An example – or rather two examples – of this inconsistency of behaviour occurred at the end of April. Annette was going with some other ladies to visit a friend, Mistress Windebank whose husband commanded the garrison at Bletchingdon House, one of the outlying posts which guarded the northern approach to the city. On a hint from Annette, I volunteered my services as escort, pleased at the thought of having her company away from the constant threat of interruption by Sir Olwyn. As it turned out, opportunities for seeing Annette alone were even fewer than in Sir Olwyn’s house, for the ladies kept in a gaggle all night, talking and laughing, while I sat with Frank Windebank drowning my sorrows and his reminiscences of youthful debaucheries in a bottle of brandy. He was still but a stripling which of course is when evidence of dissoluteness is most highly valued. I liked him well enough but tonight I had hoped for pleasures less verbal and vicarious than his conversation offered me.
Bed time came and still I had not spoken to Annette except in company, but as the ladies retired I took the candelabrum from Mistress Windebank and lit them up the stairs. My act of courtesy in no way deceived Annette who took great delight in revealing that she and one of the other ladies were sharing a bed – ‘for a timorous maid needs company in a strange house, do you not think so, Captain Fantom?’
I retired myself some hours later, full of brandy, anger and lust. Sleep would not come and after a while I rose from my bed and asked myself the question – if Annette had put herself out of my reach, who would be the best substitute; that is, which among the ladies would be most like to make me welcome (for I wanted no scandal?) Finally I settled on the Lady Henrietta Furnell whose husband was at present campaigning in the west country. A woman of a certain age and no great beauty, yet she was decaying in splendour like autumn and all men were invited to the harvest-home. My only fear was that I would be prevented there, but Windebahk would hardly dare neglect his wife and the junior officers of his guard were either on duty or drunk – or, I feared, both. But the efficiency of the guard was not my responsibility.
I entered her room with stealth till I was certain that she was alone, then I pulled back the covers and shook her bony shoulder for I felt it wise to wake her first.
‘In God’s name!’ she cried. ‘What is the matter?’
‘No matter, lady,’ I said. ‘Just a simple soldier come to make his devoirs.’
She sat up and stared at me till her eyes penetrated sleep and darkness and made out my identity.
‘Why, ’tis the hard-man!’ she said. ‘Nay and how hard are you, Captain Fantom?’
‘Hard enough,’ I said, falling on top of her.
‘God’s guts! take care!’ she cried, now fully awake. ‘I am not shot-proof!’
As though cued by her words, a rattle of musketry sounded about a hundred yards from the house. To Lady Furnell’s ear, if she heard it at all, it must have been nothing more than a nightjar’s grating and she was understandably puzzled when as nimbly as I had leaped on, I leapt off.
‘By Our Lady’s womb!’ she said. ‘They did not tell me you worked so speedily!’
But now there came a fresh outbreak of firing, much closer and followed by the shattering of glass as a window was struck.
‘Ahh!’ shrieked Lady Furnell displaying great agility in her turn as she scrambled out of bed and through the door.
‘We are attacked! Attacked! And shall all be ravished. Oh help!’
In the circumstances I found her fears rather unflattering. As I followed her into the corridor I ran into Annette who, in company with all the other ladies had been roused by the shooting or the shrieking.
‘So, Captain,’ she said. ‘This is how your devotion overflows.’
Had it not been for another burst of firing without, I would have thrust her back into her room and settled things between us once and for all, but the defence of the house was going to need every man so I pushed by her unspeaking and made haste to my room.
Had I been in command, I would have gone to my duties naked, for rapid action is of the essence in cases like this. A surprise attack gains or loses momentum within the first ten minutes. If the defenders can make some kind of show of strength and readiness, the enemy will often hesitate and lose an advantage, for it is hard then to press home a surprise attack when you believe the surprise has failed.
