Rutter nodded in understanding and smiled, before clapping me on the shoulder.
“I had an inkling that you might have such a story to tell,” he said, and I thought I detected a hint of sadness in his voice. “You see, you leave me with something of a dilemma.”
“A dilemma?”
“Yes. You see, you know about the existence of the tunnel between our chapel and Burscough Priory. I cannot allow you to go free, for fear you will betray its location. By rights, I should either keep you prisoner here until the siege is over, or have you cast from the top of this tower, a simple death, easily explained. You tried to escape, fought with us, and were pushed over the edge in self-defence. Your side would think no worse of us for that.”
I frowned. The proceedings had taken a rather unpleasant turn.
“You would do that?” I asked. “I guarantee it would serve little purpose if you did, for I have two colleagues waiting for me at the priory, who saw me enter the tunnel. I fear they will reveal the location of the tunnel regardless of what you do with me.”
Rutter smiled and said nothing for a moment. Instead, he got to his feet and walked towards the door, laying his hand on the handle.
“Enjoy the show, Mr Cheswis,” he said. “I will return for you later.”
He then disappeared down the stairs, closing the door behind him, his feet echoing on the steps as he descended into the courtyard.
I sat and stared at the door for a moment in disbelief, for despite the chaplain’s words, it had not escaped my notice that he had left the door to the only exit route unlocked.
I was now faced with a dilemma of my own. Did I take my chances and attempt to escape immediately down the stairs, or did I stay where I was and watch the battle in the hope that the door would still be unlocked later? On balance, considering the likelihood that Rutter had placed a guard at the entrance to the Eagle Tower, and in the knowledge that the courtyard was swarming with soldiers and servants eager for parliamentarian blood, I decided in favour of a cautious approach and elected to wait at least until the men of the garrison were more fully occupied.
I still had plenty to think about though. Had Rutter left the door unlocked intentionally, and, if so, why? Was he supremely confident that I would not be able to make it past the guard on the tower gateway, across the network of courtyards to the chapel and then into the crypt? Or was it just possible that, in a bizarre display of understanding and kinship for a man with whom he felt a certain affinity, he had offered me a sporting chance? Could it have been the knowledge that others were waiting at Burscough for me to emerge from the tunnel that was the deciding factor? One thing was certain. I did not relish the prospect of waiting long enough to see whether Rutter’s threat to have me thrown from the battlements was real or just bluster, but I accepted that I would need to show patience, so I sat back down and concentrated on the scene developing below.
Chisnall and around eighty of his men had filed silently out of the postern gate and, keeping low, to avoid being spotted by our sentries, had fanned out across the rough terrain and were edging their way towards the ramparts that protected the gun placement where our cannon and culverin were located. I thought to shout a warning, but realised that such an action would have been pointless, for Chisnall and his men were already under the cannon’s line of fire.
A shout went up from the trenches, but it was already too late. The royalists charged, capturing the gun placement after a brief skirmish. Most of those positioned behind the ramparts did not, it seemed, have the stomach to fight, and fled in order to save their own skins.
Whilst this was happening, Fox, the other captain waiting by the postern gate, followed Chisnall out and attacked the siege works to the right of the gun placement, quickly enveloping those caught in the trenches and pushing them back along the inner trench towards the south-west of the house, where the mortar was positioned.
By now, everyone in the parliamentary camp was aware that a full-scale attack was underway, and I could see soldiers filing up from the Tawd Valley towards the connecting trenches, rushing to come to the aid of those caught in the middle of the encounter. The battle was curiously devoid of gunfire, for, apart from an initial volley of musket fire as Fox’s men approached the trench, neither side was able to use their muskets effectively. There was an occasional pistol shot, but the narrow confines of the trench and the speed needed to reload meant that the fighting was of the hand-to-hand variety, with swords, musket butts, and any rock or stones on which hands could be laid. The raucous screams and guttural moans of men killing and being killed echoed across the ground, clearly identifiable and made somehow more poignant by the lack of musket fire.
