Believe or Die (8 page)

Many were killed on both sides. Many also were those who drowned in the icy river desperate to escape Salisbury’s Welshmen who showed little if any inclination to take prisoners. The Royalist attack was irresistible and despite reinforcements from units deployed from Uxbridge, Holles’ Regiment was so badly mauled that it was subsequently disbanded and its surviving soldiers incorporated into other units; Brooke’s command was equally shattered. And so it was that, by the end of the morning, Brentford belonged to King Charles and the road to London lay open before him. The fighting, which dragged on sporadically throughout the rest of the day, was desperate and bloody.

Rumours of Royalist atrocities began to filter back, some imaginary, some only too real. Prisoners were hanged or branded for refusing to change sides and fight for the King. Numerous wounded souls had their throats cut with huge Welsh knives. With each retelling of a horror, whether fact or invention, the goriness grew as Parliament’s more vocal supporters strived to enrage the citizens of London with dread of what the King’s men would do to them if they did not resist. One occurrence grew mightily in the telling: five Parliamentarian dragoons were caught by Rupert’s victorious riders whilst skirmishing rearwards on the right bank of the river. The fighting had by now all but ceased so the dragoons were somewhat surprised to have their hands bound behind them and tethers put around their necks. Surprise turned to fear as they were then herded back to the river and marched waste deep into the freezing water. The Cavaliers taunted them, mockingly suggesting that they prayed for deliverance, then they became bored or possibly realised they were missing out on booty. They drove the dragoons into deeper water, knocking them down with their mounts, and watched them drown, laughing the while at the struggling forms as the weight of sodden clothes and equipment dragged them under. Then they cantered away greatly amused by the jape. Shortly after, a pair of Parliamentarian despatch riders came upon the bodies. Despite the potential risk, they elected to pull the deceased out of the river and say a brief prayer over them before continuing on back to Lord Essex with their report of the King’s movements, the purpose of their reconnaissance. Four of the dragoons were clearly dead, but one was alive – just! His name was Richard Mead.

The Royalist success at Brentford had given form to everything London had feared; the nightmare seemed about to become fulfilled. The sacrifices of Brooke’s and Holles’ Regiments had given Essex time to bring the rest of his Army together with the London Trained Bands at Turnham Green. There they waited to do battle with the King. Both sides pondered the situation: to fight in the open around Turnham Green or to fight street by street through the capital? King Charles dithered, his advisors argued, Rupert fumed. Essex decided to force the issue and ordered two Regiments of Horse and four of Foot to Acton where they might fall on the Royalist flank and rear if the opportunity presented itself. It was a gamble but it worked and these forces were not required. The King’s Counsel advised him to retire first to Hounslow and Colnbrook, close by Reading, and thence to Oxford. Winter was now upon them, the campaigning season was over, and mighty battles would have to wait for the coming spring. Thus did Charles justify his tactics and his Generals heaved a sigh of relief, many being confident that this rebellion would soon peter out of its own accord. Why therefore take unnecessary risks? Rupert got drunk in disgust.

As the opposing forces withdrew from Turnham Green, the Angel of Death looked down on the field and was disappointed.

The weeks following Brentford saw the King’s best chances of outright victory wasted. London was vital to his cause, it being the centre of everything: trade, commerce, money, and the Tower Armouries. It was also the largest port, a necessity the Royalists were desperately lacking, and a situation made worse by the Navy declaring for Parliament. As winter set in, the King and his counsel at Oxford considered the next move. Parliament sat in London and did likewise. Both sides had hoped for swift and decisive action; a battle that would win the war in one fell swoop. It was not to be.

The winter was a cruel one with the heaviest snow falls in many a long year. The main field forces, rendered inactive by the weather, shivered and waited for spring. But this was not a time of truce or peace. All over the country, small garrisons and outposts fought each other amidst the sleet and snow. It was a time of raiding and retribution, of looting, ambush and counter ambush.

