Bootle was clearly no fool and there was little point in denying my role, so I reluctantly conceded the point and left the conversation to Rigby, who stepped in to make sure that both Bootle and Seaman were committed to secrecy. Both agreed readily, and Rigby was just about to draw the conversation to a close when Bootle seemed to have an afterthought and turned towards me.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I don’t think you will find any spies around here anymore. They caught one only a few days ago. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”
Rigby coughed uncomfortably and glared at Bootle as though he would like to murder him. “That’s right,” he said. “A woman by the name of Reade. She was caught red-handed taking messages into and out of the house. Her son is a gamekeeper on the Earl of Derby’s estate and is therefore among the men defending the garrison walls. We questioned her to see whether we could get her to reveal the names of any co-conspirators, but her constitution was weak. I’m afraid she was not able to withstand the rigours of interrogation.”
I stared at Rigby, shocked. “You mean she died?” I exclaimed.
“That is true,” said Rigby. “A most unfortunate outcome. The woman was buried only yesterday.”
“It was a tragedy,” agreed Lawrence Seaman. “She was a good woman, Mary Reade. A local midwife, she was. A skilled healer too – good with herbs. She was well-respected around here.”
“Aye, and she leaves a young family who must fend for themselves,” added Bootle. “Her husband’s been beneath the sod a few years now; the son, Harry, is stuck inside the garrison; and Jenny, the eldest of the others, is but twelve years old.”
“She was a traitor,” said Rigby, unmoved, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. “She got what she deserved. We cannot be responsible for what happens to her offspring. The only person responsible for their plight is Mary Reade herself.”
William Bootle and Lawrence Seaman said nothing more, but I could tell from their demeanour that they did not agree with the colonel, and I had some sympathy with their viewpoint. I had often thought that this conflict, which pitched friend against friend and brother against brother, brought out more evil in mankind than good. I wondered what horrors Mary Reade had been forced to endure, if she had been interrogated so rigorously as to cause her death.
One thing I was already fairly convinced of was that Reade could not have been the only informant. As a mere midwife, she could not possibly have been privy to the kind of military and strategic information that had clearly been finding its way into Lady Derby’s hands. Perhaps Reade had been acting merely as a courier. If that had been the case, then perhaps young Jenny Reade had seen something that would help identify the real spy. I resolved to find out more about this woman and made a mental note to seek out the daughter to ascertain whether she was able to tell me anything that might be able to shed light on who else might be responsible for passing information into and out of the house.
First, though, I had another task to complete, and it involved helping Rigby and his men dig the siege trenches around Lathom House. It was something I dreaded, for such labour is hard work indeed, but it was labour to which I was well-accustomed, having done my fair share of digging during the construction of the earthworks around Nantwich the year before.
“You may join us,” said Bootle. “We are on duty ourselves tonight. But let us make haste and not keep Mr Browne waiting. Believe me, we do not want to be digging within range of the marksmen on the walls of Lathom House. Those that are not experienced musketeers are all gamekeepers and fowlers who know their business. It will serve us well to be first on hand.”
Chapter 16
Lathom House – Friday March 8th – Saturday March 9th, 1644
Viewed from close quarters, Lathom House was even more impressive than it appeared from a distance; especially the defences, which gave off an undeniable aura of impregnability. The house itself stood in a small depression, as though it were lying in the palm of a hand. However, the solid stone outer walls were surrounded by a ditch nearly ten feet deep and forty feet wide, on the outside of which springy moorland turf rose quickly for a few yards before falling away sharply on all sides, making it difficult to see the whole of the building from outside the ditch. This, I realised, was what Browne had meant when he had pointed out the difficulties faced by the artillery that was to be positioned outside the walls. Anyone standing on the downslope of the bank was not only visible to the sharpshooters on the battlements of the house but also within musket range. However, that same person would not be able to see the bottom of the walls, which meant the walls would not be within the trajectory of our siege cannon.
The towers, located at intervals around the walls of the house, also appeared to be well-equipped with ordnance. I observed several pieces on each, including sakers, sling pieces, and murderers: deadly swivel-guns which threatened anyone careless enough to reveal themselves within their range.
When Alexander and I arrived at the main camp in the Tawd valley, we presented ourselves to Major Edward Robinson, under whose command we had been placed. Robinson, a swarthy individual with craggy features and a thick, dark moustache on his upper lip, informed us that there was to be no digging close to the house until dark, when a team of local labourers would arrive.
Alexander was dispatched, grumbling, to help dig a latrine, whilst I, to my relief, was given leave to approach Browne the engineer, who, as a civilian, and therefore not necessarily bound by the loyalties that tie soldiers together, I had earmarked as a potentially vital source of information on the nature of the relationships between the various officers in the parliamentary camp.
I found him near the outermost trenches, where he was instructing a team of carpenters who were sawing and hammering away at a huge wooden frame on wheels with a thick wooden screen on one side, which was still half-completed.