Fox’s men fought their way to the sconce containing the mortar, and, after fifteen minutes of hurling stones at the occupants, they scaled the ramparts in a single energetic push, scattering the defenders in all directions and swiftly overwhelming those who were unwise enough to resist.
There was a brief counter attack, and I thought I recognised the shape of Major Robinson in the midst of the fray, but the resistance soon petered out. The battle was already won. Chisnall and Fox had secured both artillery placements, and any parliamentarians manning the trenches had fled for their lives.
At this point, I began to notice activity in the central courtyard. Captain Ogle and several others opened the main gates, allowing the multitude of servants and other household staff to flood out into the open and head straight for where the mortar was located. The same was happening at the postern gate.
It was then that I noticed the head steward, Broome, organising his men into teams. Some dug away at the ramparts to flatten them and create a gap through which the mortar could be manoeuvred. Others shovelled the loose earth frantically into the ditch, in order to create a flat surface leading all the way to the main gate.
Meanwhile, another team of men hauled the strange, flat contraption, which I now realised was a sled, out of the courtyard and up to the half-dismantled sconce. The mortar was then manhandled onto the sled and hauled back to the gate amidst whooping and cheering, like a slain stag after a hunt.
I was astounded. The organisation and planning required to achieve such an overwhelming and comprehensive success was something to be truly admired, and the whole operation had taken less than an hour.
The only failure was that Captain Rawsthorne, who had left the postern gate in order to try and drag back the rest of the heavy artillery, had been forced to give up due to the excessive weight of the cannon and culverin and the width of the trench at that point. Instead, he nailed both pieces and retreated to safety.
It was not long after this that my mind began to turn once again to how I might escape from the Eagle Tower. A glance down into the courtyard revealed that celebrations were in full swing. Servants and soldiers alike were climbing and fooling around on the captured mortar as though it were a plaything. Others were dancing around it in a manner akin to some kind of pagan ceremony. Bagpipes were being played, and someone had produced a barrel of ale. If there was ever going to be the chance that I might be able to evade the attentions of Rutter’s guards, it was now.
However, just as I was about to put that theory to the test, the door to the staircase sprang open and Edward Halsall appeared.
“Follow me, sir,” he said, holding the door open for me.
I gave the young officer a curious look, for he was unarmed and on his own. “Where to?” I asked.
“Don’t ask me to answer that, sir,” said Halsall, whose eyes, I noticed, were darting from side to side as though he were agitated. “We don’t have much time.”
On the assumption that I was better off trusting Halsall than taking my chances with the cleric, I nodded gratefully to the youth and followed him down the stairs.
As we emerged into the courtyard, I noticed that there were no longer any guards watching over the entrance to the tower. Anyone who had been there was now engaged in the revelry taking place in the middle of the courtya
rd.
“Remember, you are my prisoner,” hissed Halsall. “Just act as such, and nobody will say a thing. We have taken several of your men captive during the fight, and people will assume I am just escorting you to where they are being kept.”
Instead of taking me across the courtyard, Halsall led me behind the Eagle Tower and through a narrow alley, which led between the main building and a bakehouse. This led into a smaller courtyard, which was quite empty. Beyond that, we passed through an archway dividing some of the soldiers’ quarters and emerged in front of a pile of fallen masonry and twisted metal. I realised I was looking at the remains of the Chapel Tower clock. Halsall, I realised, had led me back to the chapel by an alternate and obviously underused route.
“Why are you doing this, Mr Halsall?” I asked. “You are taking some risk.”
Halsall smiled, nervously. “You spared my life,” he said, simply. “I am now saving yours. If her ladyship finds out you are here, your life will not be worth living, especially if Mr Chisnall knows about it. Now let us make haste, before we are discovered.”
I followed Halsall into the chapel and down into the crypt, where I saw that the trapdoor still remained open from earlier.
