Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  It wouldn’t do any harm, sitting next to a preacher on a mission like this, she thought. Telling disliked the idea.

  “Thank you madam, I shall walk beside, if you don’t mind.”

  Lady Winter smiled, glanced at Sparrow. Please yourself.

  “Not at all. My knight in shining armour, and my good Samaritan upon his own road to Damascus,” she intoned. Sparrow wondered what she was on about.

  Damascus? Telling bridled but said nothing.

  The women and children exchanged glances.

  The carts rolled on.

  *************************

  Cully Oates, hunched over the running board of the last waggon, nodded at the cosy company on the leading cart. Regular mummers by the look of ’em.

  He wondered whether they would have done better to stay behind, hiding up in the filthiest burnt out hovel they had been able to find. But they would have been caught out sooner or later, hiding up in the heart of the entire New Model army.

  “Keep yer ’eads down Eli, Zack,” he warned from the side of his mouth. “We’ll get out of this dump once and for all. You’ll see.”

  Towser, the Pitts and his half-witted comrades had found hats and scarves, bundled themselves up as best they could. Typical of them, fetching up a hundred and fifty miles from home and barging straight into one of their old muckers from Zumzet.

  “We don’t want any bloody reunions with your old pals now, not here. Not given the side he’s on.”

  Eli Pitt, never the sharpest sword in the company, had shaken his head, marvelling at the unexpected turn-up.

  “Who’d have thought, Will Sparrow as large as life. Right in the middle of all this!” He’d exclaimed, loud enough to bring half of Leicester down on them.

  “Keep your bloody heads down, unless you want ’em shot off. That and your fine friend of a captain,” Oates snarled.

  Two days they had been hiding out in Leicester’s back streets, desperate to keep their precious cargo safe from prying eyes. Safe from prying fingers.

  They had worked their way off the battlefield, tacking like a lost galleon between wood and road. A series of harebrained about turns which had seen them rolling against the Roundhead tide as often as trying to out-run it.

  None of the vengeful rebel horse seemed inclined to stop them more than a moment or two, long enough to hear the groaning and see all the blood. Cully had insisted there had been plenty of both, his shirkers sprawled alongside the genuinely wounded.

  They had clattered and rattled along behind mobs of fleeing horsemen, watched the Cavaliers gallop off out of sight.

  Odd bodies beside the track, lost horses tagging along beside the waggon like lonesome pigeons.

  Cully had cursed their painfully slow progress but it had saved them from the murderous obstacles up ahead. He had seen the mad panic in the mean village up ahead, ordered Towser to veer off the road, steering the laden wain over rough, hoof churned fields - away from the living, breathing, cursing kicking roadblock.

  A few moments more and they would have been embroiled in the bottleneck. Cully had glanced over his shoulder, seen the Ironsides cantering up the road behind them.

  “Whip ’em on. Get us into those woods,” he’d ordered, gripping the running board as the wain rolled and swayed over the broken ground.

  More cavalry, formed infantry marching north. Files of Royalist prisoners tramping the other way.

  He’d never been so glad to see the sun go down.

  Finally, past midnight, they had worked their way around the advancing Roundheads and got into Leicester by the East Gate.

  Out of the frying pan into fire.

  Only the heap of slowly decomposing corpses draped over their treasures had kept conquerors and conquered at a safe distance.

  But they couldn’t hide out here indefinitely. Sooner or later some prying swine would turn up to check exactly what they were hauling. To see for himself what lay beneath that stained tarpaulin. Never mind the dark blood seeping between the worn planking. The sightless eyes staring up from cheese-rind complexions.

  By Christ they had picked up the lion’s share of their loot from the town and its wretched inhabitants, wouldn’t go down well now, being recognised for what they were: chancers, out for themselves. Cut adrift now the King’s men had gone.

  The caravan of whores and orphans was their only hope. One more waggon tagged on to their sorry convoy, maybe it wouldn’t be noticed.

  Well, here goes, Cully Oates thought, clicking the reins.

