by Jack Elwin
CHAPTER 7 ON THE TRAIL OF A CART
THAT NIGHT I slept soundly, rose early and put on the new doublet and breeches Tom had made for me. I had a quick meal of bread and cheese and ale, and wrapped more bread and cheese in a napkin and put it in my pocket. As an afterthought I picked up my apothecary’s bag. It occurred to me that my profession might give me entry to soldiers’ quarters or camps, and anyway would provide a plausible reason for me to be travelling.
By seven o’ clock I had walked up Durn Lane and was waiting in South Street, and almost at once Will Horder came along in his cart. I’ve known him since I was a boy, and he greeted me warmly.
‘Hey, Micah lad, so you’re doing a scoot eh? to get away from family troubles, I s’pose,’ he said as I climbed aboard.
‘Well, you know Will, it’ll be quite a holiday to be away from a crying baby for a while.’
‘An’ how’s that litsome lady your wife?’
‘Well enough, considering she has so much more work and less sleep with the babe.’
We rattled out of South Gate, and I glanced back at his load. He had a number of sacks and packages, some live hens in a wicker cage, several dead rabbits and a hare. I looked sideways at Will. He had an old hat shading his eyes and large white whiskers down each side of his face that actually waved about in the breeze.
‘How often do you come this way, Will?’ I asked him. ‘Is it still once a week?’
‘Nay, once a fortnight now. I used to come once a week, but the so’jers being all around make it too risky. I’m always afear’d they may steal my hoss, and then where would I be?’
‘I was lucky then, to want to go to Weymouth just when it was your day to go there. I suppose you’ll come back this evening, so if I want a ride back I’ll have to finish my business before then?’
‘I do that,’ he said. ‘I shall be leaving the George a couple of hours before sundown, and if you’re not there I shall have to leave without you, and then you’ll have to walk. So what brings you all this way in spite of the wars?’
‘I’m looking for a cart,’ I said, and explained to him how Jacob Perrin had had his cart stolen and that I had promised to look for it.
‘I know that Perrin fellow,’ said Will. ‘I’m surprised at your being friends with him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, Micah, or Mr Judd as I ought to be calling you, now you be an up-an’-coming apothecary I wouldn’ ’a thought you’ld be a-chasing over the country for lost carts, specially not one belonging to Jacob Perrin.’
‘Don’t you think he’s a good man to know?’
‘Depends what you want to know him for. He’ll get you what you want, if you want the sort o’ goods he gets.’
‘He’s not exactly a friend of mine,’ I said, ‘rather he’s the friend—or relative—of a friend, and I’m really doing this journey for the sake of my friend, not for Mr Perrin. But if you happen to see this cart I would be glad if you would let me know.’
I described the cart to him as far as I could, and he promised to look out for it.
Then we talked of other things—of the state of Sherborne after all the fighting around there earlier in the year, of the brave defence of Corfe Castle by Lady Bankes and her daughters—and Will told me the story that Sir Walter Erle had been so frightened there after nearly being killed by a musket ball that he crept around outside the walls on all fours dressed in a bear’s skin.
‘I should think that would make them shoot at him all the more!’ I exclaimed.
‘Perhaps he thought the bullets would bounce off the fur,’ said Will nearly choking with laughter, and I had to thump him on the back. Then we discussed what had happened in Melcombe and Weymouth, as far as we had heard, and what Prince Maurice might do next.
‘I do think he’ll try to take Portland Castle afore he moves on,’ said Will, ‘otherwise ’twill be a running sore in the side o’ the Cavaliers in Weymouth. Portlanders themselves are Royalist to a man, and hate Captain Arthur, the Roundhead Governor.’
‘Yet it’s a strong castle, and won’t easily be taken,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been there, but I’ve been told its walls are very strong and in good repair. Weren’t they built in the time of Henry the Eighth?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘’tis not like those old-fashioned castles such as Corfe or Sherborne. The walls at Portland Castle are low and curve inwards at the top, so that cannon-balls bounce off them and fly over without doing damage, and instead of arrow-slits there are cross-shaped holes for hand-guns to shoot out of and big square holes for the cannon. ’Tis very cunningly planned, is Portland Castle.’