“I wish you good fortune, Mr Halsall,” I said, as I lowered myself into the tunnel. “However, I would ask one more thing of you. I have no lantern.”
Halsall looked at me, and for a brief second I thought I saw a flash of irritation pass over his features, but he quickly regained his composure.
“I’m afraid we have no time for that,” he said. “However, the tunnel goes only in one direction. You cannot go wrong. I wish you well, Mr Cheswis.”
Raising his right hand in salute, he closed the trapdoor over my head, and once more I was plunged into a blackness that seemed darker than death itself.
Chapter 38
Lathom House – Friday April 26th, 1644
It is truly amazing what the human mind and body will endure if given no option. Little more than twelve hours previously I had chosen to risk discovery by Rutter and his men rather than face the ordeal of walking the length of the tunnel in the dark. This time I had no choice but to walk to freedom, so I simply gritted my teeth and got on with it.
As before, I stumbled forward uncertainly, placing one hand on the wall for guidance and the other in front of me to intercept anything untoward that might be hanging from the ceiling of the tunnel. I progressed slowly at first, but then more quickly as I gained confidence. The rhythmic movement of my stride was almost hypnotic in effect, and more than once I fancied I saw figures or orbs of light in the dark, although I knew that could not be true, for not one shaft of light was able to penetrate the darkness.
I had descended into this almost dreamlike state of mind when my right foot caught the bottom step at the end of the tunnel, and I pitched forward, cracking my knee against one of the other steps. Cursing loudly, I turned over into a sitting position and shuffled up the staircase until I could feel the metal handles above my head. For one awful moment, the trapdoor refused to move, and I felt the panic rising like daggers within my guts, but then I gave the metal bars a hefty shove and exhaled with relief as light once more entered my world.
Pulling myself up out of the tunnel, I landed in a heap on the grass and inspected my knee, which had begun to throb ominously. I rolled up my breeches and noticed that I had grazed the skin, causing a few blotches of blood to appear. Satisfied that the damage was only minor, I sat up and looked around me.
Over towards the mill, the first hints of dawn had begun to touch the eastern horizon. The stars were still prominent in the sky, and it looked as though it was set to be a bright spring morning.
Suddenly, a lantern illuminating a tuft of sandy hair appeared from behind the wall, over where I had concealed myself from Bootle the previous afternoon.
“Ah, Alexander,” I cried. “Greetings. You are indeed a sight for sore eyes.” At the sound of my voice, Lawrence Seaman’s face also sprang into view.
“So that’s where the tunnel is,” said Alexander, stepping out from behind the wall and inspecting the trapdoor. “We spent hours yesterday searching every inch of these godforsaken ruins without success. It is well-hidden, that has to be said.”
“So you have been here the whole time?” I asked.
“Yes. When you disappeared, we thought to raise the alarm but decided it would make more sense to wait until either you or Bootle came back out.”
“By that, I assume Bootle has still not emerged?”
“Clearly not, or we would have known where the trapdoor was,” pointed out Lawrence. “However, we have heard a good deal of noise coming from the direction of Lathom House. What has been happening?”
I explained to Alexander and Lawrence about the garrison’s stunning attack on our trenches and the capture of the mortar. I also recounted my experiences in the Eagle Tower and the manner of my escape.
When he heard Halsall’s name, Alexander’s eyes widened, and a degree of contrition entered his voice. “Then I fear I owe you an apology,” he said. “If you had not shown mercy to that young ensign, there is every chance you would not be here now. I should have trusted your judgement.”
“No matter,” I replied. “It is forgotten, and, in truth, I have to admit that my good fortune has little to do with the quality of my judgement. We have been lucky today. In particular, we are fortunate indeed not to have been caught in those trenches. From what I could see, many men lost their lives there.”
My friends nodded grimly. “So what now?” asked Alexander.