Wil Pitkin, despite his comparative youth, found himself promoted to sergeant. He proved quick to learn his new trade and even quicker to lose any qualms he may have once felt about killing his enemy. Whilst many of his comrades would have been perfectly happy to sit out the cold and miserable months in some cosy garrison or billet, Wil fretted and fumed over the comparative lack of action. The westward approaches to the Thames Valley were no-man’s land and frequently patrols clashed in the sleet and snow as they probed each other’s positions or scavenged for supplies. In one such encounter, Wil lost half an ear which, had it not been for the icy weather, would doubtless have festered and caused him serious illness. Nonetheless, the merest mention of Parliamentarian dragoons would have him reaching for his weapons. Then, just around Christmas time, Wil met a young widow woman, a camp follower, and for a brief interlude his soul knew comparative peace even amid the constant skirmishing that surrounded him. Then he was despatched to escort a convoy of supplies from Fulmaston to Odiham, a week’s task, no more. When he returned, his woman was dead. She had contracted the flux, probably from putrid food and had died within thirty-six hours. Pitkin’s jaundiced view of the world returned with avengeance. Shortly after this, whilst on yet another of the seemingly endless patrols and foraging details, he and his men came upon a party of enemy dragoons doing likewise. Caught unprepared and barely awake, the Parliamentarians were made to surrender. Pitkin saw only their uniforms and went berserk, killing all four in but a few moments madness. Furiously, he examined each of the bodies as his men looked on in abject horror unable to grasp what Pitkin was apparently searching for. They didn’t know he was searching for a dragoon named Richard Mead.

But Richard Mead was elsewhere, and he was no longer a dragoon. After Edgehill and the clashes that followed it, many decimated regiments were broken up and merged into other units. Mead, following his near drowning at Brentford, had been determined to join a cavalry regiment and to that end trawled through all the inns frequented by recruiting parties he could find in and around the west of London. Good fortune, or so it seemed at the time, smiled on him as his aching feet finally led him to ‘The Black Bear’ near Tyburn Brook. Two Regiments of Horse were recruiting: one from the Trained Bands, which didn’t hold much appeal to him, and the other being Hobden’s Horse. The latter, however, appeared a dour, deeply, indeed almost fanatically religious formation and Richard had grave doubts as to his ability to serve with such zealots. He paused a while considering, then a clattering of hoofs and a jingling of harness caused him to turn around. An officer and his escort of half a dozen men had stopped to converse with another officer, flamboyantly garbed and gesticulating with the tools that identified him as a Master of artillery. The mounted officer looked familiar to Mead. He frowned, and then realised he knew the man and quickly hurried across. The man glared down at him then his expression changed from hostile to quizzical.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“Richard Mead Sir. You may recall a fracas in the village of Ruislip just before the war started. You instructed me to seek you out if I had a mind to fight.”

“Ah yes, now I recall. Well, you took your time about it. What pray got in your way for such a time?”

“Edgehill Sir.”

“Indeed? And if I do not mistake, you are a dragoon, or at least that is what the rags you are wearing suggest. Are you here for redeployment? For I doubt a deserter would be petitioning me for service?”

“Redeployment Sir. To the cavalry I am hoping. Which is …”

“You wish to join my regiment?”

“If it please you Sir?”

“Well now Master Mead. You appear to have some modicum of intelligence and you showed initiative in approaching me in such a bold manner. And, by the state of you, I would venture you have a little experience. Can you ride?”

“I can Sir.”

“And can you read and write to a reasonable standard?”

“Yes Sir.”

The officer considered for a moment or two. He had a fair amount of good fighting men in his command but few potential officers and he would need the latter if this war lasted for any appreciable time.

“Very well. I will give you a trial; I am in need of a cornet. You are aware of the duties of such? Good. Then I will give you a trial. If you prove worthy, I may consider you for the position. If you do not, then at least we will have someone to shovel the shit for us, eh boys?” and his escort chuckled appreciatively.

Richard Mead did prove worthy and soon after, wearing a ramshackle collection of second-hand clothes, he became cornet in Ketch’s Regiment of Horse. Not only was he in the cavalry, he was an OFFICER! The lowest of the low in that species to be sure, but it was more than he had ever hoped for. It was to celebrate this momentous occasion that one night he and the trumpeter, also new to the regiment, sallied forth amid the inns and stews of Southwark. Despite London being all for Parliament, it had not yet fully succumbed to the strict ways of the Puritans. This especially applied south of the river in an area that did not yet acknowledge that it was anything to do with the City. But it was not only the taverns and whorehouses that Richard encountered that night, he also met a force that was to have a mighty influence on him in the coming years; he met Annie Trivett. Annie ran a travelling bordello which catered for a wide range of Gentleman’s interests and such was her extensive network of friends and ‘clients’ that no magistrate ever seriously attempted to interfere with her ‘business’. In addition, although she was but of small stature, she had a temper out of all proportion to her build and it was a valiant preacher indeed who would venture to vex her with a derogatory sermon about the evils of the flesh! Yet her ferociousness when roused was matched by an equally big heart. She would tolerate no mistreatment of her ‘girls’ and was meticulous in her concern for their health; a rare thing indeed for one of her calling in such times. It was also a very rare thing indeed for Annie to ‘entertain’ a client herself, but that night in Southwark, she took a shine to a certain young cornet and gave him an experience he would never forget!

