Believe or Die Page 10

  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  NASEBY - THE 14th DAY OF JUNE IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1645.

  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!

  “What treachery is this?” he demanded.

  “No treachery Sir, politics I am told,” shrugged the aide.

  “What then are my orders pray tell Sir?” snarled Ketch.

  “You are to attend to the prisoners Sir.”

  “While the Ironsides ‘pursue’ the King’s baggage train?”

  “They do the Lord’s work Sir.”

  “And I do not?”

  “I mean no disrespect Sir, but your command is not yet part of the New Model … ”

  “Oh, so that’s the way of it! The New Model gets the glory and all others get the crumbs from the table!”

  The aide did not reply. Ketch fumed but then composed himself. Perhaps he too should start thinking in a more ‘politic’ manner. He nodded to the aide then turned and barked orders to send his troops to round up the hapless Royalist Foot many of whom seemed to be just roaming around aimlessly like a huge flock of confused sheep.

  Mead walked his horse slowly behind the dejected, trudging prisoners and wondered where the hell Corporal Bowman had got to. For some days now Bowman had been acting strangely. He had become tetchy of temper and was constantly rubbing his arms complaining of itching and scabbing but he would let none examine him. Then he spotted Trooper Hicks cantering towards him, everything about his demeanour suggesting trouble. Mead shouted at his cornet to take over and reined away towards Hicks.

  “Something you need to see Sir,” said Hicks stonily.

  Nea
ring a stretch of unenclosed ground tangled with gorse, they found Corporal Bowman, helmet off and grim of countenance. He was standing over the body of a fellow trooper. Looking up as Mead arrived he nodded at the body.

  “It’s young Sweeney Sir. We’ll be hearing no more of that fine young voice I’m afraid.”

  Mead stifled an oath and shook his head.

  “Lord have mercy,” he grimaced. “Come, we’ll take him back and have the preacher do a proper job for him … ” he stopped, realising that Bowman and Hicks were shuffling uncomfortably.

  “Is there more to this?” he demanded.

  “He said he were just stopping for a piss Sir!” blurted out Hicks. “Said he’d catch me up directly he did. Then I seen ‘e weren’t behind me, so I turns back like. Found him dead. My fault it be Sir, his death’ll be on my conscience so it will God forgive me. I’d never of left ‘im if … ”

  “Enough Hicks. No one is to blame here.” Mead looked around the tangled woods and hedges. “I’m thinking the lad disturbed a Royalist runaway and the Lord took him from us. Bad luck I’m thinking, nothing more, and no blame on anybody. Is that how you see it Corporal?”

  “Pretty much Sir. Swine jumped young Sweeney, killed him for his horse most likely.

  Only … ”

  “Only?”

  “Only I’ve a feeling the Devil’s been at work here, mocking us like. Look what killed the boy; bastard must of dropped it in his haste to be away.” And with that Bowman reached down and pulled something from the long grass. It was a partizan, a short spear-like implement that served an officer as both a weapon and a badge of rank. Bowman glared at it.

  “My reading ain’t as good as it should be Sir, but someone’s had a sentiment carved on it, there’s a name on this plate see. It’s a name I seem to recall you shouting out when you was suffering from the wound sickness. Maybe’s I’m wrong.” He handed the weapon up to Mead. Richard hefted the partisan around. It was an especially fine example. The polished and engraved platelette read:

  To Lieutenant Wil Pitkin. Loyal servant and saviour. Rupert

  Cold fury began permeating through Richard Mead. He looked down at the dead youngster once more then flung the partisan away from him.

  “Find him!” he hissed.

  Light was fading. Pitkin had fallen from his horse when it stumbled down a ditch. Now afoot, he was trying to get to the Royalist baggage train, to his woman. He walked and jogged alternately cursing the loss of his precious partisan and trying to forget the expression on that young Parliamentarian trooper’s face when he died.

  He intended to rejoin the King as soon as he could, mainly because he couldn’t think what else he could possibly do. Still, he would have his Josephine with him when he did. The notion brightened him a little. Then he came to a break in the trees. He could see fires and he could hear screams. He crept closer and could now make out troopers of the New Model Army doing what they considered to be their pious, God-given duty. They were slaughtering.

  Mead had been ordered to desist in his vendetta. Ketch had made it clear that Richard’s troop had better things to do than hunt down a single Royalist renegade. There were hundreds, nay thousands to guard, and, if God willed, like numbers to battle anew. For the moment, the ‘better things to do’ for Mead consisted of an instruction to examine the huge quantity of arms and provisions that had formed part of the King’s baggage train and ‘liberate’ anything the Regiment might have a use for.

  Approaching the scene of chaos and horror, Mead’s horse suddenly collapsed under him. He rolled free as it fell and was amazed to find a deep wound along its underside. The noble beast had given no sign that it was mortally wounded and he, Richard Mead, God curse him, had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t checked as was his normal habit after a fray. He reached for a pistol then remembered that they were both empty. Not one of his men had a single charged piece either, so Mead, with tears trickling from his eyes, drew his sword and put his mount out of its misery. Bowman detached Hitch and Poulton to requisition a new mount. The troopers hefted axe and horseman’s hammer respectively and drifted into the shadows towards some celebrating Roundheads. The delay would be minimal in finding Mead a fresh mount. It was then they spotted the bodies: women, all of them women. Mead walked on unsteady legs into the light of the blazing wagons. Not all were dead, yet. But those who weren’t had had their faces slashed. A group of New Model infantry reeled past drunkenly clutching all manner of booty.

