by Smith, Skye
"Oye Danny," came a call from lower down on the knoll. It was one of the butchers. "Is that them black knights you wus tellin' us 'bout?"
He swung around to see what the man was pointing at, and then once he had the bearing put his looker to his eye. "One, two, three, four, five. Five black cavalryers had broken away from the prince and the rest of his flying army and were cantering this way. Why? Did they carry a message that the shots and the great explosions were from a magazine, and that the truce should still hold? But their course was wrong to be reaching Assex's palanquin. He ran the looker along their projected course. Fields, grass, hedges, and no men, not until you got to our line. He wiggled the thing up and down. The women. There was a party of women standing on the Great West Road just outside of our lines.
He called back down to the butchers, "It's the women, the black knights are riding towards our women," but his one voice was lost in the noise of the crowd because many were calling out another message. "The king is killing his prisoners and throwing them in the river. There are hundreds of redcoats floating face down in the river." It was a call that was picked up by every voice. Daniels warning had no chance of being heard. He looked around frantically. Percy's hunter was tied to a fence behind the knoll. He spun Percy around and told him, "Percy, I'm borrowing your horse again."
Percy tried to hold on to the tall fair man to stop him from stealing his horse once more, and he called out to his friends for help. None of them budged an inch to help him. There was something in the strangers eyes that warned them not to. Not an unspoken warning so much as a look of complete insanity. They stood by and watched as the man swung a vicious looking battle axe off his shoulder and the ran down the slope until he was above the horse and then leaped into the saddle from that height. The horse skittered and then tried to rear at the surprise and the sudden load, but his head was tied down. A man who looked like an apprentice stable hand wearing his mothers best sauce pot on his head, ran a calming hand down the horses neck and then untied the beast and handed the reins to the man who had magically appeared in the saddle.
With both sauce-pot lad and Daniel yelling to the crush of sightseers to clear a way for the horse, eventually he made it through to where the butchers were standing. The look of fear and rage on their faces told him that they had heard the report of the dead redcoats ... men they would know ... and the explanation that they were executed prisoners. He did not explain that the men had been dead a day already. Instead he pointed down the slope towards the gaggle of women on the road and hissed at them, "The black knights are headed for our women. Protect the women." With his message understood, he yelled out to clear a path and then kicked the great beast to get him moving.
As he gained level ground the crowd thinned and he was able to increase the gait and be less busy guiding the damn brute. The brute was a hunter and therefore was trained for two hands on the reins to give the rider complete control over any jumps. For Daniel this posed an immediate problem. Even now he had a rein and an axe in one hand and was trying to pull out his double barreled dragon from its holster with the other, without dropping the other rein. What damn fool would train a horse this way. It was useless for anything but jumping. The last nag he had ridden into battle needed no reins at all and yet was still under his full control.
Eventually he worked his dragon free and was able to check the flash pan. Thank the gods it still had powder in it for short of stopping there was no way he could have primed it on this idiot, over bred stallion. He glanced forward over the heads of the remaining men between him and the gaggle of women. The crows were nearly upon them, all five of them riding hard, but the women had seen them and were lifting their skirts to run. Britta was with them. Damn it, there were no regular army lines holding the road otherwise the five crows would be racing into certain death spat from a hundred muskets. The road was thronging with sightseers and half trained militia ... a mob.
Silver maddeningly slowed to push through the last of the men who were standing around farting and picking their noses, and as he did so Daniel saw one of the crows spurt forward in the wake of the women and then turn his horse on a shilling and cut Britta out of the gaggle. So that was their game. The prince had sent them to capture her so he could punish her rudeness personally. There were still two well dressed gentlemen standing in his way when he kicked the bloody stupid hunter to a run. They dived out of the way of the tall handsome horse and to safety. The gaggle of running women also dived out of his way. Now there was just the one crow between him and Britta.
He wasn't worth slowing for. Daniel let him and his horse have it with the dragon load right in their faces, and then he was around them. Now he had a different problem. One of the other crows had reached down and had Britta's arm in his grip and was heaving her up one handed over the front of his saddle. She was fighting him and screaming her head off. Another crow came up on the other side of her and grabbed a handful of her bodice to help lift her with. Daniel had the pistol in one hand and the steitaxt in the other and had lost one of the reins. He had no way of slowing this damn stupid horse, only of turning it, and even then turning it only right.
He had to do something else Silver would trample Britta. He turned the horse hard to the right and it collided with the ass of the horse of the crow with a handful of bodice, then he leaped axe first onto the back of the man holding Britta's arm. Or rather, pick-axe first, for it was the pointed hook on the back of the axe that hit the mans back and punctured his back plate and dug into the flesh beneath. Daniel hung onto the axe for dear life, for if he lost his grip, he would have fallen under the hoofs of the horses. He even dropped his precious double barreled dragon to the ground so that he could hold on with both hands. The man cried out in utter agony as the curved steel hook ground deeper and deeper into his back, until he could stand no more and he fell backwards out of the saddle and to the ground.