We passed the turning to Monkton and began to climb the long hill up to the summit of the ridge which separates Dorchester from Weymouth and the sea. There was a long stretch of white chalky road, with no houses and few trees. We talked of more personal things—of Will’s brother who worked for the Trenchards at Wolfeton, of his grandson who was doing well at the Free School in Dorchester, which I had attended as a boy, and of my uncle the wheelwright in Portesham.
We crossed the Ridgeway which goes at right angles to the Weymouth road, running along just on the Dorchester side of the ridge, a road ancient when the Romans passed this way and built the road we were on. Then we came over the summit and saw Melcombe, Weymouth and the sea, with the grey hump of Portland rising like a sea monster in the distance. From our view-point we couldn’t see the Chesil Bank of shingle that joins Portland to the mainland a good ten miles to the west beyond Abbotsbury, so that Portland looked like a true island, as apart from that shingle bank it is. The early sunshine was in our eyes, so we could not see the far view clearly, though the sea sparkled and smoke, perhaps from cooking fires, rose lazily over the two towns. We saw no sign of soldiers, but anyway were too far away for that.
The hill down on the seaward side is much steeper, so we got down from the cart, and Will prepared to thrust an iron shoe under the wheel should it be necessary on the steep descent. The Romans thought nothing of building their road straight up and down over the ridge, regardless of the slope. Perhaps they mainly used pack animals and people went on foot, for the hill is hard on horses pulling carts, whether up or down. However, we reached the bottom without mishap and got back on the cart.
‘Have you heard of the Wise Man of Upwey over there?’ asked Will, waving his whip to the right in the direction of the village, which lies back from the main road up a little valley.
‘No,’ I said, ‘who is that?’
‘I don’t know his name,’ said Will, ‘but I do know the people hereabouts speak highly of his powers. He divines with a wand, they say, and finds lost things.’
‘Do you mean he’s a dowser, using a hazel twig to find water?’
‘A wand is what I was told, but I don’t know what it’s made of. But yes, they say he can tell the best place to dig a well, ’tis true. But he finds other things, I believe. When a heifer strayed he told the farmer where to find it, and he foretold these present troubles, so ’tis said.’
‘It needed no special gift to foresee our troubles coming,’ I said, ‘but I wonder whether he could tell me where to find this cart I’m seeking.’
‘I guess he could,’ said Will, ‘but whether he would is another matter. They say he’s a queer old cuss, and will only help if he has a mind to.’
We could not turn aside for me to try him though, but jogged on towards Melcombe. We had hardly seen anyone on the road so far, but as we approached the town there were quite a lot of people on foot and some carts and waggons bringing produce in from the country. There was a guard-post at the edge of the town, with two or three soldiers who were keeping a sharp eye on the passers-by. However, they recognised Will and let us pass without hindrance.
I kept looking at the carts to see if I could find a green one with yellow wheels, but to no avail. We reached the centre of town, and I paid Will for my passage and set off carrying my bag. I didn’t know where to look, and thought to inquire of any soldie
rs I might meet, yet there didn’t seem to be any soldiers in the town. I asked a man standing at a street corner where they all were, and he said that most of them were the other side of the river in Weymouth.
The two towns of Melcombe and Weymouth ought by rights to be one. But the river has so divided them that they have been enemies and rivals for many centuries. One day perhaps they will settle their differences and become united, though there seems little likelihood of this happening. The only way from one to the other (apart from by boat) is by a wooden bridge which lifts up like a drawbridge. So I walked to this bridge and began to cross it. Some soldiers were on guard at the far side, and they barred my way and asked my business. I said I was an apothecary plying my skills, and this led to my first bit of good fortune.
One of the soldiers said to his mate, ‘Here, Dickon, show him your hand.’
The soldier addressed pushed forward, and said, ‘Can you heal wounds, master?’
‘It depends how bad they are,’ I answered. He held out his left hand, which had a dirty bloodstained piece of rag wrapped round it.
