a burly companion on either side.

  Almost at the same instant as Nayler saw him, Cotter and the other two recognised him as well. They left the barber’s and walked briskly across the cobbles, coming up behind him, opening their cloaks and pulling out their weapons just as he reached the church door. The brass barrel of the musketoon flashed in the sunlight, its flared end inches from Lisle’s back. There was a terrific bang that lifted a flock of pigeons and sent them flapping across the square. Lisle’s arms went up. The blast propelled him forwards and he landed heavily, face down on the church steps. His bodyguards tried to draw their pistols, but Cotter and Rierdan had them covered. They aimed their guns and shouted a warning at the same time as they started backing away. A woman screamed. Cotter called out, in his appalling French, ‘Vive le roi d’Angleterre!’ and then all three turned and ran, out of the square and down a side street to their waiting horses.

  A crowd was gathering around the victim. Nayler crossed the cobbles to join them. He pushed his way through to get a better view. Lisle lay motionless on his stomach on the stone steps, his wig knocked askew, blood pooling beside him. In the small of his back was a ragged crimson wound the size of a dessert plate, like a dish of raspberries, pulsing blood. His bodyguards rolled him over. There were exclamations of horror. The old lawyer stared blindly at the sky, slack-mouthed. Nayler stayed long enough to be certain he was dead, then turned away and slipped between the gawping spectators.

  No one tried to stop him. For the first time since his arrival in Switzerland, he felt a certain lightness in his step. If all had gone to plan, Cotter, Crawley and Rierdan should at this moment be boarding a boat to spirit them away to Geneva. One more of the King’s murderers justly killed. And the Duke of York’s expedition to capture New Amsterdam should be making land in America any day now. With luck, by the end of the summer he would be able to cross out the names of another two.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY of Ned and Will’s incarceration in Micah Tomkins’ cellar arrived that same week in mid August. In the stifling heat, the colonels had both taken to wearing only their underclothes. Ned spent the day at the table, writing his memoir, struggling to put in order all the sieges he had taken part in during the two years after Naseby – Bridgwater, Sherborne, Bristol, Dartmouth, Banbury, Exeter, Oxford, Worcester . . . Even though the King’s army had been destroyed in the field, there had seemed no end to the pockets of Royalist resistance. Will salted mutton in preparation for the winter. The confined space was thick with the smell of blood and fat and the buzzing of flies.

  Neither man remarked upon the date. What was there to say? There was nowhere they could go, nothing they could do. They could only pray for circumstances to change.

  That night, after Tomkins had brought them their supper, they waited until it was past midnight, when the air was cooler, and then went up the ladder, through the storeroom and out into the yard. The night was very still and clear, a brilliant half-moon, the summer sky awash with stars. It was easy to see their way across the road and down the narrow path that led to the sea, about a hundred yards distant through the pines. Long Island Sound extended like a dappled silver lake beneath the moon. The waves breaking on the shore made a sound no louder than an intake of breath, followed by a long withdrawing sigh. They found a patch of sand between the rocks, took off their boots and clothes, and waded naked out into the water.

  For the next hour they swam, taking care not to be carried too far along the shore by the current. Not a word passed between them. The night felt too sacred to disturb by talk, as if they were in some immense cathedral, very close to God. Afterwards, they lay down on the sand and stared at the stars until they fell asleep. When Ned awoke, he sucked his arm to taste the salt, then rummaged through his pockets for his telescope and trained it on the moon. It was bright enough to make out the mountain ranges and craters. A shooting star fell to the horizon. He followed its trajectory and let the spyglass play across the darkness, very slowly, right to left.

  He saw the dark shadow of a ship.

  He lowered the telescope in shock and sat up straight, then put it back to his eye. For a moment, he could see nothing, but then he found it again. About a mile distant. A big vessel, high in the water: a three-decker, triple-masted, with four large sails to each mast and a huge flag trailing at the stern, moving slowly through the calm night, silhouetted by the moon. She was no cargo boat. She was a warship. And she was not alone. There was another just behind her, and another, and – dear God! – another.

  He shook Will awake and handed him the telescope. ‘Four men-o’-war,’ he whispered. ‘Heading west.’ He pointed to the horizon. All were plainly visible now.

  Will stared at the flotilla for half a minute.

  Ned said quietly, ‘Can you make out the flag?’

  Will squinted again, adjusted the focus. ‘She’s English, no doubt about it.’ He returned the spyglass. ‘That’s a military expedition.’ In the moonlight his face was pale and grim. ‘Could it be they’re looking for us?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘They really want us so much they’d come all this way?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ We can run to the edge of the world, Ned thought, and still they will never give up. ‘We should get back.’

