The Legacy of Marshall Cousins

2. The MARSHALL COUSINS in ACTION-1

2

THE MARSHALL COUSINS IN ACTION

MARSEILLE, FRANCE – SEPTEMBER 1712

The Marshall cousins exhibited an unfortunate error of judgment, idiotic curiosity, appalling lack of common sense, and used excessive amount of black powder.

Antoine de la Fleure to Henri de Brangelton – 1712

Upon their arrival to Marseille, Harold Marshall and his cousin Andrew Marshall conceded that although they were intelligent, sophisticated, and well-educated young men (at least in their own opinions), Marseille had many new experiences to offer. Harold and Andrew diligently explored the cobbled labyrinthine streets snaking around the steep hilltops. They climbed up and prowled around the harbor's impressive fortifications dominated by the imposing austere towers of Fort St. Jean and Fort St. Nicolas. They admired the spirit of Marseille's citizens as well as the wisdom of the Sun King - massive fort guns pointed toward the town because Louis XIV had never trusted the unruly inhabitants of Marseille. Harold and Andrew quickly became familiar with the vibrant rhythm of marine commerce - ships arrived, unloaded, loaded, and departed; the goods were stored, moved, sold, and resold, and everyone minded their own business. The colorful attires from all corners of the world, the spicy flavors of foods, the exotic drinks and pipes, the dissonant sounds of drums, sitars, lutes, reed pipes, and songs in a hundred languages, all blended together in the streets and markets populated by men from the Orient, from Africa, from Levant, from the New World, and from all the countries in Europe.

Despite the cousins' original intent to stay only a few days, two weeks passed quickly. Their funds were thinning out, but card games in any of the riotous taverns should eliminate that shortcoming. With this noble purpose on their minds, the cousins directed their steps to the neighborhood of Citadel. The dusk deepened into the silky darkness and only the white points of stars adorned the cloudless skies. The ships in the harbor were secured for the night, the sailors on leave were drinking in the streets and the sailors on duty were confined to their ships. In the shadows of St. Nicolas Tower, a group of men were unloading a single nondescript trunk from a barquentine curiously named the Anne Maria Jane.

“Isn't it late for laborers?” Harold stared at the disembarking group. Two men carried a large trunk, and four guards with muskets stood at attention.

Andrew slowed down. “That trunk seems oddly light for its size.”

The men secured the trunk to the cart. The leader nervously rubbed his hands and his head swiveled from side to side until a fine mare trotted on the dock. The rider dismounted to inspect the trunk. He was a rich nobleman: the yellow glow from lanterns afforded the cousins a clear view of the gilded bridle, stirrups, and sword's hilt, the fine lace on his collar, the overwhelming amount of embroidery on his jacket, and the newness of two huge dyed feathers secured to the fashionable hat with an ornate gold pin.

“Four guards?! You secured only four guards?!” the nobleman reproached the leader of the group. “Do you understand the importance of delivering this cargo safely?!”

“Monsieur, for a single trunk…”

“Follow me.” Feathers bounced forward as the commander scrambled out of the way and scuffled after the nobleman.

Harold gestured to Andrew and stealthily glided behind the men.

“Have you lost your mind?” his cousin whispered. Occasionally, Andrew exhibited inconvenient scruples.

“Do you have some feeble objection to eavesdropping?”

Andrew did not. He pointed to the stone wall which wrapped around the building. A narrow yard between the house and the wall was covered with shrubs, and a pale column of light spilled from the window. Harold and Andrew cautiously climbed over the wall and landed on the soft dirt. They noiselessly moved along the path of the feathers bouncing on the other side of the wall. The feathers stopped at the edge of the yard. Harold and Andrew crouched in the shadows. The conversation between the nobleman and the leader was short and one-sided. The nobleman relentlessly chastised the leader for the lack of diligence and ordered him to find more men to guard the cargo.

“Monsieur, I am reluctant to trust strangers,” the man whined.

“It's a port. There must be dozens of professional mercenaries for hire.” The nobleman's inflections conveyed arrogance and disdain.

“Monsieur, hiring mercenaries may attract unwelcome attention,” the leader feebly objected.

“You are not hiring an army - you need just a few more men to guard my personal belongings! Do I have to guide your every step?!”

The Lusty Mermaid Tavern held the well-deserved reputation of fixing the best mussels stew, and the Marquis chose to dine there. Per the Marquis' instructions, Rene Prassal had secured the trunk in the Marquis' room, posted the sentries, and reported to the Marquis.

“Have you hired more guards?” the Marquis persisted.

“I…I am working on it, Monsieur,” Rene assured his employer. Once the Marquis had acquired a notion, it was almost impossible to displace it. Besides, the last thing Rene needed was for the Marquis – and his valet, two grooms and additional attendant - to decide to accompany the trunk.

“How?”

“I…I… I have some possibilities in mind.” Rene frantically looked around the room. At a far table, a burly middle-aged seafarer was playing cards with a heavily armed and somberly dressed young man. Trouble was brewing between the players. The seafarer blasphemed louder and louder at each turn of cards. “That man over there might be available,” Rene speculated in hopes that the aforementioned man would leave soon. “He wears his hat low to cover his face. He does not want to be recognized.”

“Are you cheating, landlubber?” the seafarer roared.