Windebank was a gay young spark, not yet able to hold his drink too well, but I knew him by reputation as a soldier of courage and dash, so I did not doubt he would be making all preparations for a stout defence. But I reckoned without that fatal ‘gentlemanliness’ which, despite the general foulness of their court manners, still managed to rear its stupid head on ill occasion. (The story they tell of their great hero, Philip Sydney, passing his water-bottle to a common soldier at Zutphen is a case in point, though some bawdy verses I have read on his death show the other side of the English character.)
When I descended into the drawing room, instead of a garrison-commander instructing his troops I found a knighterrant surrounded by terrified damsels pleading for his protection. Dishevelled, his tunic unbuttoned, his sword in his hand he looked the perfect picture of careless youth roused to action by a threat to his ladies’ honour, but such allegorical groupings have always made my heart sink.
I approached and saluted him. Frankly, whatever he decided to do was none of my concern. If I could make him behave like a professional soldier, well and good. If not, then at least I would establish to those present (I mean the corporal and wounded sergeant who stood by the door as if awaiting commands, for I did not count the ladies) that I was ready to do my duty.
‘Sir,’ I said. ‘What are your orders?’
‘Orders?’ he said as though the word were Sanskrit.
‘Yes, sir. What part shall I take in the defence?’
‘Defence!’ shrieked Mistress Windebank, half swooning round her husband’s neck. ‘Nay, but my ladies! We must treat!’
‘Ravished! We shall all be ravished!’ cried Lady Furnell.
‘Then we must prepare ourselves as best we can,’ said Annette demurely. ‘Are you not prepared, my Lady?’
Lady Furnell glared angrily at her, but Annette took the wind out of her sails by sinking on her knees, closing her eyes and clasping her hands. After a moment the others began to follow suit. Later I would be amused by memory of the sight, but this was no time for tomfoolery.
‘Sergeant,’ I said to the wounded man. ‘What is the state of the outer defences?’
‘I know not, sir,’ he said. ‘My post was quickly overrun and I fear the others may have gone too. Those of us who lived have fallen back to the house and await command.’
‘What is the enemy’s strength?’
‘ ’Tis a large force, sir,’ he said, adding when he saw doubt on my face, ‘Nay, ’tis not my fear that speaks, sir. There is horse out there, and I fear me a battery of minions or drakes, for I heard their wheels on the road as I withdrew.’
This was ill news. A small raiding party was one thing, but a large force with artillery at their back would be irresistible.
‘With permission, sir, I shall look to the disposition of our troops within the walls and send one to tell the King of our situation. Have courage, ladies. We will be reinforced by morning. And if one of you will add bandage and dressing to your prayers, perhaps God will spare this brave sergeant’s life.’
As I turned to leave, Annette rose and went to the sergeant who by now was standing in a pool of blood. Windebank still had not spoken, but now he at least shook himself free of his wife and began to button his tunic.
When I reached the front door of the house which I saw with a shudder stood ajar with only one soldier to guard it, I heard a voice call from without.
‘Flag of truce! Flag of truce!’
Peering into the darkness I saw approaching two figures, one with a lantern.
To the soldier on guard I said, ‘Take these men to your commander,’ and myself stepped back into the shadows for I had no wi
sh to appear as a principal in any parley that took place.
I was very glad of my discretion for behind the drummer who led the way with his white flag and lantern came a long, gangling awkward figure whom I recognized instantly as Captain Hector, the man who I had quarrelled with at Bedford.
I followed them to the drawing room and listened at the door. What I heard filled me with fear. It was certainly no mere raiding party out there but the advance guard of Cromwell’s army. Hector, like a second-rate actor, was painting a crude but effective picture of the carnage that would ensue if the Parliamentarians breached the walls with their artillery, then took the house by storm. The ladies reacted with ‘oohs’ of horror and some subdued weeping. I didn’t blame them. If they knew as I did what the opposing forces could do to us, they would have been terrified out of their minds.
Now Hector changed his tune and offered terms of surrender; all arms, supplies, monies and furniture to be left in the house while the inmates would be left unharmed and given safe conduct to return to the city in the morning.
