The defenders of the garrison were clearly both well-trained and superbly organised, and yet over the next two days they were unable to press home the advantage that they had accrued from the successful attack on our trenches. It became clear that the defenders’ strategy was merely to harry and worry our own force and the labourers, who by now had worked their way around most of the northern side of the house. Like ourselves, Lady Derby’s forces also seemed to be conserving their stock of powder and ammunition and were relying heavily on the skill of the marksmen on the ramparts, who were causing a steady stream of casualties among soldiers and labourers alike. The skill of Lady Derby’s men was becoming ever more apparent, particularly when it became clear that Rawsthorne’s musketeers were deliberately targeting the loopholes in the inner trench. Unable to see inside the trench itself, they were simply waiting until they saw someone looking through the loopholes before shooting directly into the gap. By the Thursday night, when Alexander and I were once again on duty, several musketeers had already died this way, and the feeling of nervousness among those manning the trenches was palpable.
By Friday lunchtime, however, I was once again able to turn my mind to the issue of solving the murders of Katherine Seaman and the Bootles and was somewhat irked to find out that the funerals of John and Jane Bootle had taken place whilst Alexander and I were languishing inside Lathom House. This was a shame, for I would have liked to have studied the reactions of those who had turned up for the burial.
There was, however, one resident of Ormskirk who I particularly wished to speak to. On the Friday evening, therefore, I left Alexander to his own devices and walked once more into the town. It was a bright evening, with a hint of spring in the air. Daffodils lined the edges of the woods, close to the roadside, and blossom was beginning to show on some of the trees, between which squirrels darted. Despite a lingering chill in the air, it felt as though the landscape was about to come alive, the perfect antidote to the death, mud, and misery I had left behind.
As I passed the mill at Greetby, I caught sight of a small figure half-concealed behind one of the hedgerows, and I realised it was Jenny Reade. She hid herself a little more from my gaze when she realised I had seen her, but I smiled and waved at her. The dog, I noticed, was still by her side.
The Ship Inn, meanwhile, was again full of off-duty soldiers drinking in relief that they wouldn’t have to face the trenches for another two days. The tap-room was crowded, but, as expected, the person I sought was propping up the bar, emptying the dregs from a large pewter tankard.
“I remember you,” said Old Isaac, as I deposited another beer in front of him. “Now why, I ask myself, would someone like you wish to ply the likes of me with ale?”
“Information,” I said, with a wry smile. “My guess is that you know rather more of what is going on around you than you let on.”
The old man rubbed his grubby sleeve across his mouth and chuckled. “That is shrewdly observed,” he said. “Sometimes it pays to appear drunker than you really are.”
“Quite so,” I agreed. “You said you saw a strange sight in the churchyard these past days. How drunk were you then, would you say?”
“At Mary Reade’s grave, you mean? I were sober enough for the experience to fair loosen my bowels, I’d say. I’ve stayed well away from there at night since.”
“You have reason to walk that way often?”
“Aye. I live up that way myself. But I’ve taken to walking by the road since then.”
“So, if you live up that way, you will presumably have known the Bootles?”
“John and Jane Bootle?” asked Isaac. “They were no great friends, but I knew them to pass the time of day with. I were proper shocked to hear about them.”
“In that case,” I asked, “were you aware of a young man who was staying with them maybe a couple of weeks ago?”
Isaac nodded and took a mouthful of ale. “The French lad, you mean?” he said. “Aye, I remember him all right. He weren’t here very long – a couple of nights perhaps.”
“French?” I said, with surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, leastways that’s what he said. He was in here one night. Drunk as a lord he was, but he seemed agitated, proper worked up, like. Talked about settling a score or something like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I couldn’t understand him properly anyway. His voice were all slurred an’ that.”
“And what happened to him?”
“Dunno. John Bootle came in and dragged him back home. I never saw him again after that.”
I was dumbfounded. Why, I asked myself, would a Frenchman, a stranger to Ormskirk, be staying with the Bootles? Could he perhaps have had some connection to Lady Derby, herself a Frenchwoman, or was he connected in some way to Seaman’s business in France? Katherine Seaman had, after all, being staying with the Bootles at the same time. And what was this unspecified score that needed to be settled? There were only three people I was aware of who might know. One, William Seaman, was still in Chester, but the other two were close at hand. With a smile of determination, I thanked Isaac for his help and resolved to task Lawrence Seaman and William Bootle about the strange foreigner at the earliest possible opportunity.
Chapter 23
Lathom House – Saturday March 16th – Monday March 18th, 1644
Nothing had prepared me for the tedium of conducting a siege, not even my experience at Nantwich in January. Digging and waiting. That’s all there was, save for dodging the occasional musket ball, and occasional they certainly were, for the men defending the garrison at Lathom House were not foolish enough to waste their shot. They were intent on conserving as much of it as they could.
Defending Nantwich had been different, for at least then I had had my daily business to concern me. I imagined my current situation was much as it must have been for Byron’s men, camped in the snow-covered fields for days on end. At least I had my comfortable billet in New Park House to return to when I was not on duty.
