Believe or Die (11 page)

Now devoid of cavalry support, the Royalist Foot faced a hopeless struggle: Roundhead infantry on their right, Scottish Foot to their front, and now enemy Horse closing in to the left and the rear. A brigade of Greencoats recently brought over from Ireland to aid the King fought valiantly, but were overrun and decimated. Only a retreat to the mighty walls of York could save the Royalists now. To effect this, someone must act as a rear guard to delay the allies. That someone would have to be the Marquis of Newcastle’s own Regiment of Foot, his famous Whitecoats. The Marquis himself, however, did not choose to remain with his men and galloped pell-mell down the road to York while his men did their duty.

Standing back-to-back in a ditched animal enclosure, and with their ranks growing thinner by the minute, the Whitecoats fought on. Amid their number stood Wil Pitkin bitterly cursing his decision to make for this now hopeless position. All around him, men were dropping where they stood in rank and file. And through it all, he was looking at the face of every Roundhead who came within reach of weapons.

On the other side of the enclosure, on a horse so exhausted it could barely keep itself upright gasped a breathless Richard Mead. He imagined he could see Pitkin in every face in that enclosure, even though he knew this wasn’t the same Regiment he’d encountered earlier. As his squadron rallied for yet another charge, Richard’s trembling mount collapsed in a heap just as a ripple of shot rang out and rang against his helmet and breastplate. The range was extreme, but it added to the impact of his fall from the saddle and left him unconscious in the mud. When he came round again and finally stopped vomiting, he found the battle, or rather his corner of it was over.

Less than thirty Whitecoats survived to be taken prisoner and most of those were wounded. A handful of that valiant band had attempted to escape the final moments of slaughter but only one made it to the cover of the hedgerows – Wil Pitkin.

Clutching a fallen fellow Officer Partizan, he hobbled and splashed his way through the fields in the direction he hoped was that for York. At length he slithered down an embankment and found he was not alone. He readied his weapon for a lunge against the muddied creature that rose up before him, blade in hand. Then he stopped, recognising the face despite the Yorkshire mud and the wild, staring eyes.

“My Lord!” he croaked and lowered his pole-arm.

The creature lowered its sword and sank to its knees. How the mighty had fallen, for it was none other than Prince Rupert himself. The Prince sat staring into space while Wil tried to get him up on his feet. Urgently, he attempted to get Rupert to understand that they must flee and immediately. Rupert finally focused on him and began crying.

“He’s dead!” bawled the Prince., “Dead!” Wil glared frantically around but could see no other man present, alive or deceased.

“Who my Lord?” he asked as gently as he could.

“Boy!” wailed Rupert pointing with his sword to the water nearby.

Boy
thought Wil,
boy?
Then he realised that Rupert, General of the King’s Horse and Elector Palantine, was referring to his dog.

Boy accompanied his master everywhere and had been present at every battle in which Rupert had fought. He had ridden to war in a specially designed saddle pouch and had even had his own
Dog Master
to attend to his every need. Now he was dead.

As gently as he could, Wil retrieved the deceased canine and sat looking at it for a moment or two.

“We must flee this place my Lord. The rebels will be looking for you. Should I bury your dog?”

Instantly Rupert’s blade was at his throat.

“He goes with us! No pauper’s grave for him!” snarled the Prince.

“As you wish my Lord,” sighed Pitkin.

So, with his arms supporting a Prince, and a dead dog slung over his shoulder, Wil Pitkin departed the field of Marston Moor.

The Whitecoat’s last stand marked the end of Royalist battlefield activities that day. Rupert, aided by Wil Pitkin, eventually made it back to York. The allies were too exhausted to muster any valid pursuit. Arriving in the city, however, Rupert found it in a flurry of panic-stricken activity. Lord Newcastle was abandoning the King’s cause and fleeing to the Continent. The next day, the disgusted but uncharacteristically subdued Rupert marched out with as many of his surviving Horse and Foot as he could find horses for - Pitkin amongst them - and skilfully evading his enemies, made good his escape. The rest of the Royalist forces were left to their fate.