Daniel had no choice but to let go of the axe handle, for if the man fell on top of him, he would be sliced by the blade of his own axe. He tried desperately to find his feet to cushion the fall but still he hit the ground hard and crumpled rather than rolled. The man in agony landed beside him, back down, which must have driven the spiked hook even deeper into his back because he was writhing and coughing up blood. Dazed and bruised Daniel looked around desperately for Britta. She was also on the ground and screaming her head off, but he couldn't tell if it was from pain, fear, or anger.
Knowing that there were still cavalryers ranging about with sabres, Daniel stayed low, rolling a crawling towards Britta, while calling to her to see if she was hurt, and telling her to stay flat on the ground. She just kept screaming. There is something in men that makes them anxious when women scream, just as women are made anxious when babies scream. On one hand he wished she would stop, but on the other he blessed her every scream for every ear piercing sound would be drawing the attention of men, and almost all of the men within earshot were on her side.
But what about the five crows. One he had hopefully blinded, another was breathing his last on the ground. What of the other three. And then he heard a scream even more piteous than Britta's. The scream of a horse in agony. He rolled once more so he could face the new scream. The butchers of Smithfields had caught up to him, or rather they had caught up to the black knights. As Daniel watched, and within seconds, the butchers did what they did best, what they did for a living. They killed beasts, cleanly, swiftly and completely dead.
The blind horse lost his head in one swing of a razor sharp cleaver-axe. Another horse was stabbed exactly in the heart by a short pike. A third was put down by a massive blow from a heavy mallet, and the last tripped over a severed leg and then had his throat slit. All of the kills were clean and merciful. To the thousand musketeers and pikemen close enough to watch, and to the three thousand king's cavalryers close enough to watch, the butchers made it look like the simplest thing in the world to down an expensive war horse.
The riders all hit the ground hard, and then
rolled and tried to get up. They were bargaining the terms of their capture with the butchers when two dozen running women reached them. The horses died mercifully but the same can not be said of the princes lifeguard. These women had some rapists winded and helpless on the ground and they attacked them with their carving knives, slashing and stabbing. Fortunately or perhaps unfortunately for these men, their fine German steel armour defeated the women's blades which left the women only two places to draw blood ... their faces and their crotches. The blood flowed, the men were finished, but more and more women were running out from behind the battle lines to christen their knives with the blood of Brentford's rapists.
Daniel tried to stand, he tried to call to them, he tried to make them stop, but Britta dragged him back down and shushed him. At least having to tell him something had interrupted her screaming. "Do you know how many London women are raped at least once in their lifetime," she hissed. "All of them. And you expect mercy from them. Don't be a fool. Let them vent their inner rage, their secret rage."
"Incoming cavalry," someone yelled out, and the call went out far and wide. Daniel stood up to see. Prince Rupert had rallied hundreds of cavalryers to save his lifeguard and now they were charging the butchers and the women. Daniel wasn't the only one to see this. A mob of two thousand half trained musketeers and pike men raced forward to form a forward line to protect their women. At the last minute before entering the killing range of the muskets, Rupert's force veered off.
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The Pistoleer - Brentford by Skye Smith Copyright 2014
Chapter 19 - The Ignoble retreat through Brentford in November 1642
It was all part of Rupert's evil plan. He knew battle tactics far better than these green militia. His first attack was feigned to trick the militia into emptying all of their guns, but then the cavalryers immediately regrouped and charged again, this time towards empty muskets. Unfortunately for the cavalry, the green pikemen stood their ground for they were protecting their women. Unfortunately for the cavalry the militia musketeers did not run. They were angry to a man that the prince had slaughtered his prisoners and through lack of training they did a wondrous thing.
Regular musketeers were trained in hand to hand combat. Once they had no more time to reload, they were trained to flip their muskets and use them as long clubs. Instead, these untrained musketeers threw down their useless guns and pulled out the tools of their trades from their belts. These men were all tradesmen. The brotherhood of butchers carried their deadly blades. The carpenters, their hammers and adzes; the stevedores their long spiked grappling hooks, even the diggers had their pick axes. Worst of all for the cavalryers, these men knew how to use their own tools, whereas muskets were new to them. Rupert’s second charge failed because his cavalryers realized that this was no ordinary mob that would run away so they could be mowed down. These men were seeking vengeance, and damn it they were going to get it, no matter the cost. Not one of the mob turned. Not one of the mob ran away. Not even the women.
This skirmish at the south end of the line was being witnessed by the infantry of both armies from where they were lined up facing each other. Twenty thousand men witnessed Rupert's undefeatable flying army turn tail and run, and worse, they saw who was chasing them. The women of London, with their skirts hiked high and their knives held high, seemed to be putting the run on the finest of the king's mounted gentlemen. None of them even noticed the tall fair pistoleer running amongst the women, pleading with them to turn and hurry back to the line.
Britta was running beside him. "Britta, please tell them," he yelled to her. "This is standard cavalry tactics. They charge, withdraw, charge, withdraw, until a weakness opens up and then they charge for real. On the next charge we will all be mowed down. Tell them to stop, tell them to run back to their own men. Tell them to hide behind the pikemen."
