The wind was up, and it caught the man-made fog, gathering it up in an instant and whisked it away from the farm to reveal the north wall. Stryker saw the enemy properly. There were hundreds of them, maybe as many as a thousand, pouring over the wall and amongst the outbuildings, marching forwards in an inexorable wave. They had not saved the Grange, after all. They had merely stalled the tide. The Roundheads were coming again.
Captain-Lieutenant Jedidiah Clinson had seen a demon. A living, breathing, screaming devil in a green coat with half his face missing and the other half lit by a silver eye that seemed to look right into Clinson’s soul. They had been doing well, his unit, scaling the wall in the face of spiteful return fire, and he had sensed glory when a group of his best men had followed him all the way to the heavy double doors, their axes going to furious work. Even when the enemy had sallied from what he now guessed had been an unknown rear entrance, Clinson had seen enough vigour in his stoic charges to feel confident of sweeping the stubborn malignants away. But into the melee the demon had cut a path the like of which he had never before seen. Clinson was a gentleman, the son of a minor aristocrat, a confident, intelligent individual, Waller’s rising star, a man born to lead. But in a heartbeat, peering into the demon’s dread gaze, he was a child again, and he had simply not known what to do.
Muskets still fired from the Royalist positions as Jedidiah Clinson rallied his men. His party were largely untouched, miraculous though it was, and he yet had a force strong enough to take the Grange and everything in it. He looked to his left, to the eastern section of the farm complex where the smaller buildings dotted the mud. Over those walls and amongst the pigsties and chicken coops, the pens and the carts, came more blue-scarfed fighters, more detachments sent down by Sir William when he had seen the initial attack beaten back. Yet he felt no succour, no joy and no relief. It was as though he had been punched square in the stomach, such was his shame.
Clinson levelled his sword at the Barn. ‘I return to that hellish place.’ The demon had frightened him, and he could not deny it, but the fear of the one-eyed man was as nothing compared with the disgrace of this failure. The reinforcements still streamed over the Grange’s low perimeter, and already they were pushing from the buildings in the eastern end to threaten the Barn’s right flank, and then, once the defenders had fled, all would know that Captain-Lieutenant Clinson had finally proven his naysayers right.
Clinson shook his head. ‘Not this day,’ he whispered as he walked. And then he was running, feet sliding and slopping in the filth. Nothing would prevent him reaching the Barn this time. He did not look back, though his heart soared as the sound of hundreds of mud-slapping footsteps filled his ears, and he knew his men were with him. The Barn erupted in response, flashes of flame and white clouds pulsing in bilious gouts from the rough-hewn holes through which the black muzzles of muskets pointed, but Clinson would not be cowed this time. He gripped his sword tight as he ran and screamed to God for the victory he so craved.
After the briefest council of war Stryker could remember, he and Rawdon had agreed to abandon the Great Barn. The fighting front was now all the way along the outer margin of the Grange, with soldiers flooding in waves from Parliamentary positions beside the Loddon and out towards the village, so that Rawdon’s beleaguered defenders were in very real danger of becoming isolated from the house. No man would be driven out of the Barn without a fight, and they lined the wall, some crouching low, others high on scaffolds constructed out of provisions. Colonel Rawdon paced at their backs, barking commands and steeling their resolve.
Stryker sent a dozen yellowcoats out of the rear doors, half of them to go round to the western gable of the Barn, and half to the east, so that their fire would prevent the enemy from flanking them. He had his own men cluster beneath the apex of that open arch, facing the barred north doors with muskets primed and matches hot. He left them to dart over the narrow causeway of the threshing floor and leaned into the timbers, now pocked by lead, of the closed doorway, pushing his eye into one of the splinter-edged holes. He saw the rebels gather in a dense pack; then, behind their leader – a man he recognized as the elegant officer from the melee – they began to surge forwards. Soon they were at a run, some faltering in the sapping mire but most keeping pace with the foremost men. A few had loaded muskets, which they held horizontally so that they might blow on their coals as they moved, but most had swung the long-arms about to present the solid wooden stocks as clubs. The officers had pistols and swords, and they used them as if they were colourful ensigns, holding them aloft as rallying points for the howling rebel tide.
