He peered over his shoulder, watched in fascination as the enemy vanguard left off their pursuit and turned their horses toward the gate.
The Cornishman squinted, making out Ironsides and dragoons in the saddle, half as many again hurrying from doorpost to alleyway, making clever use of the cover afforded by the houses nearest the bridge.
Veterans. Unwilling to simply charge in regardless.
Porthcurn growled, recognising that lump Sparrow on his fine horse amongst the cluster of officers shouting and bawling at their men as they hurried forward to either flank, a screen of musketeers to keep the defenders’ heads down.
A brace of drummers were clattering away to wake the dead. A trumpeter joined in, the officers waving their arms to get their attention.
Rogues, hardly caring whether the Royalists recognised their embassy before riding up as if they already held the keys. As well as all the cards, Porthcurn thought grimly.
They trotted forward as if Bath had already been surrendered up to them - ignoring the usual complex etiquette of formal siegecraft.
“Hold your fire! We’re here under trumpet and drum!” one of Sparrow’s lobster-potted friends called out.
“Will you treat?”
Treat? They’d already ridden down half of the population, scared the wits out of these rabbits by the bridge.
Porthcurn peered around the side of the tower, noted with relief most of the defenders had remained at their posts behind the gate. He could hear the drums rattle and roll in the town as the alarm spread up Southgate Street to the half moon emplacements which had been dug to cover the approaches.
“Treat! Fetch your officers!”
Who did they think they were ordering about? Arrogant bastards. Porthcurn turned back to the wall. Seven or eight musketeers, match burning, were crouched behind the worn flags.
The pikeman was standing on the parapet staring at the sudden chaos which had overtaken them. Filled Widcombe High Street with thousands of russet-coated demons.
Hundreds on foot, picking their way along the street or working their way down through the trees and shrubs along the river bank.
More of them on horseback hurrying in behind their officers as if they intended to seal off the bridge approaches.
An officer in a red sash waved.
“Colonel Rich, New Model Army!” he shouted. Sparrow tucked in alongside, peering up at the crowded parapet.
“I am come before you to summon you to open the gates and yield this town in the name of the Parliament!”
“Pox on Parliament!” one of the musketeers bawled back. Porthcurn held up his hand.
“Quiet now boys. There’s forms to observe, even if these buggers think they own the place,” he muttered.
“You’re too late,” he called down to the Ironside commander. “We were ordered in earlier this week by his highness Prince Rupert. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re not going to piss our breeches because a few stragglers have turned up!”
“Colonel Porthcurn, is that you?” Sparrow called, peering up at the depressingly familiar blue suit.
“Aye it’s me Sparrow. Found yourself some new friends have you? That didn’t take you long!”
“I have that,” Sparrow called back. “Fifteen thousand of ‘em, by the last count!”
Porthcurn noticed Rich glance at his colleague as if annoyed he had taken over his ill-prepared negotiations.
“Oh aye.” Porthcurn shielded his eyes, parodied a minute examination of the enemy position.
“Dropped in to the church for more sermons have they? I don’t see more than a hundred bloody looters. I warned you Sparrow - we’ll not be buggering about with your play-acting and fancy passes this time around!”
Rich leaned over and said something to Sparrow, who bristled in his saddle but held his tongue.
“I am sent here, sir, by his excellency Sir Thomas Fairfax, to demand the immediate surrender of Bath and all its garrison to the forces of Parliament’s Army New Modelled. Will you send word to your governor to come down and treat under trumpet and drum?”
Porthcurn frowned. That scoundrel Bridges would surely be hurrying down to the Southgate by now, to see what all the fuss was about.
And he couldn’t trust the governor as far as he could throw him. That was why Rupert had left him here, to put some backbone into the handful of sprats he commanded.
“Fire a volley, over their heads,” Porthcurn growled out of the side of his mouth.
“A volley sir?”