Of course to a civilian, particularly a female, this must have sounded an offer too good to refuse. They cannot know how essential it is in war that every part of any army from a corps to a private soldier resists to the utmost extent possible. As a professional, I have never considered myself being paid to die, but certainly I am paid to risk death. And these men who fight for a cause, well, one would think their motivation would take them even further.
But now came a silence and as I counted the seconds, I began to realize what Windebank’s answer would be. It would sound chivalrous and correct in that room full of frightened women, but it would not be frightened women who listened at his court martial. I shrugged philosophically. That is what philosophy’s for, to make other people’s misfortunes bearable.
But I had problems of my own which required action, not philosophy. Windebank’s decision meant that I wasn’t going to be killed by a culverin ball which even a hard-man would find it most difficult to resist. But I had other fears. Both armies had plenty of turncoats in them and theoretically I would have the same status under the surrender terms as any other officer. Yet I felt uneasily that Hector would be reluctant to miss an opportunity to pay me back for the affront I had given him and Cromwell himself would not be averse to using me as a dreadful warning to other waverers.
It was not a risk I wanted to take. In the drawing room, Windebank in a faltering tone which showed that deep down he knew the enormity of his deed was accepting the terms. But officially I knew nothing of them. Swiftly I went round the house issuing instructions for constant vigilance. I found a lieutenant who seemed to know what he was doing and I described to him the situation without of course mentioning the truce offer.
‘Someone must to Oxford instantly to warn the King,’ I said. ‘I will go myself, for I am better mounted than any man here. But it is a dangerous business and I doubt me if one man alone can hope to succeed. Pick me another two, Lieutenant, bold fellows who can ride and who do not fear to risk themselves in His Majesty’s service.’
The lieutenant tried to dissuade me from risking my own life in this venture, but I insisted that the speed of my horse (Petrarch on this occasion) made it essential. He was an emotional boy and wrung my hand as I was preparing to leave.
‘Never fear,’ I said. ‘But defend the house bravely. The enemy are strong but our cause is righteous.’
I led Petrarch into the night closely followed by the two soldiers who were pleased to be accompanying me. Had they known of the agreement their commander was just making, nothing in heaven or hell would have made them stir, of course, but in their minds they were abandoning a position which would certainly be overrun within the hour.
About fifty yards from the house in the cover of a box hedge I judged it safe to mount. Ahead I could hear the noise of an armed force – clinking, jangling, muttering – but nothing was to be seen except that in the orchard which lay to our left front match-ends gleamed like fireflies showing that a troop of musketeers lay in readiness there.
‘Quietly, boys,’ I said nudging Petrarch forward. ‘Then when I give the word, dig in your spurs and there’s a purse of gold for which of your first reaches the city.’
Slowly we advanced. Suddenly a figure rose before us, round metal helmet dull-gleaming in what light fell from the spectating stars.
‘Halt!’ he cried. ‘Quickly, the watch-word?’
I levelled my donderbuss at the shadowy figure.
‘Fellow,’ I said edging nearer to be sure of him, ‘General Cromwell has ordered a new watch-word to match his great deserts.’
‘I know not of that,’ he said, puzzled. ‘What be it?’
‘The devil’s arsehole,’ I said squeezing my trigger.
‘Ride, brave lads!’ I cried above his shrieks. ‘For God and the King!’
‘For God and the King!’ the poor fools answered as they spurred their horses into a gallop.
I turned Petrarch quietly to my right and back into the cover of the hedge where I dismounted. The orchard exploded in a volley of musketry, the horses screamed, one went down instantly but the other still held on and it took a volley from the second rank to give him his quietus.
Meanwhile I was now back on Petrarch wearing the round helmet I had removed from the dying guard and with my own plumed bonnet tucked beneath my cloak. Slowly I advanced along the line of the hedge. A party of musketeers came running towards me.
‘Good work, my lads,’ I cried. ‘But there is more to do. ’Tis said some of those decadents within may try to leave the front of the house in the guise of our officers. Hie you round there and put a ball into any who so appears.’
