I stepped up to the plant and caught a whiff of its strong, putrid aroma, which I immediately recognised as the stench I was unable to identify in the Bootles’ kitchen on the day of their death.
“Thank you, Jenny,” I said. “That’s all I need for now, but there is one more thing you can do for me. Keep an eye out at Burscough Mill for me, and if the fellow we saw the other day puts in an appearance, be sure to let me know. I will return to New Park House at noon on Tuesday.”
Once again, I put my hands in my pocket to extract a couple of coins, but this time Jenny stopped me. “Not today, Mr Cheswis,” she said. “Today it’s my turn to do something for you.” And with that, she turned on her heels and skipped down the road, her dog barking at her ankles.
Chapter 33
Lathom House – Monday April 22nd, 1644
If there had been any doubts about the vindictiveness of Colonel Rigby’s intentions now that Egerton had been recalled to Manchester, or about his ability to stage a public show, these were rapidly dispelled the following morning, when the extent of the colonel’s planning became clear.
It was Easter Monday, and, with the prospect of free entertainment, the populace of Lathom, Ormskirk, and the surrounding villages had flocked in their droves to see Lady Charlotte, the Countess of Derby, brought to her knees. It was like a public hanging. It never ceased to amaze me how folk could derive pleasure from someone else’s misfortune in this way.
Hundreds of people had gathered on the land to the north-east of the house, where the artillery was now located. Many had turned up in their Sunday best and had brought baskets of food and flagons of ale with them to last the whole day. Those who had left sustenance at home were amply served by an army of traders and peddlers, who, with an eye for business, had brought all manner of bread, pies, cakes, fruit, and beer for sale to those who could afford it. The aromas of cooked meat and baking filled the air. There was also a fair smattering of jugglers, minstrels, jesters, and other entertainers, as well as the usual collection of beggars and vagrants who showed up at every public gathering.
Rigby, for his part, was doing his best to ensure that he was the main attraction, strutting through the crowds, shaking hands, bowing to the ladies and ruffling the hair of children. His strange, lopsided smile was wider than ever, but on this day the expression on his face was genuine.
“Today,” he had told us, at a briefing held in the main encampment before the crowds arrived, “is the beginning of the end for Lathom House. Gentlemen, it is entirely just that God should choose a time when we celebrate the resurrection to impose his judgement on the whore of Babylon herself and the hordes of cavaliers, traitors, and papists that follow her. By Friday,” he added, “we shall have the grenades we need to teach Lady Derby’s men a lesson, once and for all. For King and Parliament!”
“For King and Parliament!” echoed the dwindling group of officers. Now that Assheton, Moore, and Egerton had left Lathom, taking their officers with them, most of the remaining men were loyal to Rigby, and the majority responded with renewed vigour. Morgan, in particular, puffed out his chest and pulled himself up to his full height, which, admittedly, was not very much, before marching with determination in the direction of the gun placement opposite the postern tower. Browne, on the other hand, cast a knowing look in my direction and made circles with his index finger, pointing towards his temple to indicate what he thought of Rigby’s state of mind.
“He is mad with hatred and power,” said the engineer, once the crowd of officers had dispersed, “but it seems the colonel is determined to have his day.”
And so it proved. Orchestrating arrangements for maximum theatrical effect, Rigby made sure that the onlookers were kept entertained all day. Firstly, he had his best team of musketeers spend half an hour firing at Lady Derby’s sharpshooters on the battlements. Not that they had any effect on those inside the garrison, for muskets were as good as useless against the well-protected men inside the house, but they did provide a great deal of noise and entertainment for the spectators, who cheered every shot enthusiastically.
Morgan then moved his artillery team into place and ordered his cannon to dispense eight or nine shots at the battlements and the towers. He then marched round to the mortar placement opposite the main gate and fired two lots of stones deep into the house. The crowd gave prolonged cheers as the rocks disappeared high into the air before crashing down violently on the roofs of the buildings inside the walls.
By this time, I was sat in the trenches myself and was amazed at the bloodlust of the local population. Many of these people, I realised, had friends and relations inside the house, but still they cheered.
“War does strange things to mankind,” I said to Browne, as I watched a shower of rocks fly over my head.
“You are in the right of it, Cheswis,” said the engineer, “but it is ironic, would you not say, that our hate-driven colonel has created a sideshow here for the entertainment of the good folk of Lathom? It is an entirely appropriate response, for this siege is little more than a sideshow in the grand scheme of this war, believe me. The trouble we can cause, if we are successful – and, of course, there is no guarantee of that – is barely worse than a pimple on the King’s arse. Even if we do take this place, Rupert will be here before long, and the whole rigmarole will start again. I ask you, what the devil are we doing this for?”
I was warming to Browne, someone who, like me, who had been dragged into the conflict against his will, in his case because of his particular skill in construction techniques. I would have liked to discuss things more with him, but realised I could not, for there was one person I urgently needed to seek out, and, during my first break from duty, I took the opportunity to locate him among the spectators. He was exactly where I expected to find him, less than five yards from a beer seller, propped up against a bank of earth and supping from a pewter tankard.