For days afterwards, Richard was tormented by a dreadful feeling that he had sinned unpardonably in the eyes of the Lord. He twitched as the Regimental Preacher harangued them on the Sabbath and cringed when he remembered all the sermons he had received throughout his life on the subject of fornication. But as the weeks passed the Almighty did not strike him down. Neither did the rigorous inspections of his body reveal anything untoward with his manhood. He began to think that he had ‘got away with it’, that the Lord must have missed or overlooked his debauchery. But that was surely blasphemous! Then again, could he perhaps get away with it again? The subject stayed ever close to his thoughts as the winter gradually turned into a very wet spring and the war was upon them once more.

Cornet Mead sat proudly on his new mount, a dappled grey that matched that of the trumpeter’s. Ketch had provided some fine horseflesh for his men, of that there was no doubt. They also seemed to be much better equipped than their contemporaries in other regiments. Their commander was either a very wealthy, or a very ambitious man; perhaps both. As the troop stood awaiting the order to march, Mead shook a wind-induced tangle out of his standard’s orange and black colours and as he did so, he noticed a pair of large covered wagons escorted by a couple of hard-looking bruisers. Perched on the seats of these wagons were a selection of attractive but solemnly garbed young ladies who winked suggestively at the troopers. They were Annie’s girls; the bordello was on the march! The troopers responded as all of their stamp are wont to do with grins, gestures and much merriment. Then a couple of smaller wagons appeared and there in the coach of the first was Annie herself. She was dressed like a respectable middle-aged matron might do with not a hint of impropriety about her. Mead could only gape open-mouthed as he tried to reconcile this image with the lewd pictures that frequently coursed through his mind. Then as she drew abreast the head of the column, Annie turned in Richard’s direction and blew him a kiss. The whole troop roared and cheered.

“Silence in the ranks!” bellowed the Captain and his Lieutenant in unison.

Mead pulled down his visor to conceal his scarlet face but he felt curiously warm inside. The feeling didn’t last; the year of our Lord 1643 saw to that.

Armies were reformed and strengthened in readiness for the dryer weather, for campaigning weather. When it eventually arrived, England erupted into viscous chaos once more. It also brought ill days for Parliament. Waller captured Winchester for Parliament only to find that his old friend Hopton, now his enemy, had seized Cornwall for the King. The move confused the Parliamentarians as they frowned over their largely inaccurate maps. What was the King’s strategy? Did he indeed have one? Yet master plan or not, Charles now appeared to hold the initiative, certainly in the West, even though his forces were woefully short of muskets, cannons, powder and shot. Indeed, but initially unknown to Parliament, so dire was the actual Royalist predicament that the Queen herself made a journey to Holland where she pawned the Crown Jewels to remedy her husband’s deficiencies in ordnance and supplies. These vital items were landed in secret at Bridlington and plans were made to convey them to Oxford. Prince Rupert was despatched towards Birmingham and captured Litchfield to serve as a base from which to cover the precious convoy. Yet still Essex knew nothing of this immensely valuable supply train, all he knew was that Rupert was apparently heading north and clearly up to something nefarious. Still, with the headstrong Prince now many miles away, an opportunity presented itself and Essex promptly seized Reading. For his part, Rupert, having mislead Parliament and ensured the safe arrival of the convoy, hurried south again. He viewed the now well-entrenched Roundheads at Reading, decided the game was not worth the hazard and withdrew. Both sides paused to take stock. Essex’s spies now advised him about the convoy, which angered him but he still remained quietly confident. So too did the now replenished King’s men and both sides began looking once more for that illusive, decisive, grand engagement.