‘Fire!’ Marmaduke Rawdon’s authoritative tone bellowed out from the far end of the Barn, his single word crashing like a cannon shot and echoing in the beams. In the time it took to blink, the world was shattered as the Royalist muskets juddered back, kicking like disgruntled mules at shoulders and spitting fire and fury out into the Grange.
Stryker watched through his spy-hole, its frayed edges grinding at his skin, and when he saw the oncoming horde sheer instinctively towards the doors he fell back to join his greencoats.
‘Get out!’ Rawdon brayed. He was waving frantically at any man who thought to tarry. ‘Fall back to the house, damn your hides!’
The yellowcoats did not need telling twice, and they ran to the rear doorway, filtering between Stryker’s group, who remained gathered beneath the arch with muskets poised. The barred doors at the northern face of the building shook and groaned as men slammed into them from outside. Axes split the timbers in frantic flurries, and this time they worked with frightening efficacy now that the Royalist guns were no longer jutting from their loopholes. The crackle of musketry was steady outside, and Stryker hoped the units at either end of the Barn yet prevented the enemy from striving round to encircle them, but the continued battering at the closed doors told him the rebels were content to keep their losses low. Holes gaped suddenly in the timbers, and light burst through in blinding shafts. Stryker’s men braced themselves. He heard Simeon Barkworth mutter something behind his carbine – he preferred the shortened cavalry weapon to a musket that was as long as he was tall – and knew the Scot was daring his enemy to come forth. Arms groped through the tattered axe breaches, hands clawed at the bar, and then it was off, clattering on the flint path, and the door was opening, its great hinges creaking above the exultant shouts.
Stryker’s men fired their muskets as the Roundheads piled into the Barn, flinging them back as if plucked by the fingers of invisible Titans. The wave seemed to break against an immovable cliff, and they faltered, bunching on the threshing floor, spilling sideways on to the rammed chalk. Stryker backed away, the last defiant blow delivered, and his men went too, calmly but quickly, pulling shut the rear doors and gathering the teams at the gable ends.
‘To the house!’ Stryker ordered. Everyone sprinted for their lives across the smoking yard, over the wall and into the road that divided Basing House from its farm. Behind them the rebels were flowing out, a few taking pot-shots that fell well short and wide, and all, save one, crowing to the gathering clouds. The Grange had fallen.
CHAPTER 24
Jedidiah Clinson had survived. He did not rightly know how, for the demon had appeared again, the last out of the Great Barn, and with him had come a small but compact volley of musket shots that had taken a searing toll. But Clinson had been to the side, squashed with the massed bodies against the wooden frame, and now, as the light slowly began to dim outside and the air was filled with delicate, persistent raindrops, he sat down to enjoy his success.
The Barn was a massive victory. Much more than the first line of Basing’s defences, it was a foothold, a bridgehead from which to launch the next wave of attacks that would now focus on the fortress itself. Moreover, the huge stone edifice and its smaller outbuildings provided much-needed shelter from the increasingly foul weather, and from Royalist sharpshooters. But best of all, the Barn was full. It was crammed with provisions. Food and drink, beddi
ng, linen, enticing palliasses and feather beds. The end bays were stacked with straw and the walls buttressed by countless boxes and barrels and cases and chests, all waiting to be explored. It was a wonder, a treasure trove, and, as Jedidiah Clinson delved into a case of salted pork, he considered it the most marvellous reward he could imagine.
He stared around the room, its atmosphere thickened to a gritty miasma by the battle. It was a tall structure, solid and strong, though ragged now that its slit windows – made for ventilation – had been joined by more makeshift gaps battered by the defenders. High up in the gable ends there were owl holes, intended to let the birds in to hunt rats, but now a valuable escape for the choking smoke. About him, his men finished laying out the dead and wounded against the hay at each end. There were streaks over the chalk floor where corpses had been dragged. The men began to take off snapsacks and set down their weapons. They sheathed their tucks, snuffed out match-cords and checked powder boxes. Some pulled beds from tall stacks and slumped down to rest, while many began to crack open the intriguing barrels and crates. Clinson snapped an order that no ale should pass any man’s lips, and set about cleaning his blade.
A runner appeared with a snappy bow and doff of his Montero. ‘Compliments of General Waller, sir.’
