Believe or Die (12 page)

A little later, Mead was propped up in the broken remains of an ornate carver chair with his wounded leg tightly bound on a stool before him. Tightly bound it may have been, but it was still bleeding copiously and it hurt like the very Devil! Ketch appeared. He stepped meticulously over the wreckage of the Hall and tut-tutted at Mead’s incapacity.

“This is damnably inconvenient Mead, damnably so! I am quite short enough of officers as it is without them being so careless as to become wounded!”

Mead noted that although Ketch’s unsheathed sword was still dripping blood, his clothing was strangely clean. Indeed, he seemed more interested in the looted contents of the Hall as it was disappearing out the door than he was with the dead and wounded. A messenger arrived and handed Ketch a despatch, which he read testily whilst watching a particularly famous painting being hauled away. Finally though, he finished the missive.

“We are ordered to march,” he advised. “I will take the prisoners of note with me. The rest will be used as labour on the march until such time as we can imprison them - after the usual cleansing of course.”

“‘Cleansing Sir?” said Mead already knowing what the term had come to mean.

“Of course. All Catholics and Gypsies to be shot. All non-repentant Royalists and whores to be hung.”

Mead sighed and shifted his pain-racked leg.

“And what of the wounded Sir?”

“As to Royalists, they have a choice. They may turn their coat and serve the true cause or they will be shot. With regard to our own casualties, all that can be moved will go with the supply train. Those that cannot will stay here, as will you for the moment.”

“My orders then Sir?”

“Remain here with your troop and do what you can for the wounded. When you personally are up to it, I want you back with the Regiment without delay. Mark you well Master Mead, the very instant you are fit! Brook no delay; accept no impediment. God will understand if you are obliged to put a comrade out of his misery. The Cause is all.”

“God will understand will he?” hissed Mead venomously.

“May it please you Sir, some of the local women are tending our wounded even now out back in the stables. Staunch women of the Cause they be Sir,” interrupted Corporal Bowman shaking his head warningly at his Lieutenant. Mead frowned at him.

Local women? He’d seen no local women; they’d all fled when the first shot was fired. And
Staunch to the cause
?

“Well, so much the better!” declared Ketch. “Mark your orders well Lieutenant!” and with that he was gone.

Poulton stood to attention in the shattered doorway until Ketch and his escort had cantered away, then he turned and grinned at the cornet who likewise grinned and swept back a shot-ridden drape to reveal a stout door missed in the looting. He heaved the door open and from within issued forth a dishevelled, dirt encrusted collection of women. One stomped angrily across the debris-covered floor and stood defiantly before Mead, hands on ample hips and glaring menacingly. Richard looked at her in bewilderment trying to see through the coating of powder smoke and dust, and then he laughed out loud.

“Greeting Mistress Annie!” he chuckled.

“Hah!” she sneered. “You girls follow yon cornet and do what you can for them torn up soldiers out the back,” she called over her shoulder then turned back to Mead and began ripping off his improvised bandage muttering the while.

“A fine thing indeed! Here am I trying to make an honest shilling out of the King’s men then some cursed bunch of Bible-bashers starts lobbing cannonballs at me!”

“Annie I … ”

“Shut up and do as you are told mister high and mighty officer! Patching you up is like to becoming a full-time business! As if I didn’t have better things to be a-doing of! And don’t you go groping my tits while I’m a-trying to save that leg of yours!”

Lieutenant Mead knew an order when he heard one.

For three days Annie and her girls nursed the troop’s wounded. Some died, some lived. Without their attentions most of the injured would have fallen in the first category. Although Mead’s leg turned an interesting combination of hues, gangrene did not set in. This was mainly due to Annie putting maggots in the wound.
Witchcraft!
whispered some of the troopers. “Bollocks!” said Annie and soon enough a clear yellow pus appeared and the pain became merely agonising as opposed to totally unbearable. Not long after this, Mead and his men bade a reluctant farewell to the ‘Staunch Women’. The troopers had repaired a couple of wagons and ‘liberated’ a couple of beasts to haul them, so that Annie could resume her business endeavours. They were unaware that they were not the only ones who had been ‘liberating’ items. Annie and her girls had been hard at it even as the doors of the Hall had evaporated into splinters. It was a pair of very well laden wagons that headed off towards Oxford the following day.

