I looked round for the nearest officer and caught sight of Major Robinson a few yards away, who was trying hard to get his musketeers to reload and hold their positions.
“Who are they, Major?” I shouted.
Robinson glanced over his shoulder and nodded in recognition. “Broughton’s,” he called back. “Battle-hardened veterans from Ormonde’s army in Ireland. Flushed with success from Newark too. They will be no easy proposition, that is for sure.”
As they approached, I could hear them chanting rhythmically. It sounded almost hypnotic. At first I could not make out their words, but then I caught them: “Kill dead, kill dead,” repeated again and again, not just mechanically, but spat at us with fury. Alexander looked over at me and nodded back up Bradshawgate towards the cross.
“This is not a good place to be, Daniel,” he said. “We should try and make our way back to Green Acres. It may be safer there.”
I turned round to Horrocks and grabbed him by the wrist. “Alexander is right,” I said. “Let us head back to the house. There are women and sick people to protect there.”
Horrocks shook his wrist free and stared at me in anger.
“You would run from these papists? Are you a coward, sir? We must fight here. If we stand firm, we will repel them again.”
Horrocks spoke well – and bravely. However, it was, unfortunately also the last thing that he ever did, for at that precise moment a musket ball ripped through his neck, sending him tumbling to the floor. The servant’s eyes bulged, his legs convulsing as he held his hand to his throat, thick red blood pouring between his fingers.
“God have mercy,” I breathed, before stumbling off down the road after my friend. Looking around me, I quickly realised that many others had the same idea. With Broughton’s men breaking through our defences in several places, a number of men, many of whom I recognised from Lathom, had already turned to run. Captains Duddell and Davie, I noticed, had already begun to lead their units backwards and were heading down a lane, which ran parallel to the river bank and ultimately led to the church. I made to follow them, but a local clubman grabbed me by the arm.
“Not that way, mate,” he warned. “Not if you want to see tomorrow, that is. There’s a wall down there that runs the whole length of the river bank. Even if you get over it, the slope is too steep. You will be trapped.”
I hesitated momentarily, but then nodded my thanks and ran due north, up Bradshawgate, back towards the cross. As I did so, I caught sight of Captain and Lieutenant Dandie disappearing under a mound of greencoats, father and son, standing together to the last.
Within the space of a few minutes, the tide had turned. Obstinate resistance had given way to self-preservation, and the battle had turned into a full scale rout. Men, fuelled by panic, were slipping in the mud and falling over each other in their haste to escape.
Rigby, who had been commanding the defence from horseback fifty yards or so further up Bradshawgate, had also begun to look uncertain, his horse stamping nervously as fleeing men began to run past him. His mind was made up when a company of royalist horse broke through the wall to the west and began to trample their way across the fields and between the crofts to try and cut off the escape route back to the cross.
“Fall back,” he shouted. His strange smile, still visible through the visor on his helmet, now looked more like a grimace, but he wheeled his horse round and spurred it in the direction of his fleeing men. Next to him, a trooper grabbed his chest and fell forward over the neck of his horse before slumping like a rag doll to one side.
At that moment, one of the fleeing soldiers charged past me, almost knocking me off my feet, grabbed hold of the horse’s reins, and dragged the dying trooper from the saddle.
“Sorry, friend,” he said. “This is more use to me than you now.” I looked into the man’s face and realised with a start that it was Lawrence.
“Daniel,” he shouted, recognising me in the same instant. “What are you doing here? Get yourself somewhere safe and throw away your weapons. As an unarmed civilian you have half a chance. As an armed soldier you are a dead man.”
“But what about you?” I asked.
“I will take my chances with Rigby,” he said. “Please look after Beatrice for me. I will be back.” With that he mounted the horse and rode after Rigby towards the cross.
Alexander and I were somewhat slower. The main street was now full of royalists, both greencoats and redcoats, so we jumped over a fence and headed off through a row of back gardens and yards until we reached the rear of the stables belonging to The Swan, the coaching house on the corner of Churchgate.
The gate to the stable yard was locked and was made of solid oak, but there was no time for hesitation, for the field behind us leading to the river bank was the scene of unremitting horror, swarming with screaming, dying men, as the green-coated royalist regiment rampaged along the line of the wall, cutting men down indiscriminately, many asking for quarter, but none being given. Alexander launched himself shoulder first at the gate, which gave a splintering crack and fell inwards. Behind it stood two nervous-looking grooms wielding pieces of wood from an old beer barrel. However, as soon as they saw that we were not royalists, they beckoned us over.
“Quick,” said one, “get inside and keep low.”
“And get rid of your fucking weapons,” said the other. We needed no further bidding. Alexander tossed his pike back through the gate, and I did likewise with my club, although I thought better of throwing away the dagger and stuffed it down the side of my boots.
We were led through a corridor into the tap-room, which was crammed with people, mostly old men, women, and children cowering against the walls, but also several others, who had escaped the fighting. Tables had been upturned and used to barricade the doors.