‘Let me see,’ I said, and unwound the rag, pulling it away where it had stuck with the blood. ‘How did you get hurt?’
‘He was in a fight with a potato,’ said one of his friends, ‘and the spud won.’
‘Me knife slipped,’ said the hurt man, Dickon.
‘Where can we sit down?’ I asked, and he led me into a shop they had taken over as their guard post. ‘Bring me some clean water and some wine to cleanse the wound,’ I said, and soon began wiping away the foul matter from his hand. I cleaned out the wound, which was a deep cut, and washed it with the wine. I searched in my bag for ointment and took out a salve I had made of woundwort and oil, which I applied to the cut. I asked the soldiers for some clean cloth to use as a bandage, and after some search one of them came up with a strip of linen, probably torn from a shirt.
While I worked I talked to the soldiers about their adventures since they had left Dorchester.
‘Did you march straight here?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said one, ‘the advance guard pushed on, but we spent the night in a field. Our sergeant picked it out, God rest his soul, though why he chose such a bleak hillside I shall never know.’
‘It was blowy up there,’ agreed Dickon, ‘we would have done better down by the village below the hill where Captain Elstone’s men camped. But sergeant said we must stop at the top, and stop we did.’
‘Good view in the morning though,’ said the first, ‘all the way back to Dorchester. And we weren’t quite at the top—we had a bit o’ shelter behind a wall.’
‘Were many of you up there?’ I asked.
‘Only our company, I think, for we were the rear-guard, y’see. We were strung out by the wall trying to keep warm. Sergeant said we were weaklings, but he had a thicker jerkin than most of us.’
‘Who is your sergeant?’ I asked, hardly daring to hope that my quest to find out what had happened to one of the lost treasures might be nearly at an end.
‘Barnby, Jim Barnby, he was.’
‘Where can I find him,’ I asked.
‘Down there,’ said the first speaker, pointing at the ground. ‘He’s dead, poor man, and not by a bullet either. He got merry soon after we got here and fell into the harbour. By the time we hauled him out he was quite drownded.’
‘I don’t know what he had to be merry about,’ said Dickon, ‘but maybe he was drowning his sorrows.’
‘Drowning himself, anyway,’ said the first, and they all laughed.
‘What happened to his things?’ I asked.
‘Oh, we shared ’em out. Not that he had much. I had his shirt and belt. I suppose most of the company got something to remember him by.’
‘I had his ’baccy flask,’ said Dickon.
‘Not a lot of money then?’ I said.
‘Not a bit. Some of our company said they’d seen him strike lucky in Dorchester, but he must a’ lost it all. He’d spent his last penny on drink, I guess.’
‘Had he been spending a lot since you left Dorchester?’
‘He didn’t have much chance. Where could he spend money till he got here? And it was our first evening here, three days ago, he drownded.’
‘So he hadn’t been gambling or giving loads of money away?’
‘No, I guess he can’t really have got anything lucky in Dorchester or we’d a’ found it. But why are you asking? Did you know him?’
‘No, but I’m surprised that a sergeant should die without money to share out. I thought all sergeants got rich.’
They laughed with a tinge of bitterness at that, and one said, ‘Sergeants may, we don’t on the pay we don’t get.’
‘At anyrate, your Sergeant Barnby doesn’t seem to have done very well,’ I said. standing up. It seemed to me that the sergeant must have hidden the money somewhere, but he hadn’t had very much opportunity to do so. It must be either in his billet in Weymouth, or he might have dropped it off on the way there.
‘Did you search his billet?’ I asked. ‘Surely he must have had some money somewhere?’
‘He was going to share a billet with me,’ said Dickon. ‘He left his pack there, but he went out that first evening, got drunk and didn’t come back.’
‘And there was no money in the pack?’
‘Not a bit, sir, so you see not all sergeants are rich!’
Then probably he disposed of Whittle’s money before he reached Weymouth. I wondered if I would be able to find the field where he spent the night before, when he stopped on the way, but I didn’t want to question the soldiers too closely in case they became suspicious, so I closed my bag, and told Dickon to keep his hand clean and to change the bandage in a couple of days. I then remembered to ask whether they had any waggons or carts, and was told that most of them were assembled at Sandsfoot Castle.
