Believe or Die (16 page)

Firstly, two men were brought forward screaming and frantically resisting but to no avail. They were stripped and slowly impaled. But this apparently was nothing unusual, nothing novel, and anyway, they died far too quickly to afford any amusement. Then a second pair of ‘criminals’ were hauled forward and tied between opposite facing teams of horses. Whips were raised, the horses raced away from each other and the men were simply pulled asunder. This was better, more spectacular, but it clearly was still not quite the thing. Still a little too short on duration perhaps? A third pair was thrust forward, this time accompanied by a band of musicians; the crowd rustled with interest. The Sultan, a date between his fingers, paused to watch more closely. Strong hands secured the victims and skilled knives went to work. Holes were cut in selected parts of the bodies and lit candles inserted. Then, to the deafening accompaniment of the musicians and the appreciative applause of the crowd, the slaves were made to dance. This went on until the dying men collapsed to the ground whereupon they were beheaded and dismembered. It all went down very well indeed and the Sultan was vastly entertained. One prisoner alone remained; clearly he was to be the finale of the show. A large wooden frame was brought out to which he was tied. An ingenious device, the frame could be rotated and angled at will.

A slim Arab came forward accompanied by two huge
Black-a-Moors
. The trio bowed expansively to the Sultan then turned and began their ‘performance’. Firstly, and with infinite slowness and care, the slim Arab gouged out his victim’s eyes. He exhibited these to the audience then tossed them, one after another, high in the air. Instantly they were snatched from the sky by a pair of hawks released on cue by some unseen partner in the act. The crowd loved it. Now, with the flourish of a natural born showman, the Arab led his assistants in the slow, methodical, and supremely precise skinning of the slave. The man was beyond pain; he was experiencing something on an entirely different plane. How could he possibly still be alive? Never had Pitkin heard such screams. Never had he seen such a sight as the Arab’s finished work, made possible through skills known only to him – a man still living, completely devoid of skin. The frame was rotated by the powerful Nubians so that all might admire his craftsmanship, and then the Arab clapped his hands and a stream of followers hurried out carrying large earthenware pots and even larger panniers. The contents of the pots were emptied over the screaming man. A thick, viscous liquid, honey perhaps, covered the slave from head to foot momentarily muting his moans. Now came the panniers. The tops were ripped open and countless creeping insects were showered over the man. The creatures, of every imaginable species, attacked the liquid with gusto. In doing so, they also began to devour the human tissue that the Arab had laid bare for them. The screaming became revitalised and seemed to go on for a lifetime. Yet the Arab knew that timing was all. Another clap of the hands and a pungent new liquid was liberally sprayed over the horrific image that had once been a man. Then the whole writhing mass was ignited and erupted in a kaleidoscope of flame. The performance was at an end. The crowd had loved it, and more importantly, so had the Sultan. The Arab was ushered away to receive his reward whilst Pitkin and his fellows were left to ponder on the sights and smells of what they had seen.

It was just after this edifying spectacle that Wil Pitkin started to lose his mind, at least that was how it felt. God had forsaken him, that much was clear beyond doubt. He wanted to die, but not in any of the ways he had so recently witnessed. He had not the will to live, nor the will to die. He was losing his grip on reality. His brain seemed to freeze; it simply would not consider options of any sort any more. When he was herded back to work with all the others, he simply went about his labours like an automaton. He was unthinking, unseeing, unfeeling. He simply DID! Some days later, was it two, three, maybe four? Even this minor calculation was beyond him. Whatever, some time later, the Tall Man in the dark apparel arrived at the constructions. He watched the labourers, or rather, he watched certain labourers for some hours. Amongst that number was Pitkin.