Clinson looked up wearily. ‘Well?’
‘And you’re to press our advantage, sir.’
Clinson gaped. ‘My men have been at warm-enough work, I think. They require rest.’
The messenger shrugged. ‘Should I give Sir William your answer, sir?’
Clinson stood. ‘No, you should bloody well not.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Clinson stretched his back, squared his shoulders and sheathed his blade. He went to the south doors, where the Royalists had made their final, spiteful stand, and from where he could look up at Basing House. The huge expanse of the New House stretched off to his left, a palatial pit of excess that simply called out from its walls to be crushed by God-fearing folk. But between grange and house there was a road, and beyond the road, lined with soldiers, lay the first of the fortress’s formidable outer walls.
Clinson called to his men to follow. He may have taken the Barn, but the rest of the muddy Grange had fallen to other detachments, and out in the gathering gloom the smaller structures were swarming with men seeking plunder. Some of them were from the Trained Band units, the Londoners lending their might to the occupying force, and the clusters of musketeers who heeded the call to arms were milling forwards in the wake of their commanders, the lure of loot not quite as strong as the fear of punishment. They had each seen the clerk hanged at Farnham, after all. Clinson wondered how effective the raw recruits would be when faced with Basing’s stubborn Papists. Still, he felt encouraged by the presence of his victorious five hundred, and he turned to repeat his orders.
Stryker’s men were on the outermost wall of the Old House, which bordered the road that cut between the estate and its farm. The land was raised by a few feet, so that they looked down upon the south wall of the Grange, and they pushed up against the rain-soaked bricks, ducking low to load their weapons and swinging over the top to fire. The enemy were coming in droves, pressing all along the northern front like a swarm of angry bees, their glowing matches dancing in the dimming afternoon light. Some leapt from the Grange to push into the road itself, but they were caught without shelter, coming immediately under a shower of lead from Basing’s rampart. Most huddled into the low wall that hemmed the farm, cutting loopholes through which to fire, just as the Royalists had done.
Marmaduke Rawdon was ever present. He raged as he paced behind the stone curtain, screaming encouragement at the men of his regiment, at the private gentlemen who had joined the marquess’s household for politics or faith, at the dismounted cavalrymen, at the soldiers brought in the summer by Lieutenant-Colonel Peake, at Stryker’s green-coated veterans, at the stablehands and bakers and brewers and thatchers and grooms and chandlers who had been handed a musket and told to defend their home. His blade shone, speckled with water and reflecting the wan light with each slash cut into the air, his eyes bulged and his lips were pared back as he snarled hoarse commands.
Down at the Grange a trumpet cried above the gunfire, shrill and haunting, and the deep percussion of drummed orders rumbled out from command posts back at the Loddon. At once the Parliamentarian units moved, they clambered up and over, landing on the road, boots splashing, heads cringing into chests for fear of being plucked to oblivion by Royalist sharpshooters. They were making their move now, braving the defences before night stole the opportunity away. More and more groups of men, some in red, some green, some yellow, tumbled out of the Grange and into the road, thrusting at the backs of their comrades, bunching in a dense mass as they surged towards the limits of the Old House.
The men on the wall responded. The rain was heavier now, blurring their eyes and numbing their fingers, but it did not dampen their resolve. They had oiled rags bound tightly over the musket locks so that pan and serpent and powder would stay dry, and they loaded, fired and reloaded with methodical, almost mechanical repetition. Most did not possess the experience of Stryker’s small group, and shots were loose, prickers dropped, scouring sticks fired by accident. Many made their weapons ready with impressive speed and dexterity, only to see their ball roll clean from the muzzle as they swung the barrel down to point at the road. But the attackers were no better. The Parliament men had vast numerical superiority, but the wind and rain turned the road to slush, and they found it impossible to pick out targets from an enemy protected by a rampart and obscured by smoke. Their progress across the road was sporadic, ebbing and flowing as the ragged Cavalier volleys harried them, but they had enough fire-power of their own to keep Royalist heads down and, with every brief lull, they covered a few more paces.