I did not ask for payment because I hoped the soldiers would perhaps help me in my search, or at anyrate recommend me to their fellows, and I looked about for their officer. Fortunately their Captain arrived before I had to move on, and he at once asked what I was doing in the guard post. The men told him how I had treated Dickon’s hurt, Dickon held up the bandaged hand and they all joined in quite a chorus of praise.
‘Well done, sir,’ said the Captain. ‘I wish you would stay with us as our surgeon.’
‘It was nothing,’ I said, ‘I am glad to have been able to help.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s just possible that you might be able to help me.’
‘How so?’
‘A friend of mine has lost his cart, and I was very much hoping I might find it for him.’
‘Lost? Do you mean it was taken?’
‘Well yes, it was, shall we say, borrowed by some soldiers, and if they have finished with it he would be glad to call in the loan.’
He laughed and said, ‘It’s unlikely that they will part with it yet, but you can try. There are quite a lot of carts and waggons up near the castle. You could look up there.’
‘I would be most grateful if you would give me a note to the commander so that I may go and return freely,’ I said.
‘Why not?’ he said, ‘though you should have got a proper pass.’
‘I am sure a note from you will serve,’ I said, taking my notebook from my pocket. The only thing we could find to write with was a lead pencil I had, and with that, after he had enquired my name, he wrote:
To whom it may concern, be it known that the bearer, Mr Micah Judd, apothecary, hath done good work for one of my wounded men, and should be allowed to pass freely. He signed it, John Masters, Captain.
I thanked him, and blessed my good fortune as I climbed up from the harbour and went the half mile or so to the castle.
Sandsfoot Castle, I knew, was another of the many built by King Henry the Eighth as part of his coastal defences. Together with its sister castle on Portland it guards the anchorage where
ships can shelter from the prevailing south-west gales in the lee of Portland and the Chesil Bank. Between them the guns of the two castles can rake most of the anchorage. But although Sandsfoot had surrendered to the Cavaliers without a struggle, Portland Castle seemed determined to hold out, which it could very likely do because (as Will had said) it was very strongly built specifically to withstand cannon shot.
There were plenty of soldiers around Sandsfoot. The Castle itself has a squarish central keep with embrasures for big guns at intervals. There is a curtain wall and dry ditch, and on the seaward side a semi-circular platform for the cannon which guard the harbour. There were many tents in neat lines, both inside the Castle wall and outside. I also saw quite a lot of horses and mules and oxen tethered, and carts and waggons, but though I looked hard I couldn’t see Perrin’s cart anywhere.
‘Hey, you there, get back!’ shouted a voice, and an angry-looking soldier came towards me. ‘No townsmen here,’ he said, ‘go back!’
‘I have a pass from Captain Masters,’ I said. ‘I am an apothecary. I’ve treated one of his men, and may be able to help any of you here in need of my services.’
He looked at the paper written by the Captain, holding it upsidedown.
‘This ain’t a proper pass,’ he said, but it must have impressed him for he added somewhat doubtfully, ‘I don’t know. You’d better see our Ensign.’
He led me to one of the tents nearby where a young officer was sitting on a folding stool and smoking a short pipe.
‘What have you got there, Simpkins?’ he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth. ‘No unauthorised passengers, you know.’
‘I know sir,’ said the soldier saluting, ‘but he says he’s an “apocary” with a pass from Captain Masters.’
‘Let me see it,’ said the Ensign, and when he had examined it, ‘this is not a properly authorised pass, but I know Captain Masters, so I suppose it will do. Have you been sent for?’
‘I thought there might be need of my services,’ I said, ‘but if there isn’t I can go away.’
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘we have a surgeon, and you had better have a word with him. You’ll find him in the end tent over there. See if he wants any help.’ He pointed down the line of tents with his pipe and put it back in his mouth.
I thanked him and walked down the line to the tent he had indicated. There I found a short fat red-faced man lying on his back on a thin mattress. His eyes were open, but he was in the act of yawning as I arrived.