Lime causes pain; it burns. Making lime mortar is thus a hurtful business. It is also dangerous, particularly when it has to be hauled up by pulleys that splatter all close at hand in its stinging dust and droplets. Pitkin barely noticed. He was thirty feet up on rickety scaffolding and had just begun thinking again with a modicum of clarity. Perhaps it was just a brief glimpse of sanity amid his almost terminal apathy. Whatever the prompt though, he had just begun to realise that if the walls he was constructing got even a little bit higher, then he might elude the overseer and throw himself off thus bringing his nightmare to a satisfactory conclusion. The appealing notion of a quick death began percolating through him driving all else away, thus he was oblivious to the soundless approach of the Tall Man who now stood but a foot away from the kneeling Pitkin. Suddenly the sun became dim and Wil saw the shadow. He knelt back and lowered his head submissively. His legs were wrapped around the scaffolding for support so he could not prostrate himself. Would it be deemed enough to bow? A riding crop inserted itself under his chin and he found it being raised. The Tall Man peered deep into his eyes.

“Have you given up Englishman? Is your spirit broken?”

“Yes Lord.”

The Tall Man studied him for a moment then scoffed.

“I think not,” he stated and Pitkin cringed. More pain?

“Be easy Englishman. A man with no backbone is of no use to me.”

“Use Lord?”

“I am told you were taken in a fishing village. Are you a seafaring man?”

“No Lord. Once I was a soldier.”

“Ah, as I suspected. Your scars said as much. A King’s man?”

“Yes Lord.”

“So then, your escape did not proceed as planned I gather! The Corsairs did not factor in your scheme!”

“No Lord,” sighed Wil.

The Tall Man studied the horizon for a while then turned his piercing eyes back upon Wil.

“Do you wish to remain a slave Englishman?”

“No Lord. Yet I see no alternative.”

“There may be an alternative. Mark me though, I say ‘may’. There may be an alternative to this … this …”

“Hell Lord?”

‘Hah! This is not Hell Englishman. Consider it purgatory. You must pass through purgatory to reach the other side.”

“The other side Lord? Would that be Heaven then?”

“Heaven or Hell,” shrugged the Tall Man. “Perhaps there is no difference. Perhaps Hell and Heaven are, in reality, a lot different to what your preachers and priests would have you believe. One thing I can tell you though. Getting to there, whatever it might turn out to be, is a painful process.”

“More painful than this Lord?”

“In some ways, yes. But there are rewards for those who apply themselves with diligence and
learn
. Above all,
learn
!”

“What must I do then Lord?” “Persist. Suffer. Do nothing stupid. In such a manner perhaps your stay in purgatory will soon come to an end. We will speak again. Get on with your work.”

Pitkin bowed and was about to recommence his labours when the Tall Man turned and spoke again.

“Englishman, heed my words. You see these hands? Not all these scars are from battle. Once, long ago, I mixed the lime mortar too.”

Wil was astonished, dumbstruck. A tiny spark of hope ignited within him.

“Lord!” he cried, “Tell me how to keep going?”

“Find something, or someone from your past to hate Englishman. When God and hope desert you, HATE, is a powerful motivator!”

Richard Mead eased his aching back and shifted his numb lower limbs into a marginally more comfortable position in the saddle. He was deep in thought. Ketch’s Regiment of Horse, not that it had ever really been of such strength, had now been divided up into individual undermanned troops whose role it was to police a large area composed of Middlesex, Buckinghamshire and parts of Hertfordshire. In fact even to say they were undermanned was in truth a huge exaggeration, as they had received no replacements since Naseby. This was clearly deliberate. The Regiment, and others like it, were being run down to bolster the ranks of the New Model Army. There was now no place for independent formations in the new, religiously motivated, scheme of things. Glory was for Cromwell’s followers and for them alone. Yet this thirst for success in achieving the New Jerusalem by slaughtering dissidents in battle had saved Mead and his men from being included in a vicious campaign in Ireland. True, they had seen countless bloody affrays with the Scots, but this was but small beer compared with the horrors both sides had committed across the Irish Sea.