I ventured over to one of the windows and looked out at the scene in Bradshawgate, which was a melee of horsemen and royalist foot soldiers, many wearing crimson scarves around their waists, slashing wildly at anyone who was still unwise enough to be outdoors. I watched in horror as one woman, heavily with child, was dragged out into the street, where her husband was being held, and she was forced to watch as he was cut down before her very eyes. The street was littered with bodies, and not just menfolk. There were women and children too. One old woman had been run through with a sword because she had nothing to give the plundering royalists. They were truly out of control.
However, in amongst the swirling mass of horses, men, and cold steel, I caught sight of one man who was making his way very purposely forward. Alexander Rigby, having discarded his tawny-coloured scarf, was mingling with the royalists. Somehow he had managed to get hold of their field word and was manfully pretending to be one of their number.
“A scorn on your roundhead God,” I heard him shout, with convincing venom, as he passed by our window, closely followed by Lawrence, who was gritting his teeth grimly and trying to keep as close to the colonel as he could. It was ironic, I thought. Rigby had spent weeks being outthought and humiliated by Lady Derby, but now, in extremis, the colonel was showing an intuition and coolness of thought that I could not, hitherto, have expected of him.
As he passed the window, I could have sworn he looked me straight in the eye and smiled at me, but then he spurred his horse through the crowd and rode off with Lawrence in his wake down Windy Bank towards the bridge over the River Croal.
By this time, royalist horsemen were coming from all directions. Rigby’s men and the local militia had resisted well, but there was nothing left to fight for except oneself. A troop of horse was making its way up Deansgate, having broken into the town by Private Acres, and at its head was the unmistakeable figure of the Earl of Derby, jaw set, hatred still etched on his face.
It was then that William Bootle appeared. In my desire to assure my own survival, I had almost forgotten about the captain, and so I was somewhat taken aback when he sprinted out from between two houses and approached the earl’s horse.
I was too f
ar away to hear what was being said. However, the earl, spotting Bootle, calmly dismounted, walked over to him, and then, after a brief conversation, drew his sword and ran Bootle through in cold blood. The captain staggered backwards, a look of pained surprise on his face, grimaced, and fell backwards against the cross at the end of Churchgate. The earl simply wiped his sword against his breeches, remounted, and rode away. Perhaps I was imagining it, but, as he did so, it seemed as though he was clenching his fist in triumph.
I was shocked, not because of the brutality, for I had seen plenty of that already that day, but because of the unfathomable nature of this act and the coldness with which it had been executed.
It was then that the horrible truth dawned on me. The Earl of Derby did not have the slightest idea that Bootle was working as a spy for the countess. He had been recruited after the earl had left for the Isle of Man and Chester, and his status, for security reasons, was probably known only to Rutter, Farrington, and the countess herself. To the earl, Bootle was no more than an ex-servant who had betrayed him.
I tore myself away from the window and sat down on the tap-room floor, my back propped up against the bar. I had seen enough for one day. Poetic justice is the term many would have used to describe William Bootle’s death. I did not care for such justice myself, for I would not have wished such a death on anyone. But I could not deny it. The irony was overwhelming.
Chapter 44
Bolton – Wednesday May 29th, 1644
It was the middle of the following afternoon by the time the royalists got around to searching Green Acres. We watched them approach from the window of Henry Oulton’s bed chamber, a great column of exuberant triumphalism leading an equally despondent line of prisoners, defeated and downcast. Hundreds of them, shackled together in twos. In truth, Alexander and I were fortunate not to be among their number. It was a day for sadness and reflection, but, as Alexander put it, at least the rain had stopped.
We had spent a tense evening with half a dozen others cowering in the cellars of The Swan, although it has to be said, the availability of so much free ale made our stay rather more comfortable than it might otherwise have been. We had realised that staying in the tap-room was not advisable, for the victorious royalists were bound to want to drink their fill once they had tired of looting and plundering the town, and trying to escape through the streets would only have been possible once the victors’ bloodlust had receded.
Beatrice initially looked shocked to see only two of us return to Green Acres, but I was able to put her mind at rest by telling her about Lawrence’s escape with Rigby. I did not need to say anything to Mrs Horrocks, though, for she already knew of her husband’s fate.
“He died bravely, urging us to hold our lines,” I said. “He can have felt very little.”
“He was a fool,” said the widow, bitterly. “He was a civilian. He had no need to fight Prince Rupert. He should have remained concealed here with the rest of us.”
I said nothing, for there was nothing adequate that could have conveyed my feelings at that moment. During the previous evening, the scale of the slaughter that had taken place on both sides had become painfully apparent. The royalists had lost over two hundred men during their first assault and as many again during the rest of the action. It was little wonder that they had seen fit to take such retribution.
The number of defenders and townsfolk who had perished was impossible to gauge, for many had fled into the countryside and had been pursued for miles around. Some said upwards of a thousand men, women, and children had died, and who was I to argue? Many of Rigby’s men had been cut down in the area known as Silverwell Bottoms, which lay alongside the bank of the River Croal, which I had seen Captains Duddell and Davie fleeing towards. Those lucky ones who had escaped the carnage had sought refuge in the church and had been taken prisoner.