I glanced over towards the mill and smiled. “I suspect Bootle will not be long,” I said. “Time is short, so I suggest we take a look and see what he has hidden in there.”
As Lawrence was the only one of us carrying a firearm, he took up the rear, with Alexander in the middle and myself leading the way. Taking care to make as little noise as possible, we crept over to the front door of the main building and tried to turn the handle. To my surprise, the door opened. Alexander handed me the lantern, and I stepped warily inside.
The interior showed more signs of habitation than I was expecting. There were two main rooms, the first of which, a large, sparsely furnished, rectangular space, contained a single oak table and chairs, positioned in a rather isolated manner in the middle of the floor. In one of the corners, rushes had been laid out, as though someone had been sleeping there, although there were no signs of any personal effects. I walked over to the table and inspected an empty trencher with food remains on it: crumbs of bread and cheese, by the look of them. The room smelled of tallow, and, sure enough, there was also a candle, which had clearly been very recently extinguished.
The room had two doors. One, which was locked, I guessed led to the cellars. The other led to a smaller room at the rear, where Alexander and I found a fireplace, a cooking pot, another table, and a small, thinly stocked larder. In the corner, strangely enough, was a bundle of women’s clothes. It was as though they had been stored there, in order to hide the obvious signs of habitation elsewhere in the building.
“Hello,” I called, “is anybody there?”
At first there was a deathly silence, but then, suddenly, I heard a slight scraping sound coming from the front room. Initially I thought it was Lawrence, for he had hung back when Alexander and I had entered the larder, but then there was a shout, followed by the sharp crack of pistol fire, the sound of a brief struggle, and the heavy clump of a body hitting the floor.
Alexander and I burst through the doorway, but it was too late. Standing with his back to the table and brandishing a fully loaded carbine was William Bootle. Sprawled at his feet, groaning and holding his head, was Lawrence.
“That was very careless of you, Cheswis,” said Bootle, his teeth flashing white in triumph. “You should have known I would follow you down the tunnel. Halsall will be dealt with later, but first I have to deal with you.”
My first thought was that Lawrence had been shot, but, gl
ancing over towards the cellar door, I spotted a neat bullet hole and realised that the shot had actually come from Lawrence’s pistol. I glanced behind Bootle and saw that the pistol was lying on the other side of the table, too far for one of us to reach without being shot. There were, however, three of us, including Lawrence, who was slowly coming to his senses.
“You cannot possibly get away with this, Bootle,” I said, with rather more bravado than I was actually feeling. “You do not have time to shoot more than one of us. The best you can hope for is to make good your escape or return to Lathom House.”
Bootle smiled the smile of one who knew he had an ace up his sleeve. “I believe you may have miscalculated,” he said, with a hint of a sneer.
At that precise moment, the door to the cellar crashed open and in strode a well-built, dark-haired woman, who, before any of us could react, walked over to where Lawrence’s gun was lying and picked it up. The woman, I noticed, was already holding a pistol in her other hand, and I realised that, in the space of a heartbeat, our odds of survival had reduced dramatically.
“Ah, Mrs Bootle, I presume,” I said, wearily. “I wondered whether you might put in an appearance at some juncture.”
Ten minutes later, all three of us were bound by our hands and feet, with our backs propped up against the wall. William and Jane Bootle each took one of the chairs and sat cradling their weapons in their laps as though contemplating what to do with us.
Jane Bootle regarded me with curiosity. She looked at lot like her sister Katherine, I thought, but with a touch of hardness around the corner of her mouth.
“You do not seem surprised to see me here, Mr Cheswis,” she said, angling her head as if to challenge me to explain.
“No, of course not,” I replied, gratefully accepting the opportunity to play for time. “I have known for a long time that you were not dead and that the body we found in your fireplace was that of Mary Reade. It was not until we dug up Mary’s grave and found an empty casket that I could prove it. It was only then that Colonel Rigby was informed.”
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