England itself was pacified and largely peaceful now, yet to Mead, it seemed a dour, joyless peace. People did not laugh anymore; they dare not for fear of seeming unpious. The Major Generals who ran the counties now did not approve of merriment. Strict observance of the Puritan way of life was the only option on the table and no deviation from the true path would be tolerated. Was this really the way the Almighty wanted things? Mead looked at the hangdog expressions of the people in the towns and villages he passed through and wondered. He noted their sombre garb and their sullen, depressed demeanour and frowned. No, this was not the way things were meant to be. But had he himself not contributed to this state of affairs? Had he not bloodied his sword in its creation? Was he not therefore responsible? Mead’s mood darkened at the prospect and he fidgeted again causing the letter within his tunic to rustle. He pulled off a gauntlet and withdrew the missive to reread it yet again. Ketch, Colonel Ketch as he was now, had ordered all outpost troops to regroup and muster at Uxbridge. Why? Richard snorted derisively and stuffed the communication back whence it came. It was obvious; the Regiment was being disbanded. With a tired sigh he pulled his mount off the lane, followed by the unit’s sole surviving trumpeter, and waved his men on past him. Lieutenant Frobisher, his second-in-command, was first to pass. A protégé of Ketch’s, Frobisher had but recently joined the troop and was a poor substitute for … for … damn! Why wouldn’t the name come? Steadman? Yes, Steadman! Clever, good humoured and a valiant fighter, James Steadman had been blasted to oblivion by a Scot’s cannon; such a waste. Mead frowned at his new Lieutenant. All the officer’s equipment was brand new and unmarked. His breastplate glistened a lustrous black causing Mead to look down and spot the rust coming through his own battered protection. He was particularly irritated to see that Frobisher’s helmet was a superb, virtually musket-proof
Zishagge
, something Mead could never have afforded in a century of soldiering. Next came the cornet, chatting in an animated fashion to a shifty little trooper named Letts. Nobody trusted Letts who would never meet a man’s eyes when talking to him. Both he and the cornet, who was brave but impulsive, wore green willow bands in their headgear denoting them to be Levellers. If Mead was wrong and the Regiment was not to be disbanded, these two young men would regret their ill-timed political awakening, for Cromwell would not tolerate any opinion other than God’s, in other words, his! The surgeon rode with the farrier, also deep in discussion but obviously of a professional nature - hardly surprising since they often had occasion to share their tools. No clerk and no suttler rode in the ranks, both being long departed this mortal plane through typhoid. Then came the ‘meat’ of the unit. Forty troopers, well mounted, armed to the teeth and experienced in the ways of war. They took their lead from three hardened corporals one of whom doubled as quartermaster, or rather, legalised thief. Forty troopers? Once there had been sixty. All had been scared but none had run. More waste of good men who were now buried the length and breadth of the land. A full score, plus two: Corporal of Horse Bowman and Tatchell, whose bodies were never found. Bowman was sorely missed; Ephraim Tatchell, ‘The Preacher’, was mourned by no one. Although brave to the point of lunacy, his religious fanaticism made his comrades uncomfortable, indeed, Bowman had declared that the man was evil pure and simple. Mead suddenly came to an abrupt mental halt. He had been thinking like a bookkeeper; they had lost more than twenty! What of all those he’d never had time to put a name and face together with? He grimaced and shook his head, ashamed at his lapse. Still, not one desertion in all that time. Surely that would count for something? But then, what politician ever valued integrity and fidelity over their own self-interest.

Arriving at length in Uxbridge, the troop were directed to the river where they bivouacked. Shortly thereafter, a messenger arrived to bring Mead to an officer’s conference being held in a nearby inn. Ketch was holding court, flanked by his second in command and his Sergeant Major. All three wore sombre Puritan attire and equally sombre expressions. Ketch drummed his fingers impatiently on a wooden table as his troop captains, all three of them, arranged themselves. Mead looked around, exchanged nods and shook hands with his fellows. Someone was missing. Then the door opened noisily and the portly bulk of Captain William Brocket lumbered into view. He winked mischievously at Richard then assumed what he deemed to be an appropriately pious expression. The conference was tense, ill-humoured and brief in the extreme. Ketch simply unrolled a parchment and read it aloud commencing with,
By order of Parliament
... The Regiment was disbanded with immediate effect. The members of said Regiment had but two options: join the New Model Army and serve wherever it deemed expedient, or return to civilian life. All captains were to draw up documents detailing the amount of arrears in pay owed to their men (six months for most) and submit them for consideration by the Treasurers of Parliament.

“When will this arrears be paid?” demanded someone.

“That is for Parliament to say, not I,” shrugged Ketch.

“You would see the men starve?” growled Brocket, “Men who have given their all for God and the Cause?”