Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  “Let ’em fire a few more arrows,” he argued. Muffet sighed.

  “They’ll never hit a privy sluice from here. We’ll be alright, aye, if we go in low enough,” the elder sergeant insisted. He pantomimed bending double, one hand on his hat.

  “That’s all well and good close up, like you said. But we’ll still be within their range when we run up,” he pointed out. Muffet removed his pipe.

  “Aye, well,” he allowed. “They’re not going to hand the bloody place over without a fight, are they?”

  Sparrow eyed his elder sergeant, wondering at what point his helpful advice had become irritating criticism.

  “Twenty yards, thirty? With no cover to speak of.” Sparrow squinted through the smokes, trying to estimate the distance. They were still firing from the parapet, hadn’t used the loopholes. Yet.

  “Aim at those bushes along the bank there. We might catch ’em on fire and make a load of smoke,” Butcher suggested.

  Sparrow quite liked the sound of that.

  “Alright you two. Leave the bloody tower. Aim at the bushes there.” He pointed out the tangled vegetation which smothered the bank. The garrison had made a few attempts to cut it back to clear fields of fire in front of their stacked gabions and trampled earthworks, but the brambles and elder bushes had grown back all over again.

  “Shall I light the pikes then Will?” Butcher inquired.

  Sparrow chewed his lip. Okey was waiting with the rest of the regiment in the streets behind them. A couple of hundred clubmen had taken up positions on the hills behind the village, hoping to convince the town the entire army was poised to attack.

  This time, it was up to him.

  “Light the fire pikes,” Sparrow ordered.

  By Temple Gate, Bristol, July 28, 1645

  Trumpets were blaring from every tower, ear-splitting blasts which bounded along the curtain walls, up and around Bristol’s extended perimeter. Encircling the city in brazen, nerve-shredding alarms. Troops emptied from ale house and barracks, stables and town house. Answering the furious summons as quickly as they could.

  A phalanx of heavily armed officers parted respectfully as the governor made his way down to join his troops.

  Prince Rupert strode out of Bristol keep, took a quick look over the darkening skyline and hurried down the steps to his horse. A groom bowed, passed him his reins.

  A cavalcade of officers stood by, bedecked in scarves and lace, coloured sashes and ostrich feathers.

  But their buff coats and breastplates told a different story. Their hardware was as battle scarred and worked with stains and scars as any of Cromwell’s Ironsides. Veterans of going on three years of battles, sieges and sorties, they were grimly pleased to see Rupert back in the saddle. Their commander once more, galvanised into action by the ever encroaching Roundhead armies.

  And please God, returned to his irresistible best.

  They watched their Prince mount his horse - the same gleaming black charger with scarlet bridle and furniture he had ridden in the affray at Wells.

  He snatched up his reins and waved them forward.

  Thomas Winter watched him trot by with barely a glance aside, his black features a brutal bas relief.

  “Prepare to march, march on!”

  Behind the vanguard of peacock officers a body of horse - as many as they had managed to call to arms. Behind them, drummers and colour parties straightened their ranks and files, moved out after the horsemen at a heart-bursting double step.

  Winter fell in with Rupert’s Lifeguards, who ignored him or pointedly looked the other way. Surly and suspicious of anybody who hadn’t served at least two years under the Prince’s black and blue banners.

  Thomas didn’t care for them nor they him. They could go to hell with the rest.

  Sometimes he wondered if they talked about him behind his back. Muttering to one another, debating whether the scowling northerner had shot down one of their own. One of the Oxford dandy boys.

  That he had backstabbed Hugo Telling, one of Rupert’s favourites.

  A chosen man amongst chosen men.

  Well balls to them.

  It wasn’t possible. He had looked behind and before him as he had struck out at the despised Cavalier. The callous bastard who had burnt his home to the ground with barely a blink. And bedded his own mother for good measure.

  He was certain nobody had seen his impulsive, cruelly efficient lunge.

  And even if they had spotted something from the corner of an eye, they would have assumed Winter was defending himself against some over zealous Roundhead.

