Believe or Die (7 page)

The King’s forces reformed on the hill looking down on the men of Parliament. Both sides seemed to be waiting but nobody appeared to know what for. Prince Rupert and his command took up position on the right of the King’s line but they were incapable of mounting another charge. Indeed half of the force was still missing from the field having run into Roundhead reserves in Kineton. The Royalist brigades of Gerrard and Belasyse reformed behind a series of ditches supported by dragoons and cannon. The dragoons then crept a little way down the hill to discourage the weary Parliamentarians from advancing and the occasional blast of canister from the cannon augmented this deterrent. Some of the Royalists wanted to mount another attack while the impetus of the slope still favoured them. Among them was a particularly vociferous pikeman.

“Be silent Pitkin!” ordered Captain Duvall mopping his throbbing head with a bloody kerchief. “You forget yourself. It is not for the likes of you to advise your betters on how to conduct a battle. Your enthusiasm for His Majesty’s cause and your valour have been noted, but desist now I say or as God is my witness, I will run you through myself!”

At the bottom of the hill a similar scene was being enacted. Denzil Holles walked slowly up and down in front of his battered Regiment, which was exhausted and almost totally out of powder and shot.
No, it will not answer
, he mused to himself,
there will be no more fighting this day
.

“My Lord!” came a voice from the side of one of the depleted Pike Blocks.

Holles looked around and eventually focused on a dishevelled and bloody young dragoon.

“By your leave my Lord,” said Mead, “Are we not to attack? We must … we … !”

“Stay boy,” sighed Holles, “There will be other battles. As the Lord of Hosts has now shown us, I fear there will now be many others. God curse the King who has caused it to be so!” he spat.

“But my Lord … !” protested Mead.

“Be easy Master Mead,” said a voice to his rear and he turned to find the preacher drawing up alongside. His hat was pierced by blade and ball and his cloak was steeped in blood. “All witnessed the fervour with which God inspired you this day. You will go on to do mighty deeds against those forces of evil atop yonder hill. But another time will that be. For now, we must take pause.”

Mead deflated like a punctured bladder. All his energy suddenly seemed to drain away. His arms, with a pistol in each hand, dropped limply to his side.

Up on the hill, not far from King Charles’ position, a final plume of smoke issued forth from the side of a barn: a Royalist cannoneer trying one last defiant shot. The gunner, out of proper ball now, pitched a miniscule stone roundshot high in the air hoping to skittle over a few Roundheads yet knowing full well that when it landed it would have all the impact of a falling pigeon. Yet land it did and squarely on the stomach of Richard Mead. Mead opened his mouth to emit a scream but only a winded croak came forth. The shot had not even broken the skin but it had driven every last gasp of breath from his body. He dropped his pistols, clasped his hands to his belly and sank to his knees, unable to make a sound other than a thin wheeze. The preacher, who had been looking elsewhere, turned back upon hearing the clatter of falling pistols and espied Mead apparently in an act of devout piety. The Preacher raised his hands to heaven and yelled a mighty
Halleluiah!
“See brethren! He prays to the Lord! He smites the ungodly then gives thanks for his deliverance! This pilgrim is an example to us all!”

With that the whole of Denzil Holles’ Regiment dropped to their knees in prayer. Holles himself glared at the preacher and followed suit. Mead clutched his belly and tried in vain to breath. Tears streamed down his face and these the preacher took as a further sign of devotion to the Almighty’s cause. Holles’ colour bearer glanced across at Mead, shook his head, and grinned.

At the rear of Parliament’s lines, reinforcements, now too late to be of any use, were starting to arrive. The Foot of Hamden and Grantham, with supporting Horse and dragoons had arrived after a tedious task escorting the heavy cannon Essex could have so desperately used earlier in the day. They had engaged the disorderly Royalist cavalry around Kineton, but the affair had been inconclusive. They were deeply disappointed. One of the commanders of a troop of Parliamentarian Horse was more than disappointed. He was furious. He was bitter, frustrated and beside himself with anger at what he had seen that day. He vowed that things would change, as soon as was humanely possible; he would
make
things change. It would take time but, if he had his way, never again, with God’s help, would the Army of Parliament take part in such a badly managed fiasco. His name was Oliver Cromwell.

