Palmer. Where the hell is he? Sanders glanced at the moon rising through the smoke of the headland – still thick and cloying, like an autumnal mist, refusing to dissipate with the arrival of the rain. He calculated the captain and his companions had been gone over two hours. It would be a while before he could compile the Butcher’s Bill – although the tally of dead and wounded was heavier on the King’s side than his own.
Lewis looked over his shoulder. From the shelter of the barn, one of the men called him, and he swaggered over, his glory bag forgotten. He listened to the soldier carefully, nodded, and walked back.
“Messengers have arrived, sir.” There was a hint of unease in his loathsome features now. “From Launceston.”
Launceston? Thank God, Sanders thought. Colonels Smythe and Boughton. This must mean reassignment. There was nothing left for them here; this was the last Royalist outpost in Dorset, and now a soundly defeated one. Better yet, it would mean the chance to regroup with the main Parliamentary force – real soldiers, not cutthroats and thieves – and Lewis and his men could be sent back to the gaol from whence they came.
Sanders grunted in acknowledgment and strode into the barn. The smell hit him once more: the rank odour of men billeted in a farm building and sharing the squalor and privations of a troop that had not ceased fighting – or marching – since Marston Moor.
Two years ago, Sanders thought sourly, and still we are the first Company sent into battle. Regardless of winter, when fighting was light or non-existent, his commanding officer always found some mission to send them on. Any engagement or reconnaissance too dangerous for the Launceston Company, knowing further losses to the Cursed Company were preferable. Perhaps the behaviour of Lewis’s men was understandable: no honour or glory, no reward for their service save more time away from gaol. It was unsurprising the man would take whatever physical reward he could from his battles.
Sanders walked past the injured men, bleeding their last into the soiled straw and without the strength to swipe away the emboldened rats sensing fresh meat; past the weary cavalry horses whose coats steamed from the rain, and whose once-proud heads drooped to the floor, as if ashamed of the slaughter they had been made to witness; past the small groups of men smoking clay pipes and draining the last few bottles of brandy from the Royalist baggage-train; past the reminders of war and inhumanity, to the double doors which opened out onto the main farmyard. Two horsemen sat astride their mounts by the gate.
Their finery was evident even from this distance; officers from a noble background such as his, who saw war as an adventure rather than the desperate, futile and bloody nightmare it really was. Perhaps that was why Lewis’s man had kept them waiting in the rain, the lack of armour and the wearing of fine civilian clothes fuelling contempt for the officer class who never fired a shot nor wielded a sword on the battlefield but chose to make decisions from the comfort of a cosy manor house in the distant town they had garrisoned. Sanders almost started.
These were not mere messengers: for Colonels Smythe and Boughton to come in person, all the way from Cornwall, meant something important.
They had not been kept long, but the wait had shortened their tempers. Boughton’s thin frame was huddled inside the soaked riding cloak, his pug-nosed features staring balefully at the man who approached them. Smythe’s face was impassive, blank as stone; as featureless and unprepossessing as the rest of him sitting unmoved by the inclement weather. He was the dangerous one, Sanders reminded himself. A master of keeping secrets.
Boughton spoke first. “I see you have yet to impart a sense of discipline into your men. I want that man court-martialled!”
“For what?” Sanders asked quietly.
“I ordered him to take me to you immediately. He laughed and told me to wait outside, did not wish me to frighten the horses. A man like that needs to be taught his place.”
Sanders smiled. “But Colonel Boughton, we are all equal in Parliament’s eyes. He put the safety and comfort of his horses first, as a good cavalry officer should.”
Boughton’s eyes blazed. “Your humour is inappropriate, Lieutenant. May I remind you that military discipline is not to be used on a whim, as you see fit –”
“Indeed, Colonel. I will have him shot at dawn as a reminder. I trust that will suffice? Now, perhaps I have neglected my duties as a host by not offering you food and shelter, but please be aware I am not the owner of this farm and supplies are in short measure.”