‘Good day, sir,’ I said, ‘are you the surgeon?’
‘I am, and who the devil are you?’
I repeated my story and showed him Captain Master’s note, and he heaved himself onto one elbow.
‘What sort of wound did you treat?’ he asked.
‘A cut hand. I was told the soldier had been involved in a fight—with a potato.’
He laughed and sat up.
‘Sickness we have,’ he said, ‘it takes off more than pike and powder. But I know no cure for it, and I don’t suppose you do. The men will drink too much, eat bad food unwashed, lie down in their own excrement and drink ditch-water, so what can they expect? But I can’t do much for ’em, except hope they live, but more likely watch ’em die—and I want none of your quack medicines.’
‘I am no quacking physician and do not dispense such trash,’ I said with some heat. ‘I too have no cure for camp fever, if that’s what they have. But I can help wounds to heal and know many remedies for other sicknesses.’
‘You might be of some use then if and when we have a battle, but until we attack Portland Castle (if we do) there aren’t likely to be many wounds, except those got (as with your fellow) in fighting potatoes. But I don’t suppose you are prepared to stay until we do engage the enemy.’
‘When is the attack on the Castle going to take place?’ I asked.
‘Heaven knows,’ he said, ‘and, I suppose, the Prince.’
‘Then I cannot stay,’ I said, ‘and I am sorry that I cannot be of help.’
He scrambled to his feet and held out his hand.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I am being less than civil. It is good of you to offer.’
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ I said. ‘I am looking for a cart, a green cart with yellow wheels. Have you by any chance seen such a thing?’
He laughed again and said, ‘The only carts I take note of are ones bringing up food and drink—and I suppose those with the bodies of wounded and dead. The Waggon-master would know, of course, but he’s gone off God knows where. But it’s possible the Quartermaster might know. I can take you to him.’
He led me through the line of tents to a cottage not far from the outer castle ditch. One board of its door still swung on the hinges, the rest had gone. A soldier carrying a paper came out as we approached, and another entered before us, and there was an air of bustle and business about the place which contrasted with most of what I had so far seen of the camp.
We went in behind the soldier to a room which took up most of the ground floor of the cottage. A ladder in one corner led up through an open hatch, probably to a bedroom or loft. The only furniture was a table, which seemed too grand for the humble room and was covered with papers, an open box or trunk also overflowing with papers, and a chair on which a large man with a bushy ginger moustache was sitting. An orderly was standing behind. The seated man handed the soldier a paper.
‘Take this to Captain Fiennes,’ he ordered, ‘then report back to me.’ The soldier saluted and brushed past us to get out. The seated man looked up frowning, then smiled as he saw the surgeon.
‘Henry, you rogue,’ he said, ‘you shan’t have any of my blood today.’
‘He always makes out I’ve come to bleed him,’ said the surgeon to me, ‘but whoever heard of getting blood from a quartermaster?’
‘Whoever heard of getting health from a doctor?’ retorted the Quartermaster. ‘But what have you come to ask for? for I know you didn’t come just to see me.’
‘Absolutely right,’ said the surgeon. ‘This man is an apothecary looking for a cart, a particular cart, I believe. The Waggon-master’s not around, but I’m sure you know as much about what waggons and carts we’ve got as he does, so I’ve brought this enquirer to you.’
‘Is it one that was requisitioned?’ asked the Quartermaster.’
‘Yes, it was borrowed, and I would like it back, please,’ I said.
‘’Fore God, what next?’ said the Quartermaster, raising his voice. ‘Here we are fighting a war, and the man wants his cart back. We haven’t enough carts as it is.’
‘Yet sir, it is only a small cart, and I would gladly give you a donation—to buy comforts for the soldiers, of course—to get it back.’
‘A donation, ha!’ I saw his eyes light up, ‘for the soldiers’ comforts. It would have to be a large one, yes, to persuade me to part with a cart.’
‘Oh yes, sir, I quite understand you will want a donation,’ I said, as the orderly came back into the room.