Through exhaustion more than argument the women finally slowed, then stopped, then turned and began to trot back to the pikemen. This was the most dangerous time for them. How often had Daniel seen this on the battlefield. Infantry can never attack cavalry unless it is in ambush. On a battlefield the cavalry simply outrun the infantry to exhaust them, and then as soon as they turn to retreat, they charge again. Hacking at retreating infantry is what cavalry did best. His heart was in his mouth as he saw the prince's cavalry stop, turn, and regroup for another charge. He and Britta were as far from any protection as any of the rest of the women. This would be a slaughter.
They did not charge. Then he heard it, and he knew why. Volley fire. Not the random untrained fire of half trained militia musketeers, but the tightly organized volleys of well trained and seasoned musketeers. Row upon row of them firing and then reloading as another row stepped in front of them and fired. The real battle had begun and now Rupert's flying army had more important orders than mowing down women and tradesmen.
He stood tall and looked north up the center of no-mans-land. Both armies had more or less kept to their lines. The officers must consider themselves still bound by the truce and had stopped their regiments from creating a full battle out of a skirmish. Who then was firing? He pulled out his looker and stared north through it. The far northern wing of Assex's army was doing an outflanking maneuver to get behind the northern wing of the king's army. They were marching forward, firing a volley, and then marching forward again. That was Hampden's doing. He controlled the northern most regiments, and he was treating the princes attack on the London militia as an end to the truce.
"Good on 'em," Daniel whispered to himself. If Hampden could outflank the king's infantry and ford the shallows of the northern reach of the Brent river, then he could sweep down the western bank and capture the bridge. That would leave the king's army no escape from this battlefield. With the numbers so against them, and with Warwick's tradesmen militia already worked up and angry enough to kill and keep killing, then the king would have no choice but to seek terms of surrender. He was outnumbered two to one and he would almost immediately be short of supplies. Even the viciousness of Rupert could not save the king this time because the chess board fields of hedges and walls and fences would give the advantage to the militia and their unorthodox weapons.
As all of this strategic thinking pulsed through Daniels mind, it must have also pulsed through other minds. Rupert had turned his cavalryers north to protect the kings northern wing which was now in full retreat from Hampden's volley fire. Assex's horns were signaling that his army should stand down ... a do-not-engage signal. The king's horns were signaling an organized retreat. His army was retreating anyway so it made sense to signal them to do what they were already doing in hopes that they would not outright run away.
Daniel began yelling at the women again. This was a god given chance to get them back to safety. One of the butchers handed him his precious dragon, and then had his brotherhood take up the call to herd the women eastward along the Great West Road. They had almost reached the safety of the most forward line of pikemen, when all hell broke loose. The half trained militia had suddenly realized that Essex was allowing the king and his army to escape across the Brentford bridge. Once across the bridge the king's army would escape them and this war would continue through the winter and cost more lives and more hardship.
The outraged Londoners discussed Essex's actions amongst themselves and then as one, bulged forward. Nine thousand Londoners, more of a mob than an army, and a lynch mob at that, began trotting forward towards Brentford bridge to take and hold it despite the generals orders to stand down. The women were swept along in the movement and with them was Britta, and so also Daniel. The mob reached the bridge too late. Much of the king's army was already across it, and Rupert's men were using their five hundred prisoners from yesterday as living shields to dissuade any rebel musketeers from coming within range of the king's army.
The prisoners had their hands tied and were roped together. Their gaolers had pistols to the closest heads. It was a standoff. The last of the king'
s army to cross the bridge were the gaolers, and they dragged the prisoners with them, and then tied them to the bridge so that it was completely blocked with helpless men. Once the gaolers had backed away from the prisoners, the front ranks of the London mob rushed forward to free them.
Daniel and Britta were with them, with their knives already drawn and ready to saw at the cords that bound the men. None of the Assex's regular army had yet to reach the bridge. They were likely still all standing in a line on the otherwise empty battlefield. "I have a bad feeling about this," Daniel told Britta.
"Why?" she asked. "None of them are being used as shields anymore. They have just left them tied up to block the bridge and slow us down."
"Because of them." He pointed to a handful of the king's men who were scurrying to get out from under the bridge and up the bank. "Those lines they are carrying are fuses. They must be sappers. They've mined the bridge." He blew the whistle he always carried around his neck, and the repeated shrill blasts shut everyone else up and had them staring at him. "They've mined the bridge with gunpowder. They are going to blow it up, and us and the prisoners with it."
His words ran through the mob of thousands like quicksilver. They caused immediate panic as those closest to the bridge turned and tried to run away from it, while thousands were still pushing forward towards the bridge. There were howls and curses from the crush but slowly the mob behind them was convinced to back away. Everyone began to back away except for the five hundred poor helpless sods who were tied up on and around the bridge. Everyone, that is, except the brotherhood of butchers. The five hundred may include cousins and sons and friends so they raced forward with their razor sharp cleavers and began slashing the cords that bound them to the bridge. As each line of prisoners was freed they were pushed out of the way off the bridge so the next line could be freed.