On the ramparts of York Major William Legge watched Rupert’s departing rearguard then knelt and prayed a while. He had fortified the city as best he could and until but lately had been prepared to hold it until the last in the King’s name. But now, Lord Newcastle had fled without a thought for the city’s populace or his King’s cause, and Rupert had simply deserted them as a lost cause. Legge’s nominal commander in York, Sir Thomas Glemham, was so dismayed by the events of the last days that he was barely coherent. So with a heavy heart, Legge began drafting letters and waited for the inevitable.

The forces of Parliament and the Covenant were in no hurry to assault York and initially began planning for a lengthy siege. Drummers and cornets, acting as heralds, passed to and fro in the hope of avoiding, or at least reducing the consequences of a bloody battle without compromising any notions of honour. The worthy Legge finally managed to convince his comrades and his commander that they had done all that honour demanded in the King’s cause and York surrendered on the 16th of July. Now, apart from isolated garrisons, the whole of the north of England belonged firmly to Parliament and its allies.

Back on the Moor, locals were hired to bury the dead already striped naked and devoid of any possessions by those same good country folk. Four thousand one hundred and fifty bodies were interred under that mournful ground. The Angel of Death considered the totals and was satisfied.

The victorious forces of Parliament and the Scots could now turn the full weight of their power on the King and put an end to the issue once and for all. They
could
have! Instead they chose to shoot themselves in the foot!

The King had originally intended to wait in Oxford for Rupert’s return from the relief of York, but impatient with the apparent lack of activity, he decided to lead a force to Worcester to try and draw Parliament away from Oxford. Two Parliamentarian armies, those of Essex and the ill-starred Waller, duly set off in pursuit. But those two Generals, never on cordial terms, could now not tolerate each other to any degree whatsoever. Soon convinced the Royalist movements were mere bluff, Essex stopped, turned about, and set off to relieve besieged garrisons elsewhere. Waller was ordered to keep an eye on the King. Charles had no knowledge of this and, convinced he still had two armies coming against him, sent that confusing letter to Rupert. Intelligence came to Waller that the King’s cavalry was at Bridgenorth suggesting that his next move would probably be towards the important Royalist recruiting area of Shrewsbury. Waller, without advising Essex, deployed his forces to block such a move. In fact, the King’s advisors had finally persuaded Charles that his position was too exposed and the infantry were ferried downriver to Worcester where they were reunited with their cavalry. Thus in very short order, all the King’s men were back in Oxford, foot and hoof sore, but intact. At last it dawned on Waller that he had been duped and out-manoeuvred. Off he set in pursuit only to receive a brisk rebuff at Banbury. The Royalists then marched north; Waller followed attacking the King’s column at Cropredy Bridge. Again he suffered a bloody rebuff. Seething with frustration he took up a well-sited defensive position and sent messengers for reinforcements. He also sent a troop of Horse, Ketch’s Horse, northwards to advise the Parliamentarian forces in that direction of the King’s approach. The Royalist Generals pondered Waller’s dispositions hoping to draw him out and onto a field of their choosing, but they soon saw this was not to be. Very well then, they would lead him a merry dance and retain the initiative until such time as they could bring him to battle on their terms. The King marched on to Evesham arriving on the evening of the 3rd of July. Bonfires were blazing and there was much joyous celebration afoot. Had His Majesty not heard? There had been a great victory near York. Information was garbled but surely it could only mean Rupert had triumphed. The joviality was short lived. Another messenger arrived, this time bearing a detailed report. It was not the forces of Parliament that had been destroyed but those of Rupert and Newcastle. The shock of this information rendered Charles unable to function or even communicate for a whole day. When he finally recovered, he resolved to march into the West Country to regroup and salvage what he could of the situation. It seemed His Majesty now needed little short of a miracle to save his crown. And, courtesy of Parliament, that is what he got.

Waller had also been advised of the outcome at Marston Moor and was elated. Now he would strike! His reinforcements had arrived and he was confident that this time he would succeed. His army however had other ideas. The command was riven with mutiny. It had been festering unnoticed for weeks and now, now of all times, it erupted. The infantry of the London Trained Bands were exhausted, decimated with sickness, and far from home. They had spent months marching hither and thither in pursuit of the enemy and now they had had enough. One Regiment, whose Colonel had recently died of food poisoning, simply up and set off for home. Others followed, desertion became epidemic, and Waller’s army disintegrated around him. Despair and a fatal resignation descended on Waller and by the end of July he was back in London. The King was off the hook.