Stryker dropped low, covering his head with his arms as a bullet ricocheted off the top of the wall. The man next to him screamed, toppling back, hands clamped over eyes enfiladed by a spray of splintering mortar. Stryker crawled to him, ignoring the screams, and tore off the man’s bandolier, ammunition pouch and primer flask. The man had dropped his musket and match, but the hemp cord still smouldered stubbornly on the wet soil, and Stryker snatched it up, blowing gently at its tip and managing to liven the bright coal. He thumbed open one of the powder boxes, upended the charge and added a ball from the pouch. He fixed the match to the serpentine, touched a measure of fine priming powder to the pan, and rose to the edge of the rampart. What he saw when he looked over snatched the very breath from his chest. The Roundheads had not bolted straight across the road to attempt a foolhardy escalade of the outer wall. Instead the drums had sent them east, to his right, where, at the far end of the rampart, Garrison Gate loomed tall and inviting.
He stood, ignoring the couple of hopeful shots that spat up at him. ‘To the gates! To the gates!’
Colonel Rawdon had evidently foreseen the danger, for his men were already filing along the wall to where the storming parties converged. They were at the main gates, a tight wedge of men and steel, gathering for one final push before darkness fell.
Jedidiah Clinson was half-way back, lost amongst the clamouring tide of men who pushed at the enemy gates. He had taken something like two hundred and fifty – half his original force – out of the Grange and against the fortress. The other units had come too, and now, by his reckoning, there were significantly more than a thousand bodies surging around the barred arch that protected the inner approaches to Basing House, a melting pot of coat colours, banners and accents. Above them, New House and Old House drifted in and out of focus as the mist of the cannons scudded around windows and towers, curling between crenellated roofs and twisting like talons about the spires. Soon, Clinson thought. Soon he and his men would be running amok inside the sprawling cathedral of sin, tearing down its tapestries, smiting its smug opulence and digging out its Popish priests. He peered through the bunching shoulders, through hefted muskets and glinting swords, t
o stare at the gate. Soon it would fall. There would be a great explosion as a petard blew, making a gaping maw of the arch and frightened mice of the men behind it. He glanced down at the single-edged backsword in his hand, tightening his grip. Soon.
Stryker could not believe what he saw. He was on the wall just twenty or so paces down from Garrison Gate. The road below was teeming with Roundhead soldiers, all milling in anticipation of the archway becoming a chasm through which they would pour. But none on that sloppy expanse of mud seemed to have the means to achieve their aim. From up on the wall it was easy to see the sheer number of Parliamentarians, but not a single man, from common musketeer up to dandy officer, came forward with anything but cries of outraged impotence. There were no ladders ferried to the foremost ranks, no granadoes lobbed at the stonework, nor petards attached to the gate itself. Nothing.
A low murmur climbed out of the roadside. It was like the bleat of frightened sheep, but deeper, for the noises came from the throats of men who understood that they were trapped like cattle at a stile. They had striven so far under fire, bolstered by their gains at the Grange, and yet no one seemed to have prepared them for the moment when they actually reached their goal. Now they were like ducks in a pond, milling helplessly as hunters began to take aim from the wall above.
‘Give them flame, my lads!’ Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon bawled. ‘Give them very hell!’
Stryker, like the rest, did as he was ordered. He still had his loaded musket, and he rested it on the rampart, keeping it level while he picked a target and letting the muzzle drop at the last second. He pulled the trigger quickly, not giving time for the ball to topple out, and the space around him went from damp to bone dry as the shot seared the air about his face. He had no idea whether the ball had flown true, for the rain and smoke and sheer number of Roundhead bodies made for an impossible search, so he dropped down to his haunches and began the laborious process of reloading. All along the wall men cheered, even as the enemy guns continued to pound from their far-off batteries, and he knew they were saved. He primed the musket all the same, clambering to his feet and looking for another chest to pick off. But there were none. The road had emptied in a matter of moments. All that was left were the bodies, dashed in the mud like twisted mannequins, pale, shocked faces staring up at the clouds, rain rinsing the powder grime from their cheeks. The rest had gone. The huge, exultant storming party had scurried from the road like rats from a sinking ship, throwing themselves over the wall and into the Grange to seek shelter, lick wounds and ponder upon what exactly they were doing at a gate with no means of breaking it down. Inside Basing House, while the heavy artillery continued to roar, the Royalists cheered.
Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles Page 37