On the Saturday, it rained a thin, steady drizzle that drenched the soul as well as one’s clothes, and so I stayed indoors. I had heard that a messenger would be riding to London and stopping at Nantwich on the way, so I prepared a letter for Elizabeth, but found it impossible to write anything that offered any hope. Simon was missing, presumed dead, I had been dragged into investigating two murders, the perpetrator of which had tried to shoot me, I had been nearly killed in the trenches and imprisoned, there was no indication how long the proposed siege would last, I was no nearer completing the task I had been sent to Lathom for, and, as if all that were not enough, everyone who mattered either knew me for a spy or held me for one. In the end, I simply told Elizabeth that I missed her and would return as soon as I could.
Alexander, in contrast, appeared to be relishing the freedom his new role gave him. Being of a sociable disposition, he spent much of his time talking to the officers billeted at New Park House as well as trawling the taverns in Ormskirk. His time was not totally wasted, for he learned a lot about the officers under whom we served and gathered a wide range of opinion about Rigby’s siege plans – much of it negative. However, he learned nothing of consequence that would aid me in our investigations.
More soldiers began to arrive, including a company from Fylde under a captain called Patterson, full of raw recruits, still wet behind the ears. Billets were increasingly hard to come by in the vicinity, and it emerged that soldiers were being housed miles away and being asked to march into Lathom every three days to complete their watch. It was no wonder that morale was low.
Colonel Rigby, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly impatient about getting the siege works completed and seemed to be constantly preoccupied with his own thoughts. Assheton, what I saw of him, was also looking more and more frustrated. He and Moore had removed themselves to Ormskirk and appeared to be slowly reducing their involvement in the whole business. Egerton was still around, ostensibly in charge, but I was getting the impression that this was Rigby’
s siege and its success or failure would depend on him.
Despite the boredom, Sunday evening and our next duty watch soon came around. Night alarms from Rawsthorne’s musketeers were now commonplace, and, to our dismay, we once more became the target of a night raid. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether the garrison was deliberately arranging sallies every third night in order to demoralise one of our watches. If they were, it was certainly working.
At around three in the morning, someone in the forward trench spotted burning match cord across the ground towards the stone chapel, and it quickly became apparent that a company of musketeers had exited the house by the postern gate and was attempting to surprise us. Although this time the attackers were identified before they got too close, the effect was very much the same. General panic ensued and we were forced to flee into the nearby woods, where we tried to hold our ground. The royalists mostly halted before they reached the trees, unwilling to risk being caught too far away from safety. In the gloom, I thought I saw the muscular figure of Edward Chisnall leading the raid. Several of his men fired shots into the trees, and to my right I heard a dull thud and a howl of pain as one of our men collapsed to the ground.
“Quick, get behind the trees,” shouted one of our sergeants, “or they’ll shoot our arses all the way to Preston.”
Chisnall was busy trying to prevent his men from charging headlong into the woods, and with most he succeeded. However, I noticed that a few yards to my left, three men had failed to heed the warning and had lumbered, swords drawn, into the undergrowth, and were now bearing down on a group of four labourers, who, as far as I could see, were unarmed.
“Shoot the bastards,” screamed the sergeant, aiming his carbine at the foremost of the three soldiers, who I noticed with shock was a young ensign who could have been no older than seventeen or eighteen. A volley of shots followed, most of which buried themselves in the trees or sent splinters flying through the air. One shot, however, caught the ensign on his sword arm, wheeling him round and sending him sprawling on the floor. His colleagues immediately realised they had come too far and turned on their tails, heading back towards Chisnall. The young ensign, however, struggled to his feet and stumbled off through the trees away from the house, leaving his sword in the grass where he had fallen.
“Get after him,” the sergeant yelled to Alexander and me.
The young royalist sprinted between the trees, holding his arm, whilst Alexander and I lumbered after him. He was hard to catch, for he was young and fit, and we had run a good hundred yards through the trees when the young man tripped over a tree root in the dark and fell head first into a pile of nettles, landing with a groan. He pulled himself immediately to his feet and made to continue his escape, but we were already on him. Realising he was trapped, he backed himself up against a tree and held his hands in the air. I noticed that blood was seeping through his coat and down his right arm.
“Quarter,” he said, breathlessly, his chin slumping onto his chest.
“What’s your name, Officer?” I asked.
“Edward Halsall,” said the young man. “Ensign of Foot to Captain Chisnall’s company. Are you taking me for a prisoner, sir?”
I don’t know what made me do it, but I shook my head and gestured towards the postern gate, which was just visible through the trees.
“Get yourself some treatment, Mr Halsall,” I said.
Alexander stared at me open-mouthed. “Daniel, have you taken leave of your senses?” he breathed. “You’ll have us arrested.”
Alexander was right, of course; if anyone found out about this, we’d likely be in serious trouble. But there was something about the young officer’s face that stopped me from changing my mind.
Halsall, however, needed no second bidding. He looked me in the eyes for a few seconds before nodding at me in gratitude and disappearing through the trees into the night.