  “Who ordered this?” demanded Mead.

  “They’re nought but Catholic whores!” laughed one of the men.

  “Irish some of ‘em!” added another enthusiastically.

  Mead turned slowly on the men and levelled his sword, which was still dripping with his horse’s blood.

  “Get out of my sight while you still can!” he growled. The infantrymen fled.

  Concealed in a hedgerow, Wil Pitkin had just managed to wriggle into a position from where he could see a bit more of the ravaged camp. To his astonishment, he saw Richard Mead and instinctively reached for his weapons, but he had none, not even his beloved partisan. He could see Mead held a bloodied sword and he was now being joined by others of his ilk.

  Mead absently accepted the reins of his new mount, which had been fitted with his old, battered saddle. He looked around at the dead and scarred women. He knelt and turned over one of the bodies. Once she must have been a very pretty young woman, now she was just another example of religious bigotry and fanaticism. Richard did not know it but once upon a time, her name had been Josephine.

  No orders were given. The troopers mounted quietly and followed Mead into the darkness. Only one of them looked back and smiled contentedly at the scene. This, in his opinion, was how the Lord’s justice should be dispensed. It was an opinion though that he was wise enough to keep to himself.

  Pitkin waited until all was quiet than crept stealthily forward. It took a moment or two for him to comprehend that what he was looking at was the dead wives, sweethearts, and camp followers of the Royalist Army. As if in a dream, he searched methodically through the carnage until he came to the body that he had observed Richard Mead standing over, bloody blade in hand. That was the image that burned into his brain as he carried Josehpine away and buried her in the cold, damp earth. That was the image that he added to his growing collection of the reasons that Richard Mead must die.

  Initially, King Charles was not unduly depressed by the defeat at Naseby but his cause had suffered a grievous setback. During the plundering of the Royalist baggage train, the King’s personal travelling cabinet had been discovered. Amongst its contents were some disastrously incriminating correspondences. These revealed that Charles had been attempting to bring over an Irish army to England in return for favours being granted to Roman Catholics in the realm. These letters were promptly published and distributed causing widespread outrage, but the King continued to ignore advice and went on to conceive new and evermore convoluted strategies. Again he wrote to the Irish Lords demanding troops to augment those he was convinced he could recruit in Wales. He also had high hopes of French assistance and his Queen was busily intriguing abroad to that end on his behalf. Montrose was still doing well in Scotland and Goring’s forces were still intact in the West Country.

  The country as a whole, however, was sick of war and pockets of resistance, resistance to ANY army, was spreading. The people of Dorset armed themselves with whatever came to hand and fiercely protected their villages and towns against all comers. The Royalists were unsure as how to deal with this. The New Model Army though had no misgivings and even less tolerance for what was perceived to be an affront to God’s cause. The ‘Clubmen’ of Dorset were quickly and viciously suppressed. Then Fairfax went after Goring and, after a fiercely contested affair, the Royalists broke and fled. For his part in this bloody business, Richard Mead was made a Captain.

  Rupert advised the King to negotiate a peace; Charles dismissed the notion out of hand - a K
ing demanded, he did not negotiate. Instead, His Majesty led a raid on Huntingdon, Cromwell’s birthplace, which was ransacked and all but destroyed. Then Charles returned to Oxford to plan afresh. Almost immediately his schemes and hopes of a recovery in his fortunes were dashed to ruin. On the 11th of September, Rupert, who had been desperately trying to hold Bristol with totally insufficient forces, was obliged to surrender the city. The King was outraged and accused Rupert of, alternately, incompetence and even treason. He dismissed the Prince from all his offices and refused to allow Rupert into his presence. The King’s cause now began collapsing like a house of cards. Montrose was defeated by the reinforced and vengeful Covanteers and savage indeed was the retribution that followed north of the border for his followers.

  The Parliamentarians began tightening their grip and the end for Charles was surely nigh. In the spring of 1646, the King narrowly escaped capture by the Roundheads and, in a move that baffled many of his supporters, he handed himself over to the custody of the Scots. What was His Majesty thinking of asked people on both sides? But this was merely the opening gambit in a series of elaborate and devious manoeuvres by the King. If he couldn’t win in battle, he would triumph politically by playing the various parties off against each other. Despite their high hopes, Charles refused to promise the Scots that Presbyterianism would become the dominant religion in England. Instead, he said he would ‘consider’ the matter. When a letter was received from Parliament listing a series of conditions under which Charles could maintain his position, he waved it away and then he went and played golf. If he wasn’t playing golf or chess, he was engaged in theological debates with clergymen. Indeed, any and every time Charles was pressed for an answer on anything, His Majesty ‘was not at leisure’ and the petitioners would have to wait. In actuality, he was stalling, buying time as he sought a way to divide his enemies and turn them against each other. But he dallied too long.