  Wouldn’t they?

  And yet he had noticed Rupert casting peculiar glances in his direction. As if he couldn’t quite make up his mind what manner of creature he had invited into his personal menagerie of junior officers. He had kept him at arm’s length, that much was certain. Was it possible he had picked up some campfire rumour about the bloody aftermath at Naseby field? Overheard some careless horseline whispers about his come lately lieutenant?

  Impossible. His Highness Prince Rupert didn’t suffer fools - or killers - kindly. If he had heard any such allegation he would have acted. Without mercy.

  Surely to God he would have confronted him, in front of the entire army if necessary?

  The prince had listened to his breathless report in silence, nodding his head slowly as if surfacing from the depths of a particularly bewildering dream.

  And he hadn’t hesitated to act, assembling the rest of the garrison’s officer corps as Winter itemised the enemy forces he had shadowed across the Mendips.

  Horse and dragoons. Riding hard and fast. Too fast to keep station with any foot.

  Rupert studied his maps, tracing possible routes with his forefinger.

  So, Fairfax was making his move at last, pushing a flying column of horse and dragoons between him and his garrisons?

  “But no artillery, gallopers or those damned leather guns Waller set such store by?”

  “None sir. At least not within a mile and more of the horse.”

  The New Model Army was creeping closer. First Wells now Bath. Where next?

  Bristol of course. But not even Fairfax could be in three places at once. Rupert had reports of him further fifty miles to the south - outside Sherborne.

  His cavalry and dragoons raiding all points West, diverting the King’s men and concealing his true intentions behind a flurry of hack and gallops.

  Just as he would have done, had he had the troops available.

  So this move on Bath, might be a few companies at most. Just as Winter had suggested.

  A chance to strike a blow, even the odds while they still could.

  If they could deal the New Model army a body blow at Bath, they might postpone further attacks, buy the time he had promised his uncle the king.

  Aye, and maybe remind these damned clubmen where their proper duty lay into the bargain.

  Rupert had cancelled the demoralised counsel meeting and called out every man they had left. Energised, invigorated by the prospect of decisive action he had issued orders as he strapped on his armour and snatched up his sword.

  Winter reckoned he had going on fifteen hundred men ready to march within a quarter hour of hearing his report.

  Stung into action, Rupert had sprung back into diabolical life like a giant hornet stirred from its nest by a carelessly stirred stick.

  “Every man sir. Take very horse and donkey you can find. We don’t have all night! Mount as many as you can, have the foot follow behind as fast as they may!”

  The drums rattled, sergeants swung halberds onto their shoulders and waved their men on into the gathering gloom.

  “Shoulder your pikes!”

  The long column of troops wound around the torch-lit keep and hurried under Temple Gate.

  Winter had requisitioned another horse, a snapping, stamping bay. The bad tempered beast suited his mood.

  “Don’t dawdle there! Haven’t you heard there’s a war on?”

>   Winter spurred forward as far as he dared, joined the hard-riding, nose in the air vanguard.

  They had already opened a good furlong or two on the panting, cursing foot tramping along behind them - and there were barely out of sight of the walls.

  Musketeers, dragoons. Raw troops, levies from over the Severn. Irish pikemen straight off the boat. Veteran officers bawled them on.

  And on.

  Up ahead, Rupert put spurs to his fine barbary horse and cantered into the gathering gloom.

  *************************

  Porthcurn grimaced. He’d smelt his fair share of shit in his time, but the tiny, excrement-caked privy built out over the shallows was enough to turn your hair white.

  “Gah, what a damned stink.” He clapped his hat over his nose, ducked his head and peered down at the swirling brown mass beneath the rusted, soiled rail.

  He assumed it was shit, although he could barely recognise the coiled stools as human. What were they feeding the garrison on, raw beans?

  He jerked back, damn near collapsing at the eye-watering reek.

  His musketeer guide ducked back into the guardroom to fetch a lantern.