Night fell and a cold and hungry one it was. Many were those who slipped away in search of warmth and sustenance. In the morning both sides stood to each thinking the other ready to renew the fray. Neither did. The day passed, the night came again; both armies remained where they were. After yet another bitterly cold night, Essex withdrew his army all the way to Warwick, harassed now and then by Rupert’s horsemen, who were actually only doing so to mask the fact that the King was also withdrawing. The field at Edgehill was left to the crows who had over a thousand corpses to pick at. Close on three thousand more had been maimed or wounded. The Angel of Death looked down approvingly.

Wil Pitkin trudged down the road towards Banbury on a bright autumnal day which was nonetheless still cold enough to make his nose and fingers tingle. The road, not that it deserved so grand a title, was rutted, frost hardened and very hard on the feet. Wil wasn’t sure if he could still feel his toes. Captain Duvall stood back to watch his men pass then fell into step alongside Pitkin.

“You are returned to your senses I find Pitkin,’ he observed.

Wil smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

“Aye Captain. Though in truth, maybe only until next time.”

Duvall looked curiously at him for a moment or two then sneezed loudly into his kerchief and nodded forward.

“Do you mark Sergeant Yeldam yonder?”

Pitkin stretched a little and found the broad back of the sergeant in question. A grizzled old veteran whom Wil estimated to be at least forty-five years of age; a positive ancient.

“Aye Sir, I spy him.”

“I am just back from conversing with him. Get you forward and march a while with him. He will impart his wisdom to you, and, if and when he deems fit, you will become one of his File Leaders.”

“I Sir? But I have but one battle’s experience!”

“And how many think you have more in this Army? We must learn and learn quickly if we are to defeat the Rebels. Fresh minds with spirit and that are prepared to listen to those wise in the ways of war, that is what is required. Methinks you might fit such a bill. Go you to the worthy sergeant and make it so.”

Pitkin trotted clumsily forward and fell into a vacant place beside Yeldam. He was surprised to find people, many older than he, drop back to make room for him without protest. The sergeant glanced briefly at him then resumed filling his pipe, a procedure that required considerable dexterity when also carrying a sixteen-foot pike. At length the process was complete and Yeldam sighed contentedly over his tobacco before looking back at Wil once more.

“So, the
Hard Man
eh?” he smirked.

“Sergeant?”

“In the Dutch Wars, so the tales go, men could take a ball or a thrust and not turn a hair ‘cos of it. The Dutchies called them
Hard Men
.”

“Not me!” laughed Wil, “No hard man me!”

“No? There’s many a man saw a Roundhead fire two pistols at you back yonder, yet you still went for ‘im like a mad dog. Aye, and cut down half their line doing it as the story has it.”

“That wasn’t the way of it Sergeant,” frowned Wil. “His first ball broke my pike and his second misfired. And I never even reached their ranks! That’s the truth of it!”

“Truth don’t matter boy, it’s what these lads THINK that matters,” shrugged Yeldham gesturing over his shoulder at the following pikes and muskets. If I was you, I’d trade on that for a while.”

“But that ain’t honest Sergeant!” exclaimed Wil.

“Honest? Bless you boy, you’re in the Army now, honesty don’t enter into it!”

Wil frowned again and trudged on in silence for a while. Every now and then he would steal a glance at Yeldam, a big man with huge, calloused hands and definitely not a person to cross. Yet at the moment, as he puffed slowly on his pipe, he seemed almost serene, doubtless confident of his skills and apparently in no way bitter with his lot despite the circumstances. Then Pitkin remembered what Duvall had said and sighed resignedly.

“What must I do Sergeant?”

“Heed me and be quick to learn. That way we might all, or at least some of us, get out of this God cursed mess alive!”