As the convoy of prisoners filed past Green Acres, I noticed a group of greencoats break away from the line and head purposefully for the entrance to the house.
“They are checking every building,” said Marc. “They are looking for anyone who would still resist them. We would be best advised to remain passive and sit in my uncle’s dressing room. Mrs Horrocks will try to divert them.”
I had little energy left to resist any more, and so sitting in the dressing room is exactly what we did. We were resigned to having to explain our presence in the house and half-expected to be dragged off with the hordes of prisoners filing down Deansgate, but we were totally unprepared for what happened when the soldiers entered Henry Oulton’s chamber.
I could hear Mrs Horrocks remonstrating angrily with the men, her voice loud and shrill. “Have you not caused enough misery in this town?” she said. “You are in the chamber of a sick old man, there is no need for this.”
“I will be the arbiter of that, goodwife,” snapped a gruff voice. “Jim, take a quick look in that dressing room and make sure there’s nobody in there.”
My heart sank, and I prepared myself for the inevitable. However, when the door opened, I found myself staring with amazement at the slim, perpetually downcast-looking features of James Skinner.
The youngster’s jaw dropped momentarily as he took in the three figures stood huddled in the corner of the room, but he quickly pulled himself together, gave a wry smile, and nodded at me.
“There’s no-one in here, sir,” I heard him call, as the door shut behind him.
Chapter 45
Marston Moor, Chester, Ormskirk, Nantwich – Tuesday July 2nd, 1644
On a warm Tuesday evening in July, two months after he had ridden away from Lathom, the young soldier collapsed on a tuft of grass and wiped the sweat and grime of battle from his face. His recently re-grown blond hair, normally loose and flowing, was matted with mud and rain from the thunderstorm that had accompanied Parliament’s initial charge.
It was almost completely dark, but a full moon cast a ghostly light across the landscape. In the distance, he could still make out the sight of bodies strewn across the open fields, some still moving and calling for help.
In between them, figures lurched in and out of the ditches that criss-crossed the moorland, but these were not all soldiers. These were looters, come to strip the dead bodies of their clothes and any valuables they could lay their hands on. These people did not waste their time, he thought, and he thanked God for his deliverance from such a fate.
What had he been thinking of, committing himself to this? Today was his brother’s wedding day, and he should have been in Nantwich with those he loved and who loved him, rather than risking his life in some godforsaken Yorkshire field.
But he had survived, as had several others he had recognised, including many from the unit he had fought with in Newark. He had also seen the colonel his brother had served under at Lathom and the personable young lieutenant he had been introduced to at that time. The latter had carried his arm in a sling, but at least he was not lying amongst the corpses that were being robbed and desecrated on the battlefield.
And, most importantly of all, Parliament had won the day. The royalists had been routed, and thousands of their number had perished. Even Prince Rupert’s diabolical white poodle was dead, and with the King defeated, the soldier’s dream of an England where all men could be equal was still alive and still worth fighting for.
No, he had done the right thing. His brother and his flame-haired sweetheart would understand. He would return to Nantwich, but not until he had achieved his dream.
Meanwhile, on the edge of the village of Tockwith, a young musketeer in a green coat sat under armed guard. Like many in his regiment, including his commanding officer, he had been taken prisoner, but he was not downhearted. His limbs still buzzed with the adrenalin of the fight, and his captors were treating him with respect. He would have a few uncomfortable days ahead, but he knew he would eventually be returned home or given the opportunity to fight for Parliament, and, if the truth be told, he didn’t mind who he fought for, so long as he could continue to lea
rn his craft, that of a professional soldier.
At the same time in Chester, a footman summoned his master and mistress to dinner in their substantial merchant’s house on Eastgate Street. He was grateful, for not only had he been freed from gaol, where he had been held for weeks on end on unfounded murder charges, he had also been promoted to head footman, his predecessor having been dismissed for pilfering from the kitchens. Several items had been found in his possession, including food and various kitchen tools, including, oddly enough, a cheese wire.
He had been devastated at the death of the woman he loved, but he was no fool. He realised that his infatuation would have come to nothing in the end. The recently widowed cook, Martha Woodcock, however, was a different matter. Perhaps he was imagining it, but had she not been particularly attentive towards him since his reinstatement? And did she not make the very best pies he had ever tasted?
“Yes,” he thought, as he showed his master and mistress to their table. “Things were looking up.” He might even mention it to Martha herself. In fact, if he played his cards right, wedding bells might even be in the offing.
Meanwhile, in Ormskirk, a young girl was cooking a meal of much more meagre rations for her older brother and two younger siblings. She was delighted to have Harry back at home. He had served his mistress well during the siege, but now he had been given leave to stay at home and look after his younger brother and sisters. He would not be expected to man the walls of Lathom House again, even if the roundheads were to return, especially now the family dog, such a useful and obedient courier of messages, was dead.
A Soldier of Substance Page 30