“Aye, you’re fired your piece before now haven’t you?” he demanded, turning his dark eye on the reluctant musketeer.
Shem nodded, more concerned at what the Colonel could be capable of than the impudent intruders over the wall. Thank God he’d thought to borrow a mate’s glowing cord to light his match while the Cornishman continued his bawled negotiations over the parapet.
“Over their heads?”
“They’re under a flag of truce, however ill they carry it. I won’t have you pricks cost me my honour. A volley, over their heads,” he leered, raising the point of his sword toward the musketeer’s empty belly.
Shem Bentick swallowed, turned to the wall.
“Will you bring the governor to the wall, or some down yourself sir?” Rich called.
The ragged volley of shots sent the rooks shrieking from the trees. Muffled screams of terror from the houses round about. The Roundhead negotiators flinched but held their ground. Experienced enough under fire, he thought grimly.
“You won’t get another chance, once the army’s here,” Rich called, realising the ill-natured parley had been brought to a halt.
Porthcurn leaned over the parapet.
“Second rank have a care, prepare to give fire,” he called for the benefit of the uncertain embassy.
Rich and his officers turned their horses and spurred back the way they had come.
“Open fire!” Porthcurn bawled.
The siege of Bath had begun.
************************
Colonel Rich reined in behind a squat cottage near the bridge approaches. Okey and the rest of his officers were trotting along the high street from the other direction, escorting half a dozen farm carts filled with match and bullet, bread and powder. Rolled pikes and coiled match. And a dozen or so pale-faced clubmen who hadn’t managed to cadge a horse.
“Major Sparrow, you will kindly allow me do the talking, the next time,” Rich said from the side of his mouth.
Sparrow nodded sheepishly, realising he’d ignored a thousand years of carefully contrived military etiquette by resuming his unseemly slanging match with Porthcurn in what was supposed to be a strictly formal exchange.
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.” Rich frowned, returned his attention to Okey, who had reined in behind a hedge and was busy studying the gate through a perspective glass.
Sparrow cursed under his breath. He hadn’t expected to be renewing his acquaintance with Porthcurn quite so soon. The fornicating Cornishman would certainly add fire to the defenders’ bellies.
“I gather they have refused our summons,” Okey commented.
“They’ve been reinforced. Sparrow recognised Porthcurn on the wall.” Okey raised an eyebrow.
“We had no such word of any troop movement,” he countered. Rich shrugged, re-arranged his reins as more troops trotted by. His own Ironsides interspersed with dragoons and what looked like noisy schoolboys in their Sunday best. The villagers had taken cover in their homes. Geese honked and hissed from the cover of a small vegetable garden.
Sparrow eyed a yellow-eyed gander, neck stretched as it bade them defiance. Have your arm off, a riled goose.
He remembered his classics. Geese had raised the alarm just in time to save Rome from the barbarians. He wasn’t encouraged by the coincidence.
“Right then. Colonel, you take your men on a wide circuit as we planned, make as much of a show as you can. Take the clubmen with you. The garrison are to understand the entire army is here with us.”<
br />
Rich nodded and spurred off with his ensign and junior officers crowding after him.
“Sparrow, have your company dismount and work their way forward to engage the troops about the Southgate. I don’t want to them time to recover their courage.”
The colonel eyed the big major, resplendent in his black tabbed grey suit. “It is time to put your reconnaissance to the test sir. Let us discover whether the defenders are ready for a scrap. Bring up those carts!”
*************************
Winter damn near rode the grey into the ground, burning the miles between his hide out on the Mendips to retrace his route to Bristol. Chewton. Up Dundry Hill. Down into Bedminster.
The foam flew in dirty grey clumps from the beast’s chest as he threaded the horse through the Bristol afternoon traffic.
Laden wains, small flocks of sheep. Peasants stooped beneath impossible loads. Merchants and gentry escorting their fancy goods to the supposed safety of the keep.
It was 1643 all over again only the cast members had exchanged places with the unruly audience.