Smythe finally spoke. “We have not come for hospitality, Sanders.” He forced a smile, which must have felt like passing a kidney stone. “Thomas.”
Sanders sighed. “I will have a full report of the day’s events shortly. You will be pleased to know the Royalist presence is neutralised. Indeed, it was not so great a threat as our intelligence led us to believe.”
Smythe’s smile widened, and Boughton’s features also cracked into a grin. Sanders frowned.
“No, Sanders, you are correct. The real threat is coming. And that is where you come in.”
* * *
Boughton peered at the tankard’s contents with evident distaste, as though Sanders had filled it with ditchwater rather than cider. He placed it on the sloping table and sat back in the chair, the frame creaking. The warped slats of the table rocked as his knees struck the underside, spilling the tankard.
“This is the best you could find, Sanders?” Boughton snapped. “The farmstead at Compton Magna would have been a more suitable billet.”
Sanders flushed. “Compton Magna has suffered three disastrous harvests in a row. I would not have my men take the villagers’ sole chance of surviving the winter.”
Boughton brushed the tankard away and narrowed his eyes. “Military matters take precedence over mere civilians, Sanders. The fate of a few peasants matters not when weighted against the Parliament’s struggle; indeed, future generations would hail them for their sacrifice.”
“I was under the impression the Parliament’s struggle is for all men.” Sanders’s tone was ice. “What is the point of overthrowing a tyrant king if we would behave in a worse fashion?”
Smythe chuckled, and Sanders glared at him. The dying embers of the fire reflected in the colonel’s eyes, and Sanders found himself staring at eyes red as Satan’s.
“You think too much of the people, Sanders. I thought commanding the Cursed Company would have changed your perspective by now.”
So the nickname had spread to Launceston. Sanders said nothing, but glowered at Smythe.
Smythe smiled in return and raised his mug of cider. “We have a new mission for your men.”
His smile faded, and Sanders felt a chill brush his neck; a chill that had nothing to do with the cold breeze gaining entry via the smashed window panes and musket holes in the timber. Smythe’s expression was one of fear.
“You said the Royalist threat in Dorset has been vanquished,” Boughton said. “That is not quite accurate. We noted the work of your men, their…overzealousness, shall we say?”
Sanders thought back to the memory of Lewis picking his nose with a severed finger and grimaced.
“Men such as yours are ideal for the task assigned to you. Fairlight is occupied once more.”
The chill on Sanders’s neck turned colder and spread to the rest of his body. The reassignment was not going to be so welcome after all.
“Fairlight,” he said, and his voice quavered. “Who would be foolish enough to occupy that place? There is nothing of strategic worth.”
“Indeed not,” Smythe said. “Not yet, at least. Our spies inform us that Sir George Kendall has taken occupation.”
“Kendall? I thought he was dead. I saw him carried from the field of battle, his guts trailing in the mud.”
“Apparently not; he must have survived his wounds, and even now summons troops to his standard. At the moment, Fairlight is merely a haven for remnants of the defeated Royalist forces in this region to regather and regroup. This is our chance to knock them all out in one blow
, before they regain sufficient strength to threaten our hold over the West Country.”
“But why Fairlight? Why would he choose that Godforsaken ruin? And why choose my –”
He did not finish, for he knew the answer already. Only a company with men such as Sergeant Lewis would have no qualms about entering Fairlight.
“If we strike swiftly enough, we will have time to take them by surprise,” Smythe continued. “The fortifications at Fairlight are meagre, to say the least. However, we will take no chances. Ordnance will be supplied; Colonel Boughton has despatched a contingent comprising of cannon in sufficient numbers to breach the walls should it develop into a siege. They will be there in two days.”
“So why d’you need my men?” Sanders said, his voice rising. “Colonel Boughton has sufficient cavalry and infantry, as well as artillery. My men need rest, sir.”
“We need reconnaissance, just to ascertain the numbers. Kendall must have a reason for choosing Fairlight; we do not wish to send a full company into a trap.”