“Good afternoon, Isaac,” I said, purchasing two more beers from the trader and handing one to my companion.
“Ah, Mr Cheswis, good health to you,” said Isaac, trying to get to his feet, but succeeding only in falling back down on his rump and spilling a good proportion of the beer I had just given him. Isaac, as usual, was in his cups, but I was hoping he would be lucid enough for my purposes.
“Don’t get up,” I said, sitting down next to him. “I’ll join you. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Yes. Nothing of great import, I assure you. I just wanted to make sure I was not mistaken about something and make some use of your local knowledge.”
“Well, I’ll try,” said Isaac, slurring his words slightly.
“The first thing is this,” I said. “On the night you said you saw the ghost by Mary Reade’s grave, how much had you drunk?”
“Oh quite a bit, Mr Cheswis, but I weren’t that drunk. I saw what I saw, and I’ll stand by it.”
“How much?” I persisted. “About the same as you’ve drunk today?”
“Oh aye,” he said, “that’s for sure, but I can see you now all right. Just as I saw the ghost of Mary Reade that evening. What was the other thing you wanted to know?”
“Burscough Mill,” I said. “You’ve been here a long time. What can you tell me about that place?”
“The mill?” said Isaac, with a confused look on his face. “Why would you want to know?”
“Let’s just say I have an interest in who might be living there.”
“Living there?” Isaac snorted with laughter. “No-one to my knowledge. A few rats mebbe, that’s all. I think it’s still used from time to time, but not the whole year round. The buildings are half-derelict, although I believe the grain store is still secure and is used at certain times of year. But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to live there, proper like. It’s not much better than a cowshed, if you ask me.”
It was then that I had a thought. “Tell me,” I said, “do you know who owns the mill?”
“Oh aye,” rep
lied Isaac, taking a large swig from his tankard, drops spilling down the front of his shirt. “Everyone knows that. But you won’t get to speak to him too easily, mind, for he’s the personal chaplain to the Countess of Derby. Rutter is his name, Samuel Rutter.”
Chapter 34
Lathom House – Tuesday April 23rd, 1644
I was not afforded much of an opportunity to consider the revelation that Isaac had presented me with until the following morning, for during the hours of darkness the garrison kept us well-occupied. Having already inflicted considerable losses on our forces during the previous nocturnal raids, Lady Derby’s men had developed an enviable degree of resourcefulness in creating alarms and diversions to cause panic within our ranks, for which I conceded them some grudging respect.
One of their favourite tricks was to fix a length of slow-burning match cord into a ball of clay and throw it over the battlements towards our trenches. This inevitably caused gales of laughter as our musketeers shot at thin air or scattered in disarray like chickens being chased by a fox.
At one point, two of their marksmen ventured out of the postern gate with matchlock muskets with the aim of causing a diversion, attracting a massive volley of fire from our trenches. The royalists quickly retreated back inside the walls with little risk to their safety, and we gradually began to realise that Lady Derby’s men were treating us like playthings, engendering fear, creating nervousness, and making us waste our ammunition.
Once dawn broke, however, the pendulum began to swing once again in our favour. No longer were the royalists able to use the protection of the darkness to conceal surprise attacks on our positions, and Morgan was able to make full use of his artillery to strike terror into the hearts of the besieged.
By nine in the morning on Tuesday, it was becoming clear that everything was set perfectly for Rigby to achieve what he had in mind. It was a bright spring morning, clear and fresh with fleece-like clouds scudding across the sky, encouraging even bigger crowds to assemble in front of the house than on the previous day, in the hope of seeing an even more spectacular show.
Rigby and Morgan once again took prime positions close to the gun battery to the north-east of the house. However, this time I noticed that they were accompanied by a reluctant-looking Captain Bootle, who I could see, from where I was standing, out of range and behind the outer breastwork, was in deep conversation with Morgan and appeared to be pointing towards the Eagle Tower. The reason for this soon became clear once the diminutive Welshman began his bombardment.
Over the course of the next two hours, Morgan aimed shot after shot at one particular corner of the tower, about halfway up, until eventually a breach was made in the wall, and the gunner was able to send a cannonball clean through the hole into the interior of the tower, sending plumes of dust billowing out into the air.
“That,” announced Morgan, with pride and to enthusiastic cheers from the assembled onlookers, “was the private chamber of the countess herself. Tonight she will be sleeping in less comfortable surroundings than those to which she is normally accustomed.”
“No wonder Bootle looks worried,” whispered Alexander, who was standing next to me. “I would not wish to be in his position, having to explain to the countess why he has revealed the location of her ladyship’s private quarters.”
“He could barely refuse,” I said. “Giving false information to Rigby would have brought him under suspicion.”