“He was not much older than Skinner,” I said to Alexander. “I couldn’t shoot him or have him subjected to interrogation by Rigby. We will just have to say he was too quick for us.”
Chapter 24
Lathom House – Tuesday March 19th – Wednesday March 20th, 1644
The officers’ meeting at New Park House on the morning following Chisnall’s night raid was a sight to behold. Assheton and Moore both remained steadfastly tight-lipped but wore faces like thunder, whilst Egerton nervously tapped his leg on the side of his chair throughout. Rigby, for his part, looked as if he were about to explode. His face had taken on a striking shade of crimson, and, finally losing patience with Browne, he commanded the engineer to redouble his efforts to complete the encirclement of the house.
As a result, for the next two days, as many labourers as he could muster were pressed into action. Despite the use of the testudo, Rawsthorne’s snipers were a constant worry and the teams of exhausted diggers suffered many casualties.
By the Tuesday evening, however, the trenches were complete, and Morgan began to drag his heavy artillery into position, the first of which was a demi-cannon, which was located at the gun placement at the south-west of the house, opposite the main gates.
During this time, Alexander and I had hardly spoken. My decision to let the young ensign escape through the trees to the safety of Lathom House seemed to have shaken Alexander to the core, and for two days his demeanour was of a kind I had not seen from him before – the rigidity of posture, the anxious frown, the sideways glances – all appeared as if I had broken a bond between us that I had thought would last our whole lives. The idea that I had disturbed my friend to such an extent saddened me beyond words, but when I asked myself if, given a second chance, I would have acted differently, I found I could not swear to that.
To my relief, by Wednesday morning Alexander’s behaviour seemed to be returning to normal, and so we walked over to the siege works together to report for duty, approaching from the south-west by the shortest route. When we arrived, we were met by a very strange sight indeed.
In the lee of the outer breastworks, directly in line with the gun placement, where the demi-cannon was now located, a crowd of perhaps a hundred people had gathered, mostly women, the majority of whom appeared to have dressed up for the occasion and were chattering and giggling, eyelashes fluttering. Some had even brought baskets of food with them and mats to sit on. A curiosity took hold of me and a closer look revealed that in the middle of the crowd, an animated Colonel Rigby was holding court, flanked on either side by Browne the engineer and Major Morgan.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Lathom,” boomed the colonel, “you are about to witness the downfall of the House of Babylon. In the coming days, if God is just, you will see towers fall and walls crumble. You will see the whore herself brought to her knees, and the rats and vermin who inhabit her world will come crawling out to meet God’s judgement. One day, you will be able to relate to your children the fact that you bore witness to this day.”
Rigby was clearly in his element. He puffed out his chest with impressive haughtiness and spoke with a zealous conviction that had his audience hanging onto his every word. I could have sworn some of the ladies in the crowd were about to swoon.
“Zounds, Daniel,” said Alexander, with a look of astonishment on his face. “The man can certainly talk.”
“That he can,” I agreed. “The question is whether he can deliver. I’ll wager we are about to find out.”
“These fine earthworks,” announced the colonel, sweeping his arm in a wide arc, “are the creation of our talented engineer, Mr Browne, aided by you, the people of West Derby Hundred. You can be sure that, thanks to his unrivalled engineering skills, nothing will now be able to pass into or out of Lathom House.” A ripple of applause passed through the crowd, and a beaming Browne stepped forward to receive his acclaim.
Rigby waited a few moments to allow Browne his moment of recognition before summoning Morgan to deliver his part of the sideshow.
“People of Lathom,” said the Welshman, “today you will see our o
rdnance begin to go to work on Lady Derby’s defences. On the gun placement in the inner ring of the earthworks you will see we have mounted the first of our two major guns, a demi-cannon.”
Necks spun round towards the three-strong team of gunners a hundred and fifty yards away, who saluted in response to a raised arm from Morgan.
“Our demi-cannon,” explained Morgan, “is a six and a half inch calibre piece weighing six thousand pounds. It has a ten foot barrel and can fire a twenty-four pound cannonball. As you can see, the gunner has two assistants. On his right, the first assistant is responsible for handling the ladle and the sponge, used for inserting powder into the barrel and for cleaning it. He is also charged with preparing the shot. The assistant on the left is in charge of the wadding, the rammer, and also fetches the budge barrel containing the powder.”
I was not sure how many of Morgan’s audience understood the technicalities of what the Welshman was saying. Nevertheless, they all looked over to where the team was working rapidly to prepare the gun for firing. The first assistant began by inserting the sponge, a long rod with a sheepskin head moistened with water in order to put out any remaining embers and prevent premature explosions. He then filled the ladle with powder and inserted it into the barrel. Once this was done, the second assistant used his rammer to push the powder to the bottom of the gun barrel. He then put in one of two wads of straw, which he had tied behind the wheels of the gun carriage to stop them blowing away in the wind.
The shot was then checked by the gunner and the first assistant before being inserted carefully into the barrel. Finally, the second assistant inserted another wad, before thrusting it home with the rammer.
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