  Porthcurn took a deep breath - through his mouth - stared around the sparse but incredibly filthy latrine.

  A bucket of water, a rusting barrel of dark piss and a shit smeared, rag-wrapped stick. Piles of old paper. Dock leaves.

  Perhaps he was imagining the whole thing. Sparrow couldn’t have planned all this, not from his prison cell. Could he?

  He titled his head, just making out the muted crackle of musketry beyond the wall.

  Another wild goose chase, just as that cunning rogue Sparrow had planned!

  Porthcurn cursed, bent to his knees and leaned in as close as he dared, peering into the shadowy recesses beneath the unspeakably filthy privy rail.

  He ducked his head, chin to the rail to peer beneath.

  “Here we are sir,” the musketeer called cheerily, holding up the lantern to illuminate the repulsive cell.

  He frowned, wondered what the officer had possibly lost down the drain. Porthcurn was on his hands and knees over the stinking pit, trying to insert his head into the reeking recess beneath.

  “What was that sir?”

  Porthcurn staggered up straight, struggling to swallow a mouthful of bile. He heaved and wretched, shoving the bewildered soldier back from the hellish pit.

  “For God’s sake have a care!” he cried, snatching his hat away from his mouth long enough to shout a warning.

  The musketeer staggered back, the lantern dropping from his bewildered fingers.

  Porthcurn dropped his hat and snatched at the brass casing. The lamp flared and went out, clattered over the floor.

  Porthcurn held his breath.

  “GET OUT!!!

  “He ducked, half tackled the soldier back into the guardroom. The musketeer straightened up, looking hurt. Porthcurn took another deep breath.

  “What is it sir?” the musketeer wanted to know, wondering what on earth he’d done to rile the red-faced colonel.

  Porthcurn strode to the table, thumbed out the candle.

  “Out! Get out all of you! They’ve hidden enough powder under the flags to blow your fucking arses off!”

  “Who has?”

  “The bastard Roundheads of course, you dumb-witted turd skinner! They must have used a bloody barrow, hauling that much in here. What in hell’s name were you doing, taking the fucking waters?”

  The defenders didn’t have a clue what he was raving about.

  How had they done it? Hauling half a hundredweight of powder into the only bastion worth defending on the entire God-damned line?

  “Barrow? We ain’t seen no barrow sir!”

  “Apart from them sweeps the other week. The ones as tipped all that soot down the shit hole!”

  Porthcurn held his head, caught a whiff of his fingers and thought better of it.

  “You damned cretins, can’t you tell the difference between soot and powder?”

  The nervous defenders glanced at one another.

  “Well, that is, er, no sir. All looks the same to me sir,” one of the musketeers offered.

  “The boys - twins they were - Londoners - said it was either chuck it down the shit hole or carry it back up to town. Didn’t seem right, makin’ ‘em lug it all the way back.”

  Porthcurn’s mind raced faster than his heart.

  Sparrow had been concealing something, but this? He could barely believe his own eyes. Could the bumbling oaf have thought it all through? Pulled the wool over his eyes while he shoved half a ton of gunpowder up his arse?

  He’d wring the bastard’s neck, if he ventured over the bridge.

  How had they managed to cover their tracks? Moving by night, over the rooftops, just as the chicken-hearted garrison believed?

  But there it was, neatly packed into the gaps in the stonework beneath their feet.

  Bag after bag, tied up with matchcord. The dangling fuses cleverly concealed in the brambles which had grown up about the filthy hole.

  A Christmas present from hell, just waiting for a spark.

  Porthcurn could barely believe the garrison had allowed such breath-taking sabotage under their very noses. Mind you, it was no surprise they had lost their sense of smell.

  How on earth had Sparrow - or rather, Sparrow’s night-soiled raiders, managed it?

  “Put those lights out, get your matches away! They’ve undermined the gate, don’t you get it? That’s why they’re using fire arrows!”

  The defenders eyed the bawling Cornishman, wondering if he had completely lost his wits. Wouldn’t be the first from the garrison to have run amok.