‘Hush, man,’ said the Quartermaster glancing at him and lowering his voice. ‘We can talk of that later. Well, what cart is it?’
‘It’s green with yellow wheels, quite distinctive.’
The orderly stepped forward and said something in his ear.
‘Ah,’ said the Quartermaster, ‘you’re out of luck, I fear. That cart was the one we sent across the water to collect a load of fish. It was captured yesterday by the Roundheads, curse ’em, so I guess it’s now at the castle yonder.’
‘Do you mean it went across to Portland?’ I asked to make absolutely sure.
‘That’s right. If you wait a few days we shall surely capture the castle, and with it the cart. But I doubt if we’d be able to let you have it, even for a donation, eh Tom?’ He looked up at the orderly, who shrugged his shoulders.
Another soldier came in and saluted, and the Quartermaster dismissed us with a nod.
As we walked away the surgeon said, ‘Well, there you are. I told yo
u he would know about the carts and waggons. But yours is out of reach, you see, and though we may recapture it, I don’t know when that will be. Anyway, as he said, he probably wouldn’t let you have it back, even for a donation to his Retired Quartermasters’ Comfort Fund.’
I thanked him for his help and we parted, he towards his tent and I going on through the camp to the west, where the road or track went down a rough slope to the shore. I walked as if I had some purpose, and no one challenged me, but I was really most uncertain what to do. If the cart was indeed at Portland Castle it seemed utterly beyond my reach. Yet, having come so far, and having had such amazing good fortune in tracing where it had gone, I was reluctant to give up.
Also finding how readily my being an apothecary could open up the way into places from which most other people would be barred, I began to toy with the idea of trying my luck on Portland. Thanks to my early start the day was still less than half gone, and (provided there was no actual fighting going on) I did not fear for my life. However, I might have difficulty in passing the sentries of both sides who would surely be guarding the ferry or the road.
I walked along the shore. The road (if such a rough track deserved the title) was only passable at low tide, and in places crossed ridges of sharp rocks, and in others my feet sunk in sticky grey clay. I thought how difficult it must be for horses having to pull heavy waggons along such a way. After about half a mile I reached the place where the track ended at the water’s edge, and the ferry, a barge-like craft large enough to take a cart and a couple of horses, was tied to a post. A rope, by which the ferryman hauled the ferry along, stretched to a stout post at the far side of the Fleet, as the long stretch of water between the Chesil Bank and the mainland is called.
As I expected, there was a guard post by the ferry, with a dozen or so soldiers.
‘Go back,’ one shouted, ‘there’s no passage.’
‘I have a pass,’ I said, ‘and showed my piece of paper.’
‘That’s no pass,’ he said, ‘get back.’
‘How long will the way be closed?’ I asked.
‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It’ll be closed as long as the General orders.’
So I turned back a little way, then scrambled up the broken cliff which there was quite low, though muddy and crumbling, and walked across the headland to the shore of the Fleet. The Chesil Bank looked tantalisingly near across the water. I had heard that it was sometimes possible to ford the Fleet at low tide if one knew the way. But I believe it is dangerous, and strangers have been drowned there.
My stomach began to tell me that it was time to eat, so I sat on a flat rock and took out the bread and cheese I had in my pocket and ate it slowly. I then felt thirsty, and looked around at a row of poor cottages a little back from the water’s edge. An old fisherman with a straggly grey beard was working nearby mending nets. I went over to him and asked if there was anywhere I might find a drink.
‘You can have a drop o’ water here,’ he said. ‘I ha’n’t anything stronger.’ He had a large earthenware jug beside him three-quarters full, so I thanked him and drank from the jug. The water was warm and slightly brackish, and I hoped it would not make me ill. But it did quench my thirst for the moment.
‘How could one get across to the Chesil?’ I asked. ‘I want to get to Portland, but the soldiers aren’t letting anyone use the ferry.’
‘I could row you across,’ he said, ‘and if you walk along the seaward side for a bit they won’t see you. But they may have posted some soldiers further along, so you may be stopped before you get to where you want to go.’
Again I thanked him, and said I would chance it.