The farcical situation that Parliament now faced forced some hard decision-making. They had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. It must never be so again. They had until spring when the war would begin again in earnest. Things MUST be changed. Parliament passed the Self Denying Ordinance prohibiting members of the Commons and the Lords from holding military command purely by virtue of their political status. Competent, professional soldiers would now reorganise the Army and lead it in the field. Only one Member of Parliament was specifically exempted from this Ordinance: Oliver Cromwell, the hero of Marston Moor. Overall command of this New Model Army was given to Sir Thomas Fairfax. Cromwell had made an impassioned speech outlining Parliament’s military failings and both he and ‘Black Tom’ were in accord as to how to proceed. With his exemption from the Ordinance and the fact that he still held command, Cromwell had made a number of influential enemies as Westminster. Was he not concerned? He dismissed it, temporarily, as irrelevant to the course of his duty and the dictates of his conscience. But was he not aggrieved to be still subordinate to a number of other Generals?

“I will gladly follow them all,” he proclaimed then added somewhat pointedly, “For so long as they do the Lord’s work.”

The new year of 1645 thus began for Parliament with not only the formation of a new army, but also with a large measure of cleaning house. Court martials and trials followed swiftly and many were the executions. Included in this number was Archbishop Laud whose religious advice and support for the Book of Common Prayer had been the sparks that ignited the fire of war. And this war was no longer just an English affair, as if indeed, it had ever been. Not all Scots were Covanteers and those loyal to the King had taken full advantage of their countrymen’s absence south of the border at York. These loyalists, led by the Marquis of Montrose, had taken Perth and Aberdeen in Charles’ name. But this was more than King versus Covenant, this was clan war. Many of Montrose’s followers were McDonalds. A considerable number of Covanteers were Campbells. The blood feud between these two clans went back untold generations. When the Campbells recrossed the border in the winter of 1644, they were looking for retribution. But Montrose fought a skilful guerrilla campaign constantly outrunning his enemies until he turned and attacked the totally unprepared Covanteers at Inverlocky under the shadow of Ben Nevis.
Sons of dogs come and we will give you flesh
! was the Macdonald war cry as they fell upon the Campbells and utterly routed them. A second victory followed and Scotland was now secure for the King.

Charles was extremely encouraged by this turn of events, but he was getting contradictory advice from his many advisers and, as a consequence, he was, as usual, vacillating. Goring, an experienced General, was about the King’s business in the West Country and his advice was to thoroughly ‘cleanse’ that part of the country first. Then, he suggested, all the King’s forces could unite in one massive force and crush all who stood against His Majesty. Rupert however vehemently urged Charles that the West could wait as it offered no real threat. March north said he, destroy what’s left of the Covanteers, unite with Montrose and
then
crush Parliament. Other options put forward were a thrust into the Puritan heartland of East Anglia, and the immediate obliteration of this as yet embryonic New Model Army, nipped in the bud before it could become a valid fighting force. While Charles was dithering, swaying this way and that, yet another clique persuaded him to attack Leicester as an interim, stalling move to keep Parliament wrong-footed. The assault on Leicester was sickeningly brutal and the carnage terrible. Not just the garrison, but also many, many, women and children perished and the city was mercilessly ransacked. When he saw the devastation, Charles wept and ordered an immediate halt to the proceedings. It was but a sample of how the war had changed from those previous, almost chivalrous early days. This was now total, uncompromising, merciless war.

Still the King dithered. What course now to pursue? Charles tried to hedge his bets. Goring arrived in camp only to be ordered promptly back to the West Country to pacify the region before rejoining the King who would meanwhile accompany Rupert to Daventry. Goring sighed. Had he not proposed this very strategy months ago? It might be too late for it to work now. Nonsense said the King. When Goring returned, the whole united Royalist Army would march north as Rupert had counselled. Now it was the Prince’s turn to be dismayed but he remained silent. Thus it was that the King divided his forces almost in the face of the enemy. Not only this, but when Goring left as ordered, he took with him his three thousand cavalry, three thousand of the best, most experienced of the King’s Horse.