  “Don’t stand there staring man, get out, get out!” He cursed, trying to think straight. “Fetch those buckets out, fetch water, we‘ll have to damp it down!”

  But the bewildered defenders were still trying to work out how their tower could have been so criminally undermined.

  “Buckets, pails! Get a chain going, I want that shit hole flooded out!”

  Finally, the penny dropped. Musketeers and pikemen feverishly stacked their weapons and grabbed every bucket, bottle and stone jar they could find.

  They had secured their pails by chains and ropes to anchor points at the foot of the bridge parapet to make it easier to haul their water. Now it was all hands to the pumps.

  A brace of musketeers ventured into the privy, poured the contents of the privy barrel into the hole and followed it up with the bucket of water. A pikeman hurried to the bridge parapet, lowered the pail into the Avon and began to haul it back up.

  The chains clanged mournfully against the stonework.

  Porthcurn shoved the drop jawed soldiery aside, strode into the blessedly open air. He galloped up the steps, found Bridges on his way back down from the parapet.

  “What’s all the shouting about? Have they breached the walls?” the governor inquired, increasingly shrill.

  “They’ve hidden half a dozen sacks of powder under the privy, shoved it into the void between the rail and the river. That’s why they’re bringing up fire pikes,” Porthcurn gasped, trying not to puke over the wide-eyed governor.

  “In the privy?”

  “Aye, take a look for yourself, but I wouldn’t lower a lantern down there if I were you, not unless you want Bath blown up higher than Beechen Cliff yonder,” he snarled.

  Bridges opened and shut his mouth in dumb astonishment.

  “I’ve set the rest of the men to douse the shit hole with water, in case they get a lucky shot with those fire arrows.”

  Porthcurn barged past the bewildered commander, just as Shem Bentick leaned over the parapet and raised a new alarm.

  “Have a care! Here they come! Fire pikes on the bridge!”

  *************************

  Sparrow had planned the attack as best he could, from the scullery of the last cottage on the row leading toward the bridge.

  Seven arched spans from the Widcom
e bank to the neatly-tended meadows and orchards which lined the far bank.

  The bridge had been fortified, an ugly, slab-sided gatehouse with formidable, iron- bound doors just behind the second arch. The Avon flowed sluggishly around the ancient stone footings, depositing layers of silt around the base.

  The arches were six or seven feet across, the water beneath Southgate no more than three or foot feet deep.

  According to the Applebys anyway. They swore they had waded out to the rusty ironwork beneath the gatehouse privy. By night of course.

  Muffet, Butcher and the sharpshooting Applebys would provide galling fire while the first squad of dragoons doubled forward and knelt down in a loose skirmish line. Another dozen would close in on them to fire above their heads. Another dozen would double forward to deliver a third, hopefully lethal, volley.

  Half a minute’s diversion for Sparrow’s fire pikes to do their work.

  Sparrow had selected Francy Snow’s squad as likely fire starters. They would double past the musketeers with their fire pikes lit, scramble down the muddy bank on their arses and then wade out between the arches, head for the dead ground at the base of the tower.

  Where the Applebys had assured them they would discover the locked and barred privy hole.

  Sparrow hoped to God they would be facing shit rather than shot.

  He crammed his hat down on his head, lowered the pike to allow Francy Snow to light the bucketful of pitch and brimstone. The infernal mixture spluttered and sparked into life with the first cautious kiss of his torch. Snow’s men had left their powder bags and bandoliers back in the cottage along with their firelocks.

  Didn’t pay to go lugging fire pikes with a pound or two of powder strapped to your chest.

  Godspeace Lamb, schoolmaster turned soldier, had brought a few men forward to watch their weapons - and their backs. He was watching the preparations with interest.

  “Greek fire - the Romans used the same principle aboard their galleys and triremes,” the schoolmaster observed. “Of course, they used catapults and onagers rather than pikes.”

  Sparrow waved to clear the reeking smoke from his face.