  *************************

  Outside the gate and the road opened out into a large expanse of market gardens and animal pens bordered by the heavily damaged walls. Not that they had been too impressive to start with, Sparrow mused, allowing the sorrel to pick its way between heaps of refuse and partially-cleared rubble.

  Telling was puffing along beside them, red-faced. The women and children had lapsed into silence as the first groups of New Model troops straggled down the road toward them.

  They were grumbling along, arguing the toss or lost in thought as they tried to reckon their fortunes. Would they have enough to send home to their families, their children?

  Most walked right by the curious convoy, others stared, nudging their comrades.

  Sparrow kicked his horse on, took up station at the front. Telling hurried to keep up, dragging his hat off to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  They carried on, parties of troops standing aside as they followed the heavily-rutted tracks toward the outer gate.

  The New Model troops stood and stared, some pointed. Some hallooed, jeered, whistled.

  Most just stood there, watching the slashed women and orphans roll past, heads down.

  Only Lady Winter dared to meet their stare, glaring back at the miscreants as if she was ready to leap down and pick fights with the drooling dogs.

  “Move on there, out of the road,” Sparrow called. “We have passes signed by the commissariat,” as if that would make the bastards think twice.

  “What’s this then?” a musketeer in a battered Montero craned his neck, peering into the waggon at the terrified passengers.

  “Get away from that cart,” Telling cried, cuffing the inquisitive soldier out of the way with his worn bible. The musketeer clutched his arm, hopped back with his colleagues.

  More troops coagulated around the rearmost waggon, exciting a storm of groaning and moaning. Cully Oates eyed the nearest soldier, fist clenched around the butt of his carbine, safely stowed behind the running board.

  “Touch that tarp, matey, and I’ll blow your fucking eye out,” he warned, raising the barrel a notch in inch or two from the inquisitive musketeer’s nose.

  The rogue stepped back, but his mates were already crowding closer.

  “What they got in that waggon, back pay for a regiment?”

  Oates’ forefinger tightened about the carbine trigger guard.

  “Aye, but what bloody regiment?”

  “They’m not wearing red,” another observed, taking a slow sweep of the wounded and stiffening corpses.

  Telling strode back down the stalled convoy, mistaking the overly inquisitive New Model troops for ready rapists and nose-slitters. His furious stare and worn bible obliged the interlopers to step away from the stalled convoy.

  “What are you staring at? Haven’t you done enough? Women scarred for life, babes murdered at their mother’s tit, children left orphans by you filthy apes?”

  Sparrow swallowed, turning his horse as the preacher ran amok, trying to clear a path through the mass of troops pouring through the outer gate.

  “Move back, clear a way,” he bawled. Lady Winter, tense on the running board, had produced a pistol from somewhere. The driver looked ready to leap off and run for it.

  Some rogue knocked Telling’s hat off as he strode along berating the gaping soldiery.

  He turned, flogged another man around the shoulder with his bible.

  “That bastard’s got a carbine!”
one of the intruders exclaimed, pointing out Cully’s imposters.

  “Get back you turds, you fornicators!” Telling was puce, spit dangling from his fleshy lips.

  Sparrow thought he might explode, the veins standing out on the big minister’s neck like wound matchcord. He kicked his horse into a trot, tugged the reins to the right so the big sorrel’s rump swung around into the queuing troops, obliging them to step back off the road and up the heaped rubble.

  Some, too busy gawping to watch their footing, fell headlong into the open trenches alongside the road.

  Laughter, jeering. A loose stone clattered against the side of the waggon.

  “Shagpoll doxies! Whores! Off after your menfolk eh? They’re too busy running to stop and shag you!”

  Sparrow spurred his horse again, angling his agitated mount straight at the loud-mouthed pikeman, who staggered back, jumping aside.

  “Oy! Watch out!”

  “Who d’you think you are then, Christ come to cleanse the temple!”

  “Pull the bastard off!”

  The shot set the crows flapping and cawing from their filthy suppers. The soldiers recoiled away from the waggons, the women screaming, children crying.