“What the hell did you say?” The other man slammed his cards, face down, on the table. His French was oddly accented.

“You heard me,” the seafarer sneered.

The other man stood up, casting a large distorted shadow on the wall. “I did not hear an apology from you,” he growled.

The hum of conversation faded. Patrons picked up their plates, tankards, bottles, and moved away from the source of brawl. The Marquis backed away and dissolved into the corner furthest from the field of action, but he watched the exchange with vivid interest.

“I will teach you a lesson, scum.” The seafarer pushed the table away and bared his cutlass. In a smooth and practiced movement, his opponent drew his sword at the ready. The seafarer charged in a brutal, forceful attack, but the other man steadily blocked the first, the second, and the third thrust. His moves were measured; he knew how to use the advantage of a longer sword against the heavy cutlass.

“To me!” the seafarer bellowed at a group of men. Three sailors with drawn cutlasses moved toward the combatants. One of them collapsed from a blow to his head, deftly delivered with a pommel of the sword by a young man dressed in fine fashionable clothes. The lace on his sleeves did not impede his moves. He expertly wielded the sword in one hand and a dueling dagger in another.

“Call the night watch!” the proprietor yelled. One of the servers rushed out in the night.

The seafarer assaulted his foe again, but no avail. The man in fancy clothes tripped another sailor and parried the thrust from the last one standing. “Behind and left,” he said. The card player sidestepped away from a thrust by his burly adversary. The seafarer and his cohort collided. The card player delivered a solid punch to the sailor's jaw and the sailor sprawled unconscious on the floor. The pommel of his sword loudly connected with the burly man's head. In a fluid motion, the man in fancy clothing and the card player positioned themselves back-to-back. They held the swords and daggers ready to keep anyone at bay.

“How much blood shall we spill before law and order shows up?” The card player asked over his shoulder. His breathing was light and steady.

“Anyone for a dance?” His friend was just as unaffected by the brawl as he addressed the crowd.

“No, not at all,” the patrons of the Lusty Mermaid murmured. Sailors, merchants and people of business had no desire to embroil themselves in an unprofitable brawl with skilled and experienced mercenaries.

“Excellent.” The two men headed toward the door. “Good evening to all.”

“What are you waiting for?” The Marquis admonished Rene. “Hire these two cutthroats!”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Rene hoped that his sour resignation did not seep through his words. He followed the men outside. A suspicion formed in his mind: Maybe the Marquis' desire for mercenary protection was due to the Marquis' suspicion of him? Did the Marquis intend to add the hired help to keep him honest? Rene crossed himself. No, it was probably sheer coincidence. He did not dare to disobey his employer. “Monsieurs!” Rene called out.

The next morning, the newly hired cutthroats promptly showed up at the appointed time. The card player was named Harold Marshall. In Rene's mind, if his swagger was any indication, Harold was probably raised on a pirate ship. His cousin Andrew Marshall possessed a courtly glitter along with his fighting skills; he might be on a run from the law. They hailed from the New World, but were elusive about their business in France. They spoke English between themselves, but were fluent in French. As seasoned mercenaries, they bargained for the fair amount of pay, and insisted on half up front. Rene disliked them immensely.

The trunk was loaded and secured by Rene's men. The Marshall cousins meticulously checked their saddles, the straps, the hooves of their horses, and the weapons – each carried a small arsenal with him. These young men kept their heads low to shield their faces by the brims of their hats (which were adorned with expensive feathers, no less!). In the daylight, they appeared dismayingly young, they looked nothing alike, and they were far from desperate. Their clothes were made of quality fabric and fashionable style, their weapons were in excellent condition, and the saddle pistols were compact and of the latest design. No, these cousins did not pass for the typical mercenaries who dwelled by the hundreds in the port cities. Rene wiped the sweat off his forehead. He had to keep his force to a small group for the successful defeat in the upcoming staged attack, and his guards were unaware of his plan. If these cutthroats were to rally the men to earn their money, there would be blood. Their group just might fight off the ambush and deliver the cargo as intended. How would he explain that change of plans - and likely casualties - to the Captain of the Anne Maria Jane? The Captain had agreed to send only half a dozen men expecting no resistance – and the Captain and his acting troupe were paid for the theatrical display only. The rates for the combat would be significantly higher if blood spilled, and these Marshall cousins seemed alert and eager to protect the cargo.

Rene, judging that the time was ripe for departure, sent one man to ride in the front, two on the left, and two on the right. He climbed up into the cart's seat with the driver and signaled for the cart to move on. “You watch the rear,” he told the cousins. They fell in the back, in perfect rhythm. Their timing would make cavalry officers envious; they had obviously seen action together and that was indeed more bad news. Rene could not afford to allow these young men to reach the place of ambush.

Harold and Andrew rode a mile before they judged themselves to be outside of Prassal's hearing distance.

“This makes no sense,” Andrew said. “So Prassal forgot his musket at the inn, but is it necessary to send us both on the errand to retrieve it? Not for a moment do I believe his touching concern for our safety.”

Harold agreed. The road was well traveled and highway robbery business was unprofitable along this route. Prassal was reluctant to add people to guard the cargo. “Does he intend to pocket the other half of our payment?”

Andrew pulled the reins to a stop. “In this case, there is no musket left at the inn. Indeed, what imbecile forgets his weapon?”