Winter dismounted, dashed up the steps leaving the steaming grey to wander to the nearest trough.
He gasped a brief report to the duty officer, who hurried off to interrupt the daily conference. He returned moments later, waved the panting youngster into His Highness Prince Rupert’s torchlit quarters.
“Winter, there you are,” the governor observed testily. “What is this pressing news of the enemy?”
*************************
Scipio Porthcurn watched the enemy dragoons winkle their way forward using whatever cover they could find while their colleagues kept up a witheringly accurate fire on Southgate and its supporting earthworks.
Chips flew, dust swirled. The gunners in the adjoining half moon had managed two or three ill-aimed rounds which had dropped a couple of the attackers, but had signally failed to scour the Roundheads from their positions along the approach road.
He turned back toward the town, watched a gaggle of horsemen canter down Southgate Street at the head of a motley band of pikemen and musketeers, reinforcements for the shaken, shabby defenders. They had spent more time cowering behind their walls and gabions than taking on the attacking New Model Army.
Porthcurn cursed. Bridges. Come to see what the commotion was about.
He turned his attention to the bridge, the enemy skirmishers getting off three shots for every reply from the parapet and gate.
He spotted more troops forming on the high street. Pikemen. So this was no simple raiding party. They had brought at least a company of foot.
Sparrow was there in his fancy grey suit, pointing and shouting, waving squads of his accursedly efficient sharpshooters forward.
If he’d had his way they’d still be kicking their heels in the Bridewell.
The Cornishman swore, stamped down the steps to meet the governor. Bridges held his hat, taking what cover he could behind the formidable stonework. He looked furious, his drawn features paling then flushing. Waxed whiskers bristled. Porthcurn gave him the briefest of bows.
“My lord. The enemy are attacking in some strength, horse, foot and dragoons,” he reported. Bridges ignored his salute, closed in on the burly Cornishman.
“Why was I not called to treat with them? You were sent here to reinforce the garrison, not assume command,” he snapped.
Straight to the gist of the matter - his concern he would be replaced by a fellow officer - with a set of balls.
But Porthcurn held his tongue.
“I thought I had made it clear to Prince Rupert His Majesty has entrusted me with the command here, not one of his,” Bridges hesitated to call Porthcurn a creature. Not while he had sword in hand.
“There was no formal approach my lord. They simply rode straight up the gate, insolent..”
“Insolent is the word,” Bridges accused.
The saker in the half moon to their right coughed, blanketing the bridge and riverbank with reeking smoke. A dead musketeer fell from the parapet with a dull thump and crackle of bone.
Bridges looked down at the smashed corpse with ill-concealed horror.
“They ignored all correct military procedures my lord, they…”
Bridges didn’t want to hear about the enemy embassy. He brushed past Porthcurn and climbed the steps, hand on his hat. Porthcurn followed, crouched down beside him as the governor risked a peek over blood-chipped stonework. Two or three more musketeers were binding wounds. Others kept up an uneven fire on the enemy dragoons who were hurrying forward using trees, bushes and a dead horse as cover.
“Drive them off, why aren’t you men firing?“ Bridges snorted at the cowering defenders.
Porthcurn watched the mob of pikemen hurry along to reinforce their comrades. They ducked behind a wall, Sparrow and his damned sharpshooters keeping up a constant, galling fire on the parapet. He could see Sparrow and a couple of local urchins pointing and waving at the still formidable tower.
He watched them, curious as to their unusually calculated approach.
What were the sneaky bastards up to? The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he remembered the troubles and trials earlier in the month.
The petty thefts and trespasses which had so upset the governor’s brittle nerves.
He realised he had overlooked some crucial aspect of their tomfoolery.
Another flurry of shots jolted him from his reverie.
Bridges cursed, ducked down again.
“They’re massing their pike,“ he reported. Porthcurn shook his head.
“Not pikes. Fire pikes,“ he corrected. The musketeers stared at the devil in the blue suit.