Essex was in the West Country when he received tidings that the King was heading his way. Waller had failed to give him any notice whatsoever and now he was going to be outnumbered and trapped. A plan formed in his head. He would march into Cornwall, join up with the Parliamentarian fleet based at Lostwithiel and evacuate his infantry to London. Regrettably, his cavalry would have to fight their own way clear. In theory it was a viable scheme but it took no account of the weather which was clearly on the side of the King. Rain fell constantly like grey lead destroying roads and ruining health. The days drew on, sickness spread, and still the storms raged. Now Essex really was trapped. The Royalists could take their time and force him into an ever-shrinking perimeter. And so it began. Essex himself managed to escape in a fishing boat and his cavalry succeeded in fighting their way through to Plymouth. The infantry surrendered. They were allowed to march away as the King’s men had insufficient men to guard them, but they marched without food or shelter, some even without clothing. Of the six thousand who left Lostwithiel on the 2nd of September, five thousand died of starvation, disease and exposure.

A month later the King and Rupert were reunited. The air was distinctly frosty between them. Rupert felt he was being unjustly blamed for the defeat at Marston Moor. Charles, now with a vastly inflated opinion of his own tactical abilities, considered Rupert to have let him down.

Parliament now feared an all-out attack on London. After the surrender of York, the Scots Covanteers besieged and took Newcastle upon Tyne but then, with growing domestic problems of their own, they were obliged to march quickly north and cross the border back into their homeland. Parliament’s Generals spent most of their time blaming each other for the now parlous situation. In an attempt to block the King’s somewhat leisurely progress towards London, Parliament attacked him at Newbury. The attack, made too late in the day and with virtually no coordination whatsoever, failed miserably. Having successfully repelled the attack, the Royalists then calmly marched away through a huge gap that had opened between the Parliamentarian formations. As they made their escape, they left their casualties and artillery at Donnington Castle thinking that these would impede progress. However, having realised that Parliament’s forces didn’t appear to have a clue what was going on, the King’s Army regrouped and returned. All the artillery was collected and the Royalists reformed for battle once more. Parliament’s feuding commanders however declined and the King marched away to winter quarters as master of the field.

The place that became the village of Radcot had been fought over many times over the centuries. Romans and Celts, Saxon’s and Danes, Stephen and Matilda in the days of the medieval ‘Anarchy’, had all battled over a single road leading to a ford across the river and thence into the Thames Valley. In 1644 Parliamentarian forces laid a brief siege to Radcot Hall and its owners did all that honour required of them in a brief but bloody conflict. Entrenchments and bastions were dug and artillery placed, and then the cannonade began. The three field guns deployed had but little effect on the stoutly built Hall, but the mortars that arrived shortly afterwards did. The outlying defences were soon rendered untenable and the small Royalist garrison retreated inside the ancient stone walls. For a further week they held out as the masonry crumbled around them, then with the main doors of the Hall blown away by a huge petard, the assault wave of Roundheads stormed forward. Both sides had learned that in such confined fighting, it was dismounted cavalry that was most effective and so it was that the troopers had to reluctantly leave their mounts behind.

Several volleys of matchlock fire raked the shattered windows and makeshift door barricade and Ketch’s Horse, armed to the teeth, rushed the entrance. Richard Mead had no less than five flintlock pistols about his person: two in his boot tops, two in his belt, and one in his left hand. In his right he had a battered but well-honed sword. The air was crisp and frosty, but he was sweating like a pig as he lumbered forward, partly through exertion, partly through fear. Behind him he could hear his Corporal of Horse, Bowman, bellowing at the men to keep moving. The man on Mead’s immediate right suddenly screamed and fell back with blood pouring through his visor. In the corner of his helmet-restricted vision he spotted two of his troop, Poulton and Hitch, scuttling crab-like through what was left of an ornamental Elizabethan garden. In their hands he could see smoking grenades. God grant that the men didn’t fall and drop the cursed things! But fall they did not, and the hissing bombs sailed through the air and blasted away the defenders of the breach. Then, kicking and cursing, Mead and his men were through the doorway and hacking and shooting their way into the Hall. The fight was over in but a matter of minutes, but in its dying moments, someone fired a pistol ball into Mead’s calf causing him to tumble over in the blood and gore that covered the floor.