“Spies!” Sanders gave a dry laugh, his fear forgotten. “Lewis does not understand subtlety and subterfuge; he is a man who will go in with all muskets firing.”
“That is why you will assign a captain who will keep him in check. Do you have a man in mind?”
Sanders hesitated. Do I send him? He failed miserably today, and will have no ability to control a man like Lewis. But who else can I send?
“Yes, Colonel. I have just the man.”
“Excellent. Now, take us to your troop, Lieutenant. I would share the good news with them.”
* * *
The rain had ceased and the clouds drifted onwards by the time they left the farmhouse. A cold moon shone on the barn and the battlefield beyond, and imparted a luminescence to the drifting gun smoke, a shining fog that partially hid the slaughter of the day’s work.
Sanders halted and squinted at the mist-shrouded trees beyond. Two mounted figures, emerging from the forest into the slaughter yard of the moor; they slowed as they cantered over the corpses of man and horse. The steel three-barred helmet of one was clearly visible in the moonlight, and Sanders breathed a sigh of relief with the knowledge that Captain James Palmer had returned.
The relief was short-lived; Palmer’s companion was not one of the dragoons who had accompanied the captain earlier. As the horseman came nearer, Sanders felt another chill take him. Even the horse that bore the stranger seemed terrified, its fetlocks trembling as it crossed the moor.
Then they vanished, disappearing into the barn. Smythe turned to Sanders, a quizzical expression on his face.
“That is Palmer, is it not? But I do not recognise his companion. Who is he?”
Sanders stared at the moon. A thick cloud drifted towards it, as though darkness had accompanied the mysterious traveller and was determined to hide the light.
Whoever this man is, he is trouble.
Sanders cleared his throat. “Let us find out, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER THREE
As the barracks of Haverton came into view, Captain James Palmer remembered where he had heard the name of his strange new companion. Meshach, Abednego, and Shadrach. The three Judeans who refused to bow down to the Babylonian idol. Saved from the furnace of execution by an angel as reward for their devotion to God.
He glanced at the stranger’s mount. The mare had returned from the woods, still carrying its dead rider. It had taken a while to calm the beast to ensure she was fit to ride, yet she seemed even more nervous of the black rider she now carried. But Shadrach rode her well, as if used to unwilling companions.
“Why choose the name Shadrach? If I remember my studies, the name is derived from Shudur Aku – ‘command of the Moon God.’ ”
Shadrach raised his eyebrows. “You are well-read, Captain. But I must disappoint you. No god commands me – neither moon god, nor any deity who lays claim to other celestial spheres. I took the name in remembrance of a good friend. However, among the many lands in which I fought, people do not take kindly to a Mohammedan name. Shall we say I Christianised it?”
Palmer frowned. “An Arabic name? Your first or second, sir? It would…” He stopped when he saw figures emerge from the mist. It was time to be debriefed.
“Be cautious, Shadrach,” Palmer said, dismounting. “I must choose my words carefully when I report to Sanders. He could have you hanged for what you did.”
Shadrach gave a wintry smile. “Let him try.”
Remembering Shadrach’s lethal disposal of the two horsemen earlier, Palmer decided not to pursue the point. He stared at the approaching musketeers. Once again, the big man – Jethro Lewis – led, swinging a length of wood that appeared, as the sergeant got closer, to be a splintered fragment from a pikeman’s staff. Another souvenir, Palmer thought grimly. At least he hasn’t taken anything organic this time.
“Sergeant Lewis!” Palmer snapped. “Where is Lieutenant Sanders?”
Lewis paused, eyeing the stranger warily. “Kissing Boughton’s and Smythe’s arses back in ‘is quarters. Where be my men?”
“Dead. An unfortunate disagreement.” Shadrach inhaled deeply, taking in the stench of the battlefield. His nostrils flared, as if in appreciation of the scent, and Palmer shivered. “It would appear you had a somewhat violent altercation yourself.”
Lewis hesitated, taking in the stranger’s blood-spattered cloak, the streaks of dried blood in the carved channels of his face, and the cold blue gleam in his eyes.
