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  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.

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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? A
nd 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!