  When Tomkins brought them their food later that morning, they told him about the ships. The news threw him into such a panic he forgot to be angry, even though they were forced to confess that the only reason they had spotted the flotilla was because they had gone down to the sea.

  The following afternoon, he returned with Reverend Davenport.

  Without preliminaries, Davenport announced, ‘An expedition of English warships has arrived in Gravesend Bay. Four men-o’war with four hundred soldiers.’

  Ned said, ‘Where is Gravesend Bay?’

  ‘The furthest end of Long Island.’

  ‘Do we know their purpose?’

  ‘They first made land at Boston three weeks ago to re-provision. They showed their orders to Governor Endecott. They are commissioned by the Duke of York to force the surrender of New Amsterdam – and to capture you.’

  They would have liked more time to prepare, but Tomkins was insistent. He couldn’t be certain that in the last three years someone in the town hadn’t glimpsed them one night, especially if they had made it a habit to disobey his instructions and venture beyond the orchard. The two-hundred-pound reward was still on offer. If they were discovered on his premises, he would be hanged. He wanted them gone by morning.

  ‘And where are we to go?’ asked Ned.

  ‘Now,’ said Davenport uneasily, ‘there is the question.’

  They discussed it for only a short while before reaching the inescapable conclusion that the only option was their old refuge in the rocks above New Haven.

  ‘I shall inform William Jones,’ said Davenport, plainly relieved that they had not asked to return to his house. ‘We’ll try to bring you provisions when we’re sure it’s safe, and in the meantime, I’ll endeavour to arrange a new hiding place for the winter.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘But exactly who will take you in, given all this, I cannot say. It will have to be somewhere far from the sea.’

  After their visitors had gone, Ned sat slumped in his chair opposite Will. The prospect of yet more weeks spent living in the wild, with no end in sight, was dreadful to him. He was sixty-five. His old wounds ached first thing every morning and last thing at night. He was not sure he could survive it. Eventually he said, ‘I know I’ve always been the one who’s urged us to flee, but now I wonder if we wouldn’t do better to surrender ourselves.’

  ‘Surely you don’t imagine they would show us mercy?’

  ‘No. Our fate would be the same as Okey’s and the others’. But we’d be taken back to London for execution, where at least we’d have a last chance to say goodbye to our families. And we’d show manly resolution and have the martyrs’ deaths you’ve always craved.’

  Will did not reply immediately, then he reached for his Bible and searched for the passage he wanted. ‘“We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” St Paul to the Corinthians.’ He put his hand on Ned’s and looked at him intently. ‘Another year – at most a year and a half – and all will be well, I promise you.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘Because I have discussed it often with Mr Davenport, and it is foretold. In the Year of Our Lord 1666, Christ will return, and the rule of the saints will be established here in America. You were right. We must keep the faith, Ned, as Paul instructs us – run the race and finish the course and live to see God’s kingdom here on earth.’

  He spoke with such conviction, Ned briefly felt his spirits strengthen. Will had Oliver’s knack of always being able to put his finger on something in the Scriptures to justify following his instincts. Nevertheless, when it came to cramming everything into his bag, and it was clear that he must leave behind either his memoir or something else to make room for it, he chose to discard his Bible. He told himself they did not need two, and that he would share Will’s.

  They sat with their bags between their knees and waited in silence.

  As soon as the sky had darkened above the grille, the trapdoor was lifted, and Tomkins descended to escort them out. Although Ned had longed to escape the cellar, now that it came to it, he felt a twist in his stomach at the thought that he would never see it again. It was not just the idea of living rough he recoiled from: it was the outside world. Stupid old fool, he reproached himself, living in the darkness you have gone as soft and white as a grub. He refused Tomkins’ offer of help, gave a brisk speech of thanks, shouldered his bag and climbed the ladder. Behind him, Will lingered to deliver a more elaborate farewell and say a prayer for the Tomkins family. A minute later, the colonels were out on the road, walking eastwards in the moonlight, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the English ships before daybreak.

  It was their good fortune that the last week of August and the beginning of September 1664 saw a waxing moon over New England. It cast a bluish glow across the plains and woodlands, bright enough to create sharp shadows. They walked until the birds awoke and started singing and the sun began to rise above the trees. About a mile short of New Haven, they turned off the coastal road and used their swords to cut a path through the undergrowth into the dense forest. In a clearing surrounded by massive pine trunks, they rested and ate the bread and cheese Tomkins had provided for their journey, then slept as well as any men can who know four hundred soldiers are searching for them. As darkness fell, they resumed their trek.