“Our testudo,” explained Browne, when he saw me approaching. “The idea is that it will straddle the ditch as it is being dug, with the screen on the side facing the house. The labourers will be able to shovel out the soil on the other side. Unfortunately, it won’t be ready until next week, so in the meantime, we will have to make do without.”
I complimented Browne on his handiwork and asked him to explain the layout of the siege works that were to be built around the house.
“The aim,” said the engineer, “is to build three concentric earthworks around the house – at sixty yards, a hundred yards, and two hundred yards from the battlements. These are to be linked by a series of communications trenches. The innermost trench will be serrated in design so that nobody can shoot down the length of it, and it will be interspersed with a series of small forts and gun placements, which will be protected by stakes and palisades. The second ring will consist of a three foot deep trench protected by an earthwork. This ring will also have eight sconces spaced at regular intervals, strengthened with earthen walls and wicker gabions. The outer ring will be a simple earthen wall.”
“I see,” I said. “So, in principle, once these earthworks are completed, the ring around the house should be more or less watertight. No-one should be able to get in or out.”
“In principle, yes, of course,” agreed Browne. “But it is a long way around the house, even with a thousand men per shift, and on a dark night it will be difficult, if not impossible, to guarantee total security. That is, of course, assuming Rigby gives me the men I need to speed up the construction process. So far the building work has been painfully slow. We have been desperately short of manpower, but let us see what happens tonight after the captains have recruited some local labour to help with the digging.”
“I get the feeling that you are not impressed with Colonel Rigby,” I ventured.
Browne looked at me carefully before he responded. I had taken him for a sardonic sort, but his answer was that of one used to plain speaking.
“I am not sure what your real purpose is here, Mr Cheswis,” he said, “but I will speak my mind. Colonel Rigby is a foo
l in my opinion, a dangerous man, who could put all our lives at risk.”
I stared at the engineer in surprise. This was not what I was expecting. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Rigby is a strict Puritan,” explained Browne. “No issue in itself, of course. I hear Sir William Brereton is the same. But Rigby is extreme in his beliefs and unable to temper his prejudices, driven as he is by hatred for the Earl of Derby. He will not stop until Lathom is reduced to dust.”
“And you find that to be a problem?”
Browne raised his hands defensively. “Not personally,” he said. “I am just an engineer, employed to make this siege a success, but I do value my own skin. A siege needs careful planning. At present, we do not have enough men, the siege works are not built, and there is no ordnance in place. Not only that; if Morgan is to be believed, we will need more than a few cannon to bring this place to its knees.”
“But Rigby believes they do not have enough supplies to withstand a long siege.”
Browne laughed scornfully. “Do you really believe that? That a place as big as Lathom does not have sufficient reserves to withstand a siege? This place has been under threat of attack for nearly a year, and yet it has proved impossible to keep people in or out. Do you really think that the countess will not have made sure in the meantime that their kitchens are amply stocked and that they have enough powder to keep us occupied for a substantial period?”
“And water?”
“There is a well inside the house, although I am looking at ways of diverting the water course so that we can cut off their supply. But it will be no easy task.”
I had to concede that Browne had a point. He had said nothing during the briefing that evening, and I was now beginning to see why. I decided to change the subject.
“You know why I am here, Mr Browne,” I said. “I need to investigate the murder of one of our informants.”
“I can’t help you there, my friend,” said Browne. “I am an engineer, not an intelligencer, but I will tell you this. There are many people round here with loyalties to the earl that stretch back generations, maybe even men within our own ranks. Most local people here rely on the earl for their livelihoods and may have friends or relations within the house. There are also many followers of the old faith in this part of Lancashire and although Lady Charlotte is a Huguenot, the King’s wife is most definitely Catholic. There are therefore many folk hereabouts who would feel that the preservation of the King’s interests in these parts is the best guarantee they will have that they will be able to follow their faith unmolested. No, you will not find it difficult to identify people around here who would happily betray a parliamentary spy, but finding the right person…well, you will have your work cut out I believe.”
***
That night, spent digging the trenches around Lathom House, was quite possibly the most terrifying eight hours I had ever spent, more frightening than facing Lord Byron’s army on the battlefield at Acton or being shot at by Jem Bressy at Hurleston, for in both these cases the enemy was both palpable and identifiable. At Lathom, men lurked on the battlements and in the shadows, an intangible presence, waiting indefatigably for the opportunity to bury a musket ball in the skull of anyone careless enough to make himself visible.
At around seven o’clock in the evening, a number of Rigby’s captains presented themselves at the main camp, where Browne was waiting to issue instructions for the night’s work. Each officer was accompanied by a team of reluctant recruits, consisting mainly of surly-looking farm labourers, who had evidently been dragged, protesting, from their fields, but also including a few tradesmen and apprentices, as well as any vagrants unlucky enough to be in the vicinity when the captains had come calling.