Richard Mead shook himself awake. He had been dozing, lulled asleep by the plodding motion of the commandeered carthorse he was riding. The sun was rising and Daventry lay just ahead, or so he had been told. Somewhere behind laboured the Earl of Essex’s Army with Denzil Holles’ Regiment in the van. Somewhere up ahead were the Parliamentarian Horse heading south-east, blazing a trail and keeping a watchful eye out for Rupert’s cavalry. At least the Horse actually HAD horses, proper horses and not such a moth eaten nag as he was riding. But then of course, they were cavalry and Mead was, after his brief sojourn amid Holles’ pikes, once more a mere dragoon. Cavalry fought mounted, dragoons, though they might ride to and fro on the battlefield, did their fighting on foot. Mead yawned, closed his eyes once more, and was daydreaming about leading a cavalry charge, riding ahead of his own Regiment of Horse, when a message came back through the troop: he was wanted by his Captain. Mead grimaced and tried to recall what misdemeanour might be the cause of such a summons. Good soldier and loyal Parliamentarian he might be, but as a pious servant of God he was wanting in many respects. He eventually persuaded his mount to amble forward fractionally faster than its customary walking plod.

Captain Rowe stretched his aching back, removed his hat and brushed his fingers through cropped and sweat-soaked hair. Mead steered his disinterested mount alongside the officer. The horse farted, pissed copiously then turned its attention to a clump of frost-withered weeds. Mead grimaced once more. Not a good start to an interview with a Captain renowned for his intolerance of sloppiness.

“So, this is the Avenging Angel is it?” he inquired.

“Sir?” replied a bemused Mead.

“Come trooper, no false modesty I pray you. You have become a most discussed soldier; of this you must be aware. I do confess, I did not see you as one of our more devout comrades. Clearly, I was in error. Your conduct on the field of battle does both you and our Cause great credit.”

Mead briefly considered protesting YET AGAIN, but he had now given up. People seemed to believe exactly what they wished to believe no matter what he told them to the contrary.

“I hope I did my duty Sir,” he said as non-committally as he could.

“That and more trooper, that and more. The good reports of you from Colonel Holles and his worthy chaplain have reached the ears of our own good commander. He has decreed that such devotion to God’s work must be recognised. Are you acquainted with Corporal Embleton? Good. Go you now and join him on yonder rise; he is expecting you. You will be his new Second Man.”

“I Sir?”

“You Sir. Now get you gone, we cannot tarry, the race is on!”

“Race Sir?”

“Aye, race boy, the race for London!”

By the third day after the battle, the Royalist Army had refocused on what had been the original objective of their campaign – Banbury. The King arrived with his entire force outside the walls and the Parliamentarian garrison promptly surrendered the town. The impulsive Rupert then suggested that he take every available horseman, supported by infantry, and capture London without delay. But older, more cautious members of the King’s Counsel persuaded His Majesty to take a round about route via Oxford and Reading and so it was. Essex meanwhile arrived in the capital to a heroes welcome and set about its defences. The people of the city were fiercely Parliamentarian but the politicians of Westminster were horrified by recent events, in particular by the prospect of losing their positions of influence and they suggested a more peaceful approach before the entire realm dissolved into chaos. An envoy was sent to the King offering a cessation of hostilities, a move that Essex totally disapproved of. He no longer trusted the King’s word, and he suspected that Charles would merely dally until he had more reinforcements with which to take London. With that in mind, he dismissed the peacemaking overtures as an irrelevance and began deploying his forces to cover the approaches to the capital. The bridge across the Thames at Kingston and the little town of Brentford were garrisoned, the high ground around Acton guarded and Windsor Castle made into a forward post. The Royalists immediately interpreted this as an opening gambit in an attempt to entrap them. The day before, Parliament’s ambassador, Sir Peter Killigrew, prepared to set off for the King’s camp, and the Roundhead Foot of Brooke and Denzil Holles, supported by a single troop of Horse, arrived in Brentford. A small town, in reality little more than a village, Brentford sat astride the main road to and from the west. It was divided in two by a small river that ran into the Thames. The Parliamentarian Foot eased their aching limbs and discussed how best to keep the King’s men out of London. Next morning, Killigrew passed through on his mission and, to his horror, found Brentford the scene of a desperate conflict.

A little after dawn, and under the cover of a thick November mist, Prince Rupert attacked at the head of two thousand Horse and Dragoons. Denzil Holles repelled them holding his ground to allow Brooke’s men time to erect and man some hastily prepared barricades. Rupert renewed his attack, this time with the support of Sir Thomas Salisbury’s pikes and muskets. This latter Regiment, mainly from Wales and the Marches, had behaved poorly at Edgehill and were anxious to regain their honour. This Royalist onslaught pushed Holles back to the other side of the river and eventually out of Brentford altogether.