  They skirted the edge of New Haven, its roofs clearly visible in the moonlight, and picked up the familiar trail that led north. They reached the abandoned mill, exhausted, early in the morning and lay on their coats amid the weeds debating whether to alert Sperry to their presence. Years had passed since they had last seen him. Who could say whether he would be willing to help, or even if he was still to be trusted? They decided against it.

  On the fourth day, they arrived at their old home among the rocks. They scouted the area roundabout, but could find no evidence it had been visited. The weir still stood in the stream, exactly as they had left it. After half an hour of scratching his head and digging holes without result, Ned found the place where he had buried their tools and net. As the sun went down, they lit a fire and stewed the fish Will had caught, their first hot food for nearly a week. Perhaps it was merely the effect of a full belly, but that night as they settled down to sleep on the ledge, Ned had a curious sense of well-being – of happiness, almost. They were still together, and in good health. They were one step ahead of their pursuers. By God’s good grace, they would survive.

  Within a day, it was as if they had never left. Their lives settled back into the familiar routine of hunting, trapping and fishing, gathering berries, leaves and fungi, skinning and drying hides, sleeping with their pistols cocked, listening to the wolves. At first light, Ned would climb to the top of the rocks with his telescope and scan the immense vista, starting with New Haven and the sea three miles distant and then swivelling clockwise – the English farms on the plain, the woods leading to Sperry’s cottage, the ridge, the great expanse of forest to the north, the ridge again and back to the sea.

  The full moon rose on Monday 5 September. As it waned, the weather turned – blustery winds and drenching showers, shorter days, chillier nights. Ned stitched together the skins of the rabbits they had snared to make a blanket, which they stretched out on the rocks to dry when the rain stopped. They used the hatchet to fell a couple of trees and kept a log fire going throughout the night. On the nineteenth and the twentieth there was no moon, even though the sky was clear, and on the twenty-first, Ned sat up late, waiting for the sliver of the new moon to appear. When it finally rose above the horizon towards Long Island, he found himself murmuring a prayer of thanks until he came to his senses and stopped. Next he would be worshipping the sun and stars.

  One morning at the beginning of October, standing on top of the rock, his eye was caught by a curl of smoke rising from the forest to the north. It was too far away for him to make out any detail. He called down to Will to join him.

  Will studied it through the spyglass. ‘Could it be the soldiers’ camp?’

  ‘More likely Indians.’

  ‘The trees are on fire – look.’

  He handed back the telescope. Bright orange flames were spreading across the canopy of leaves. Further in the distance, more smoke was rising from a second fire. They had heard of the Indian custom of burning the land when autumn came, but had never witnessed it, and for the next hour they watched awestruck as the conflagration spread. The sea of roiling flames threw up an immense pall of smoke and ash that dimmed the sun to a brown disc and eventually blotted it out entirely. The northern wind blowing in their faces carried an unearthly roar and the smell of scorching wood.

  Towards evening, a crimson glow spread across the sky. It was still light enough for them to be able to see one another’s faces at midnight, and they feared the fire might force them to flee their camp. But that night there was a heavy rain, and in the morning the flames were mostly out. Only a few isolated tall pines continued to burn like brands in the blackened, ashy landscape.

  ‘Armageddon,’ said Ned eventually.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Will. ‘But it is coming.’ He spoke with a certain relish.

  One consequence of the fire was that the forest animals were driven up onto the ridge, filling the colonels’ traps and snares with squirrels and rabbits. Will brought down a starving deer with their bow and a home-made arrow.

  It was starting to get cold now. Winter was approaching. Twice they woke to find their coats and blankets rimed with frost. Ned fashioned two pairs of mittens out of deerskin. He reckoned they had food enough to last two months. It wasn’t hunger but the weather he feared most. Will would probably survive it; he was sure he himself wouldn’t last long in the snow. He made up his mind what he would do when the time came: creep out of the camp one night when Will was asleep and walk until he dropped and fell asleep in the cold. He had seen plenty of soldiers succumb to the Scottish winter. It was not such a bad death, and it would give Will a better chance if he was on his own, without an old man to worry about.

  In the third week of October, two English warships appeared in New Haven Bay.

  The colonels watched through Ned’s spyglass as they sailed down the harbour channel and dropped anchor. After half an hour, both frigates lowered a pair of longboats crammed with soldiers. They were too far in the distance to make out numbers. It was only possible to tell they were soldiers at all by their red coats, which merged into single splashes of colour, vivid on the dark water.

  Will said, ‘How many men to a boat, do you reckon?’

  ‘A couple of dozen?’ Ned was guessing.