  Sparrow tried to draw his sword but some bastard had lain hold of his arm, trying to tug him out of the saddle.

  Lady Winter stood on the running board, smoking pistol in her fist.

  The mob drew back, surrounding the convoy on all sides.

  Sparrow kicked his attacker away, finally pulled his sword clear of the scabbard.

  “Have a care!”

  The rattle of hooves and dancing stones built to a sudden crescendo, soldiers stampeded by a body of horse. Buffcoat and lobster pots, double pistols, back and breast. Four abreast as they rode through the gate. The lead riders parted about the stalled waggons, forcing the foot soldiers to retire.

  A whole troop, harness jingling, sergeants bawling orders. Sparrow tugged the sorrel around, hemmed in by the wall of Roundhead horse.

  Fairfax’s lifeguard. Ironsides to a man.

  The mob began to disperse, individuals peeling away from the crowd and heading off like unruly schoolboys.

  The shouting and whistling died down, drowned out by the crashing hooves.

  Sparrow saw a gaggle of officers emerge from the gate. Armour glinting, guidons cracking in the breeze.

  A tall man with a thin pale face and narrow, pointed beard, dark eyes everywhere and nowhere.

  Sparrow only caught a glimpse as he cantered by, the mad mummery by the road apparently beneath his interest.

  He twisted in the saddle, closer than he had ever been to the New Model’s commander. He recognised Cromwell’s iron and rust frown.

  Others turned, seeing what the commotion was about. A squad of horsemen had halted as the officers rode by in a cloud of dust and flying grit. A steel gauntlet laid hold of Sparrow’s bridle.

  “Easy matey.”

  The commanders cantered on into the town, the rest of the troop falling into place behind them like some well-oiled machine. One of them had pulled up, slowed his big bay to a high stepping trot.

  Sparrow recognised the angular features, sardonic smile. The good natured officer who had marched beside him before Naseby fight. He’d spent half an hour moaning before he had realised he was one of the top nobs.

  It didn’t appear the officer remembered him though, riding straight past with barely a glance.

  “Captain Reed, move these men on,” he called, clicking his heels and sending the bay striding away after the rest of the party.

  The tide of red coated soldiery, temporarily stoppered, resumed.

  “What’s this then? Sunday outing?” the cavalryman inquired, holding on to Sparrow’s horse.

  Sparrow thought it best to sheath his sword.

  “Captain Sparrow, Okey’s dragoons. Escorting these women and children to the main road. On the orders of army commissioner Eagleton.”

  The Ironside captain raised the bars of his helmet, pinched his nose between his finger and thumb.

  “Captain Reed, Fairfax’s,” the veteran lowered the bars and tipped the peak of his lobster pot helmet.

  Sparrow took a deep breath, nodding after the officer who had already caught up and fallen in with Fairfax’s entourage.

  “Who was that? I marched with him before the battle. Steady sort.”

  “Aye. Best of the bunch if you ask me. Rainsborough. Colonel of foot. Eastern Association. You?”

  “Waller’s. As was.”

  “Ahh. What’s up here then, we thought the wounded were on their way to Northampton.”

  The horsemen parted as Telling barged his way through, dusting himself off with one hand and clutching his bible with the other.

  “In the name of Christ, get out of my way or so help me...”

  Reed glanced down at the apoplectic minister, who seemed ready to pick a fight with the entire army. His horse reared back in alarm.

  “We have papers signed by army headquarters,” Telling shouted, strings of spit hanging from his fleshy mouth. Reed curbed his horse.

  “Your pardon. Master?”

  “Telling. Edward Telling.”

  The Ironside officer peered into the wagons, saw frightened children and cowering women. Casualties sprawled on bloody boards or clutching the sides of the cart to hold themselves upright. When he’d finished his inspection Cully Oates stowed his firearm, whistling with relief.

  Lady Winter, pistol in hand, was standing defiant on the running board of the leading waggon, an exotic carving from an Eastern ship brought to miraculous life.

  Reed stared, drop jawed. The minister grabbed his bridle, wrenching the captain’s horse around.