Having commanded Morgan’s artillery to cease their bombardment of the Eagle Tower, Rigby now stepped forward and delivered the words that I knew were coming, but which I had been dreading.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Lathom,” he announced, his face betraying the manic triumph of one who is convinced his destiny is about to be achieved. “Today you have seen some fine sport, but now the serious business begins. Tomorrow and Thursday we will give Lady Derby the opportunity to reconsider her continued defiance of the will of Parliament, but on Friday our patience runs out. Then, I invite the officers and gentlemen of the Manchester Committee and all the people of Ormskirk and Lathom to attend this place, when I pledge that Lathom House will be destroyed and removed from the face of the Earth.”
I cast a glance across to the group of officers standing behind Rigby. Morgan’s face bore the broad grin of the supremely confident, but Bootle, standing next to him, had blanched noticeably. He was trying manfully to force a smile, but I was not fooled.
“Alexander,” I said. “Time is of the essence. We have but two days to complete our work here. We need to find Lawrence and Beatrice, for I need their help.”
“Beatrice is here,” said Alexander. “I’m sure I saw her amongst the crowds this morning. Rigby’s show must have been too much to resist. And if Beatrice is here,” he added, with a knowing smile, “Lawrence will not be too far away.”
Alexander was right. We found them holding hands on a grassy mound a few yards away from the milling throng of spectators. Beatrice saw us coming and treated me with a smile from ear to ear. I could see what Lawrence saw in her.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Cheswis, Monsieur Clowes,” she said. “It is good to see you are all safe.”
Lawrence, who had been staring at his feet, looked up and nodded affably in my direction. “Morning, Daniel,” he said. “Are you any closer to working out how to get my father out of gaol?”
“I think so,” I said. “I have a theory, but there is one thing which still troubles me. I cannot fathom what role Marc plays in all of this. Old Isaac said he heard him talking about a score he had to settle. What on Earth did he mean?”
Beatrice suddenly sat up straight and looked at me earnestly. “Au secours,” she said, simply, “is the French for help. Marc was simply asking Isaac to help him.”
I clasped my left hand to my forehead as the meaning of the words sank in. If only I had possessed some French!
“Then that means Marc is in danger,” said Lawrence, “...or worse.”
Beatrice gasped at the implication, and Lawrence instinctively put his arm around her shoulder.
“We will find him, Beatrice,” he said, softly, before turning to me. “So what do we need to do?”
“In the first instance, I suggest all three of you return to your lodgings in Ormskirk and try and get some sleep, for we have a busy night ahead. In the meantime, I need to spend some time with Jenny Reade. I will meet you outside the church at two in the morning.”
“The church?” exclaimed Alexander. “At what time? What on Earth do you have in mind?”
“I will enlighten you later,” I said. “Just one thing though. Make sure you bring a lantern and a spade.”
***
Jenny was waiting for me when I arrived back at New Park House. She had been observing my approach from within the walled garden and stepped out to greet me when she was sure she could not be seen by anyone else. I noticed her dog was not with her and remarked as such.
“Are you daft?” she said, scornfully. “’He’s with my brother and sister. I can’t bring him here. The soldiers would shoot him as soon as look at him.”
This was true, of course. The dog’s errands to and from the postern gate had recently begun to be noticed by others within our ranks. Bored musketeers hungry for sport had recognised the degree of status that would be accrued by the person who managed to stop the dog in his tracks and had begun to take pot shots at him as he scurried across the moor-like ground between the house and our siege works. Slowly but surely, he had become a marked target. I had found myself secretly hoping that one of the musketeers would succeed, for it was only a matter of time before Rigby tasked me with the responsibility of identifying the animal’s owner, and that, I knew, would spell serious trouble for Jenny.
I had it in mind to explain this to her, but I bit my tongue and forced myself to leave the lecture for another time. I was not her father, after all. Instead, I focused on the matter in hand.
“So, did you keep watch for me at Burscough Mill?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Jenny, her face brightening. “He came back, the man we saw, just as you said.”
“And when was that?” I asked.
“Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock. He did the same as before. Went inside the mill for a while and then disappeared amongst the priory ruins. Who is he, Mr Cheswis, and why are you so interested in him?”
I gave Jenny a serious look. “His name is Bootle,” I said. “He is a captain under Colonel Rigby. He is also the brother of John Bootle, the man who was murdered with his wife in the house by the church.” I watched Jenny’s eyes widen at this. “As for his significance,” I added, “I think you probably have some idea of this. Am I right?”
Jenny pouted and said nothing, so I persisted.
“Am I correct in thinking you have seen him several times already, that you have been keeping watch on the mill for some time, and that is why you saw me there the other day?”
Again Jenny kept silent, but I could tell that I was right and that she was contemplating whether her best option was to come clean or run.
“Listen, Jenny,” I said. “I will not betray you, but you must help me. Would this have something to do with Edward Chisnall, perchance?”
Jenny nodded. “He told me to go there,” she said. “When he took away his horse, the last time I saw him. He said he could no longer visit my house and told me to deliver any future messages to the mill at Burscough. Someone, he said, would pick ‘em up from there.”
“And messages going the other way?”
“There’s a water butt round the side of the mill. I was to look behind there for messages.”
A Soldier of Substance Page 24