Once it was fully dark, a number of teams were led silently up the existing network of trenches and positioned at intervals along a fifty yard stretch of ground where new channels were to be dug. Each team consisted of a mixture of musketeers and labourers holding huge wooden screens in place to protect the diggers from being shot. Behind the screens, a couple of musketeers stood guard and watched the rest of the team frantically digging and throwing out the loose earth behind them. Those musketeers involved in digging or holding the screens laid their weapons on the side of the trench. When the diggers grew tired, they swapped position with those holding the screens in place.
After a couple of hours toil, the exhausted team would then crawl back along the trenches to be replaced by a new group of recruits, knowing that before long, they would be recalled for a second shift.
Alexander and I were seconded into one of these teams. It was hard, dangerous work, not made any easier by the fact that it began to rain half way through the night, turning the bottom of the trenches to mud. Every now and then a musket ball thudded into the wooden screen, sending splinters flying everywhere and reminding everyone that to step out from behind the screen was to invite death.
Working on the innermost of the trenches, we were close enough to the walls to hear the constant foul-mouthed abuse being yelled at us throughout the night. Our own musketeers attempted the occasional volley of musket fire in retaliation, but these were inevitably met by a torrent of raucous jeers from the darkness. At one point, a piercing scream came from the team of diggers next to our own, and we looked through the gloom to the left to see a man clutching his arm, which hung loosely by his side. He had obviously been careless enough to step marginally outside the line of the wooden screens and had been picked off by one of the musketeers on the wall, who were by then cheering and yelling in delight. There was a brief commotion as several of the injured man’s comrades pulled him behind the screen. One took off his shirt to fashion a makeshift tourniquet. The whole team then backed off slowly towards the outermost earthwork until out of musket range, from where the unfortunate victim was dragged off towards the main camp. When I asked about his welfare later, I was told that the poor man had lost his arm and was clinging desperately to life, having lost much blood during the amputation of his shattered limb.
The night seemed interminable, but just as the faint light of dawn began to appear in the eastern sky, all the teams were ordered to retreat out of musket range and back into the valley, where many collapsed with exhaustion among the trenches and tents of the main camp.
At around midday, Alexander and I tramped slowly back to New Park House, mud-spattered and weary, where I cleaned myself up and fell into a dreamless sleep on my truckle bed. In truth, I could have slept all night, but just before dusk, I was shaken awake by Alexander, who reminded me of my appointment with Lawrence Seaman. I therefore pulled on my breeches and a clean shirt and walked the two and a half miles into Ormskirk, which was unknown to me, but turned out to be a busy and populous market town, straddling the main road to Preston.
The area around the cross in the middle of the town was swarming with parliamentary soldiers, many of whom were billeted in the houses and taverns which lined Aughton Street, the main thoroughfare. Ahead, on a small hill to the west, and silhouetted against a bright red sunset, was the town’s curious church, with its western tower and central spire huddled together. It was as though those who had constructed the church couldn’t decide which to build, so decided on both.
There was something else unusual about Ormskirk, though, and it took me a few minutes before I realised what it was – an almost total absence of trees, a fact which I found strangely disconcerting. Pulling my coat around my neck, I continued down Moor Street, the road which led into the town centre from the east, and located The Ship Inn, the tavern in which I had agreed to meet Lawrence Seaman.
The alehouse was, as expected, full of soldiers, and as I fought my way through the throng, I was surprised to see Browne the Engineer sat in a corner, playing cards with half a dozen other men. He nodded in recognition and gestured for me to join their game, but I declined politely.
I found Lawrence Seaman propped against the bar, holding a tankard of strong ale. He greeted me with a wave and order
ed another beer as well as two mutton pies, which we devoured with gusto. I had almost forgotten how hungry I was.
Lawrence turned out to be a personable young man, uncomplicated in character, but desperate to make a good impression. I explained once again to him the connection between myself and his father and recounted in detail the events of the previous Thursday evening.
“I’m curious to know more about your Aunt Katherine,” I began. “You knew her well, I believe.”
“Of course,” said Lawrence. “She chose the life of a spinster and has always lived in my father’s household. I’ve known her all my life.”
“And recently?”
“I’ve only spoken with her occasionally, but she liked to keep in touch with my Aunt Jane. I’ve been here with Colonel Rigby’s regiment for nearly a year, and she was here perhaps three times, but I very rarely saw her when she visited. My Aunt Jane and I have never been close.”
“But you know the Bootles?”
“Of course, but I only have anything to do with William because he happens to be in my regiment. You were well-acquainted with my aunt?”
“I met her for the first time on the day she died,” I said, “but she struck me as being of an unusually nervous disposition. Is that an accurate description, would you say?”
Lawrence considered this for a moment, scratching his upper lip in contemplation. “Not really,” he said, “although the last time she was here she did seem unusually distracted, as though something were bothering her. I ran into her in the street, but she didn’t seem to want to talk. Said something about needing to get back to my father in Chester.”
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