Many of the King’s advisers had become used to the animosity between Parliament’s Generals and they had become complacent in their contempt for their foes’ abilities. Charles allowed himself to become convinced that there would be ample time for Goring to sweep the West Country, return, and for His Majesty’s master plan to come to fruition. For his part, Rupert, whilst outwardly affecting to despise this supposedly New Model Army, was still mindful of Marston Moor. His pride and former arrogance had not yet recovered and he was uncomfortable not knowing what he might be up against. He knew Fairfax had been given a free hand and he knew also that Cromwell was now Lieutenant General of Horse. What really irked him was that he had no real idea where these two were. Contact had been lost, where were his foes?

Vague reports had suggested that Parliament’s forces were on the move, but in what direction? Scouts went out but found nothing, which worried Rupert all the more. All his instincts were twanging like bow strings now so he did what, for Rupert, was the unthinkable: he temporarily swallowed his pride. After much effort and debate, he finally managed to convince Charles to recall Goring and his precious cavalry. A pair of gallopers were despatched to that effect. Goring acknowledged the order but advised that it would be some days before he could rejoin as his men were spread all over the West. Rupert fretted. Charles refused to see what the potential problems might be. He decided he had ample time for a spot of hunting.

Recently promoted Captain Wil Pitkin looked down from his position on Dust Hill a little to the south of Market Harborough. A mile distant was Mill Hill where his enemies stood formed and ready. Between them was Broadmoor whereupon the killing would soon commence. Pitkin was tired to the point of near collapse. Waves of exhaustion lapped over him repeatedly. For a second or two he actually fell asleep standing up, then the drums started and the artillery, such as it was, commenced firing.

The Royalists were fewer in number than their foes. More importantly, with Goring’s cavalry not yet rejoined, they were considerably outnumbered in numbers of Horse. Also, morale was poor, sunk to its lowest level of the war. Langdale’s Horse, Yorkshire men bitter over recent events, were becoming positively mutinous. Nonetheless, Price Rupert and his brother Maurice began the battle as they had always done, with a charge, thundering up the hill on the right wing. Pitkin experienced a peculiar feeling; it was as if he had been here before. Perhaps he was dreaming after all. The banners twirled, the drums increased their tempo, and the Royalist Foot advanced. They saw Rupert crash through the enemy’s ranks and continue on out of sight. Surely not! Surely they were not going to repeat the catastrophic blunder of Marston Moor? But they were. Brave to the point of lunacy, these valiant riders were dismissive of discipline and control, and they had only one tactic. The charge! Wil sighed heavily, despairingly.

On the other flank, Cromwell led his disciplined, battle hardened and religiously inspired Ironsides down the slope towards the King’s columns. They crashed into the Royalists, rallied as trained, then changed direction to attack the now exposed centre of the columns destroying their cohesion. Dragoons came in from another direction, then a third line of Horse, not all of them New Model Army, began driving a wedge into the recoiling Royalist Infantry. It was methodical; it was coordinated destruction.

Lieutenant Richard Mead regrouped his men and raised his visor. Wiping the sweat away, he spotted the King’s banner under which Charles, stuttering mightily, was trying to restore order, but it was too late. Rupert finally returned with his errant horsemen to find all was lost and wasted no time in persuading Charles to urgently retire to Leicester. The King and his nephew, with a protecting body of cavalry, put spur to mount and departed the field abandoning the Royalist Foot to surrender or die.

The fighting slowly abated. Five hundred Royalist officers and four thousand, five hundred men surrendered. Many died. Many fled. Wil Pitkin simply walked away in disgust and nobody seemed inclined to stop him.

Mead spotted Ketch’s cornet and heard the urgent clarion of the trumpet. His commander was after the great prize – the King himself! But almost immediately, one of Cromwell’s, or was it Fairfax’s, aides appeared and ordered him to halt. Ketch was ideally placed to pursue and head off the fleeing monarch and for a moment he was tempted to ignore the order. Then he realised. NO ONE was chasing His Highness. The King was being ALLOWED to escape!