“Big words, stranger. What sort of soldier be you – and d’ye fight for the King or for the Parliament?”
Shadrach turned to Palmer and held out the reins of his mount. “Are all your comrades as stupid as this one?”
Lewis’s eyes blazed and his grip on the pike shaft tightened, the knuckles whitening. With a roar, he levelled the shaft and ran.
Palmer had seen opponents underestimate Jethro Lewis before. The huge bulk of the man was no obstacle to speed and agility, and many were the Royalists – and probably quite a few Roundheads, too – who had ended up on the wrong side of the sergeant’s pikeshaft.
Shadrach did not move, did not even tense his body for flight or collision. Instead, his burning sapphire eyes widened, sizing up the threat.
Shadrach was no fool. The goad had worked, and Lewis demonstrated just how fast and dangerous he was – but also how vulnerable.
There was a mere ten yards’ distance between the two men, and Lewis seemingly had the advantage; this section of the field was on a slight incline and there were no obstacles to hinder his charge or slow his momentum.
But he had failed to remember the conditions of the ground and the slopping wet patches of churned mud, which sucked at his ankles and splashed on the folded down bucket-tops of his boots – boots whose soles were already caked with blood from the day’s slaughter.
He slipped, his legs threatening to give way, but the forward drive of his upper torso carried him forward, with a slight shift in direction as he sought to remain upright. That split-second of indecision was all Shadrach needed.
This was the second time Palmer witnessed Shadrach’s murderous blade-pistol in action, and still he could not believe how fast the stranger withdrew it. One second Shadrach stood calmly, arms by his sides, relaxed with no intimation of reaching for a concealed weapon; the next, a streak of silver cut through the darkness, as though the moonlight captured by the steel blade gave it unholy power and speed.
A crack of thunder and a cloud of white smoke obscured the silver blade. Only the sharp splintering of ash wood and a meaty thud of steel slicing through flesh told Palmer that Shadrach had fired and simultaneously thrown the devilish hybrid weapon, without even aiming.
The smoke took an age to clear. The stench made Palmer gag. Sulphur, brimstone, and the stink of burning fat. Truly, he thought, pressing a kerchief to his mouth, a weapon fit for Satan Himself!
His guilty pleasure in witnessing the giant’s pain was tempered with fear for the man known only
as Shadrach. The stranger covered the final few feet between himself and the sergeant, who lay on his left side, the lance shattered and splintered by the musket ball now useless, abandoned. Lewis stared in disbelief at the weapon buried in his thigh and the gouts of hot blood spitting from the wound. The combination of sulphurous gunpowder smoke and blood made a dizzying mixture that clung to the air.
Shadrach approached and thrust a booted foot on his would-be assailant’s chest and casually leant forward, pressing the giant down into the mud. With one hand he pulled his weapon free. Now Lewis screamed.
Shadrach’s smile was cold and neutral. “Stop screaming. If I wished to kill you I would have put full force into the throw and taken your leg off. As it is, your artery has not been touched and you will live. For now.” He bent down, and Palmer had to struggle to hear the stranger’s next words. “To answer your question, I fight for neither King nor the Parliament. I fight for mankind. Even the sub-humans such as yourself who do not deserve to belong to the race.”
Lewis stared at him with hatred. Shadrach stared back. Two men of violence, each recognising the love of battle in the other, each aware of the other’s strength and weakness.
But it was Jethro Lewis who looked away.
As his men lifted Lewis onto their shoulders and helped him back to the shelter of the barn, Shadrach turned to Palmer. “Your commanding officer, Captain? I would speak with him.”
Palmer pointed to the barn. “He is over there, Shadrach. He has witnessed the whole episode. I think you have made rather an impression on him.”
* * *
Sanders gingerly held the hybrid-weapon in gauntleted hands as though it were a venomous reptile. His eyes were wide and disbelieving, a mixture of admiration for the weapon’s craftsmanship, and fear of its lethal power – a power he had witnessed first hand.
Dreaming In Darkness Page 14