Fire pikes? No fucker had mentioned fire pikes!
Porthcurn risked another peek over the wall. The buggers had ducked down and were busy preparing the hellish inventions. Each pike had been fitted with a small iron bucket at the business end.
The buckets were filled with a noxious, glutinous concoction of tar and powder. Ignited, they created sixteen foot fireworks no sane musketeer, loaded as they were with pots and bottles of powder, would dare stand within twenty feet of.
“Fire pikes? They’ll not reach the parapet,” Bridges scoffed, without conviction. The musketeers crouched around him looked relieved to be reminded of their lofty position above the barred gate.
Porthcurn wasn’t so sure.
“And they’re firing arrows!” one of the defenders called, raising his head to watch a smoking projectile arch over the riverbank and clatter uselessly against the stonework.
His laugh turned to a gurgle of astonishment as the ball creased his neck, opening a mortal gash which bled him out in a moment as his mates stared, drop-jawed. Bridges swallowed hard as his comrades pushed the dying man against the wall.
“Keep your heads down you fools,” Porthcurn ordered. “You two, give fire, you two give those two covering fire. Try and keep those bastards away from the approaches.”
“Fire pikes, fire arrows? They’re trying to set the door alight,” Bridges offered. Porthcurn wasn’t impressed by his insights. Seven inches of solid oak, braced and studded with iron? They would need a petard, a barrel of Greek fire. He wondered what that Roundhead bastard Sparrow had in mind.
More arrows sailed over the river behind trailers of smoke.
They weren’t firing at the door, or the parapet above.
“Where are you going now?” Bridges called to the Cornishman’s broad back.
Porthcurn ignored him, climbed back down the steps and peered down toward the cramped guardroom. A couple of chairs and a round table strewn with cards. The Pikemen and musketeers loitering behind the gate looked around at him, whey-faced and frightened as they awaited their turn on the walls. Three, four men dead already. Twice that injured and more - injured or not - making their way back over the bridge while they could.
Porthcurn ignored the skulking crew.
“Is the sally port secure?” he called.
The
defenders exchanged looks.
“Ain’t no sally port on Southgate sir,” a musketeer replied, uneasy at the idea of actually charging out to confront the Roundhead hordes.
“A breach, loopholes for muskets?” the musketeer shook his head.
“There’s a privy,” he suggested helpfully. “Drops straight out to the river so we can take a...”
“Show me, now!” Porthcurn ordered.
*************************
Colston Muffet pursed his lips as the Cockney sweeps bent their bows, fired arrow after arrow over the river toward the formidable gate.
“You’re wasting your time,” he growled. Sparrow waved him silent.
“Arrows will be easier than carrying these bloody fire pikes over there,” the major argued. “You fancy lugging one do you?”
Muffet raised an eyebrow.
“We’ll hit it, one way or another,” Silas chirped, ducking down as the enemy musketeers on the gate kept up a desultory fire in a bid to keep the swarming attackers at bay.
Sparrow ducked down, muttering curses. According to the crazed sweeps they had concealed half a dozen sacks of powder in the bowels of the smoke-shrouded structure.
Aye, bowels was about right and all, Sparrow mused.
The Applebys claimed to have hidden half a coffin load of powder beneath the privy rail, tucked down out of sight.
Out of shite might be nearer the mark, Sparrow thought.
One spark and the whole lot would go up, or so the charmingly murderous raiders maintained.
Sparrow watched the dragoons adjusting the strapping on the fire pikes. He had seen them used in drills, but never taken hold of one. For real.
If the twins’ fire arrows didn’t do the trick, they would be charging across the bridge approaches carrying them. Fire-starting madmen carrying sixteen foot torches.
By the saints, they were as mad as the damned sweeps.
“Shall we light them up then Will?” Butcher inquired, calmly re-loading his fowling piece.
Sparrow shook his head.
Black Tom's Red Army Page 48