  “Haven’t you done enough,” Telling snarled. “For the sake of God, can you not let these poor wretches go in peace?” he croaked, his livid red features marbled with dust.

  The troopers exchanged glances. Reed wrenched his horse free, waved his troop on.

  The whole squad moved sideways as one, making room for them all over again.

  The trooper on his right released Sparrow’s bridle. He sighed with relief, watched Lady Winter resume her seat as if she was some English Cleopatra come to lord it over the heathen.

  They wobbled off, wheels creaking, hooves crunching stone. Holding their breath as they passed along the cordon of New Model horse, all the way to the demolished outer gate, the broad green fields beyond. A logjam of red-coated troops held back by a single narrow, buff-coated rank.

  The officer saluted as the first waggon rolled out of the last gate, broadsword level with his barred helmet. Sparrow tried to look as impressive as possible though he was shaking like a leaf, the reins vibrating in his hands.

  He glanced at Lady Winter, resplendent in her gown and cloak. By Christ, she had bigger balls than he did.

  The trooper riding alongside leaned closer.

  “You must have taken daft, mate. Playing along with the likes of her.”

  Sparrow eyed the man, tanned features, bright eyes.

  “Aye. Maybe,” he said, still shaken. “But it seemed the right thing to do.”

  The Roundhead chuckled.

  “Aye, maybe,” he agreed. “ How far you taking them?”

  Sparrow hadn’t thought about that. His plan - such as it was - had only extended to getting the women out of the town.

  “The King’s men are off to all points of the compass. Newark, Ashby. The roads are fairly clear now. They’d best head for Belvoir. They’ll be safe enough there. Until we get around to storming the place,” the cavalryman said cheerily.

  Sparrow nodded.

  “I am obliged.”

  Reed turned his horse, watched the carts creak and rattle out of the gate. He pulled up alongside Sparrow, gave the dragoon captain an inquiring look.

  “Bad business. Cutting up women, little kids. Shouldn’t have happened. Not even to this bloody shower.”

  “Aye. But it did.”

  “Tell m
e one thing then.”

  “Go on.” The Ironside officer inclined his head toward Lady Winter, calmly re-loading the pistol on the lead waggon. “How did she persuade you to go along with it?” he inquired in a conspiratorial undertone.

  Sparrow chuckled, mightily relieved. “That,” he sighed, “would be telling.”

  By the Fosse Way, Leicestershire, June 20 1645

  The armies had moved on to pastures new, having stripped most of the Midlands clean. If they had tarried much longer the population would have collapsed. Starvation, pestilence – and even, if the newsbooks had it right, cannibalism.

  Although the red-and-blue-coated herds had moved on, the local militias and garrisons remained, all powerful behind their walls now the main armies had gone. Half a hundred horse and a few foragers could keep a small fort going for a few months, aye, until their parent units re-appeared with precious victuals.

  The passage of arms had carved a path across the Midlands counties like a glacier scouring down a valley, dragging boulders, stones and loose gravel with it. In the turmoil, fine houses were looted and wrecked, slighted and burnt. Small castles changed hands like coins in a card game.

  Stagnant moats belched bloated corpses. Pale green-grey flesh, shiny with corruption, ballooning from overtight doublet and torn breeches. Not even the most ruthless of looters would have dared wade out after those boots, standing proud in the fouled waters.

  The larger castles fed themselves from the local villagers like buff-coated cuckoos, careless of fouling their own nests.

  The savage, six month game of knuckle bones had cost the King more dearly than his ill-affected Parliament. Charles had lost a dozen garrisons, the horse long gone, the foot dead, diseased or impressed into neighbouring holds.

  Once Rupert’s locust horsemen had disappeared into the dust and smoke toward the West, the local commanders had resumed their own hateful little wars, preying on neighbouring houses, devouring crops and livestock, taking whatever they wanted from what little the main armies had left.

  Carrion birds flapped and cawed across the devastated shires, ill-lit by reeking bonfires, through the drifting smoke from fuming wreckage. Banked and circled above corpse-fouled wells.