They were well drilled, thank God, and went trotting off into the dark where with a bit of luck they might blow Hector’s brains out. I meanwhile by dint of moving at a slow but purposeful gait rode right through the attacking formation and, once safe, increased my speed slightly, though saving the gallop till I reached the outskirts of the city where I was intercepted, wild-eyed, and with Petrarch in a fine lather.
The King was roused and listened gravely to my news. I spoke most modestly of my actions and most urgently of the desperate plight of those in the beleaguered house, volunteering to be in the van of the relieving expedition. A council of war was called. Cromwell’s army, I learned, had already that day – or as it was now, the day before – beaten the Queen’s regiment as he moved north from Watlington. I began to see that Windebank had been sadly negligent with the enemy so close, but uttered not a word against him and preserved a most manful silence when questioned about the state of readiness at Bletchingdon.
In the end shortly after dawn two regiments of cavalry set out on the fifteen miles north, but they had not gone half way when they met with one of Windebank’s men sent ahead with the most chivalrous intention of reassuring those concerned at court that their ladies were safe. Such chivalry deserved recognition, and those concerned showed their gratitude by avoiding duty on Windebank’s court-martial which took place that afternoon. I was called as witness and gave him what help I could, but the result was inevitable. Courtesy is no excuse for surrender.
I watched him die that same afternoon, shot by a file of musketeers against the wall of the Divinity School. His wife and her friends shrieked and wailed most touchingly. Had they kept their peace the night before, then the poor fellow they lamented might yet have lived or at least died with honour. Instead he forgot what it is to be a soldier and all his past brave service was wiped out in a moment.
I saw Mistress Annette after the execution and she berated me most foully, for not taking responsibility with Winde-bank for his decision, for riding away from the house, for saying too little in his defence at the trial.
Finally my patience ended so I struck her across the mouth, cutting her lip against her sharp little fore-teeth.
‘Understand this, madam,’ I said. ‘I am not such a brave man as that poor fellow we have just seen killed, but
had the decision been mine last night, then you and all your ladies might have been slaughtered before I surrendered. But it was not mine and a soldier must abide his own decisions. Madam, you have blood on your mouth. I think it becomes you.’
I left her and went to the stables to see that Petrarch had suffered no harm from his night’s exercise.
1645
Oxford — Leicester — Naseby
My star was now in its ascendant and I was offered various forms of advancement all of which I modestly refused, for though they would have given me rich opportunity to line my pockets with bribes or profit from the redisposition of supplies, yet I had no ambition to shine as courtier or accountant. The cobbler should stick to his last and my trade was in the field of battle where a man earned his right to dishonesty by blood, sweat and the looseness of fear.
One thing I did accept was a Forlorn Hope medal from His Majesty. This was cast in silver, embossed with a picture of the King himself, and given for great valour. Its purpose here was to underline what poor Windebank’s death had made clear enough, that the King expected his soldiers to fight, not treat. In the affair at Bletchingdon I was the only one to have engaged the enemy and so, in the best tradition, I was dubbed hero. I discovered to my amusement that the idea of the medal itself had derived from my old acquaintance, Mr Thomas Bushell, who, I also learned, had provided more than two dozen cannon for the King and in addition clothed four regiments, including the Life Guard, out of his own pocket. I say ‘to my amusement’, for I had also learned in Oxford that ‘out of his own pocket’ usually meant out of my pocket, or anyone’s pocket who could be persuaded to part with money! Nothing that I had heard before of Bushell’s engineering skill was untrue. The trouble was that his projects often proved vaster than even all the pockets of his investors could support and he lived constantly in debt. But so persuasive was his oratory, so amiable his personality, that even in the confines of prison he inspired trust and was rapidly released. Were he never so amiable, I fear I would have cut his throat had I discovered his misuse of my money in time of peace. But in war commerce changes its face and I was on my way to becoming rich by other routes, so I could afford to be entertained by a fellow rogue.
Captain Fantom Page 16