Pistoleer: Roundway Down

by Smith, Skye

  Oliver's temper was rising, and he was about to be most ungracious, and yell at the man who had done the most to save his life. Whalley noticed this and hurriedly spoke first. "Colonel, you have just received the loftiest of praise by the king's men. They feared you so much that they did all of this just to capture you. I agree with Daniel. Track down the leaders and do to them what they tried to do to you."

  As Oliver thought about these words his face began to beam. Daniel let go of the girl and waved her away. Hopefully she was bright enough to stay out of sight until Oliver had left town.

  "And how am I to track them down with only forty men?" Oliver asked. "I need more than that just to hold this town safe from another counter attack." He went back to picking at his food, and everyone around the table relaxed.

  They were just wiping their plates with their bread when there was a commotions of horses outside, and a moment later a dusty looking lieutenant walked into the room and presented himself with a salute to the Colonel. "Sir, as ordered I have brought a hundred of the Association's mounted troopers from Norwich."

  "By whose orders?" Oliver asked.

  "Why by Sergeant Major Sherwood's, sir. Did you not send him to Norwich?"

  "Sherwood, you beauty!" Oliver called out to the low ceiling. "There is a man to be rewarded, and I'll see that he is. Gentlemen, the hunt is a-foot! Fetch your spurs and your weapons."

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

  The Pistoleer - Roundway Down by Skye Smith Copyright 2014-15

  Chapter 7 - Landing at Lyme, Dorset in March 1643

  "Shows you the difference between us livin' on the south coast, and what they put up with on the east coast, don't it?" Leslie Scudds told Robert Blake as they watched two of the crew leap from the Alice onto the quay and tie Blake's small ship off. Scudds was pointing to the blossoms to be seen everywhere along the shoreline, and up the valley where Lyme was nestled, and along the high ridge that overlooked the town. They had left the east coast just three days ago, and there had been nothing in bloom along the North Sea save the hardiest of the snowdrops.

  "That is exactly why Daniel has been pushing his clan to move their village to somewhere warmer," Rob replied. "Every year the winters are getting colder and the growing season shorter. Even here in Dorset you can see the truth of it. All the strange plants are dying. All those strange plants that sailors brought back from the tropics over the years. What's next to die, eh? The vineyards? The figs? The date palms?"

  "There's your Sam," Scudds pointed towards a man walking down from the town.

  Samuel Blake, the fourth of Rob's younger brothers, was walking down from the town to the small port. The Blake's home town of Bridgwater was under the thumb of the royalist John Wyndham and his treacherous, lecherous family, so many of Rob's extended family were visiting here in Lyme. It was only a matter of time before John Wyndham's brother-in-law, Ralph Hopton would pay Bridgwater a visit with his Cornish army, and then woe be to any Blake who stayed within Wyndham's grasp.

  Rob leaped ashore and ran along the quay to greet his brother, or at least hobbled along, for the quay was not pitching and leaning. He loved Sam, everyone loved Sam, for he always had a smile and a good word for everyone. "What are you doing here? Why have you left our company of troopers? Why aren't you riding with the Earl of Stamford pushing Ralph Hopton and his royalist army out of Devon? You're not injured are you?" He stopped short of the man so he could look him up and down for bandages.

  "Everyone 'as gone 'ome for the plantin'," Sam said through his comely smile. "Both Stamford and Hopton had troubles enough holding their men together through the winter storms, so there was no holding them once spring arrived. Suddenly everyone had more important work to do than soldierin', like mendin' nets and tillin' and plantin' and lambin'. The good news is that there is a truce in Devon and it is holding."

  "Surely you jest. This rebellion against the king, this civil war, is to pause while the fields are ploughed."

  "It's not just the men ya' know," Sam replied. "It's the horses. D'ya expect the women to pull the ploughs?"

  "But I just raced here from delivering diplomatic pouches to London. It is important that General Stamford be told personally about what they contained." He stopped himself from saying more. The contents of the king's diplomatic pouches, one to the King of France and the other to the Emperor of Spain, were not for public ears, at least not yet. In London he had sworn that to John Pym.

  "Good luck finding General Stamford. He's gone home too."

  "So are there no armies in the field in the south?" Rob immediately regretted his wording, for that was exactly where the armies were, in the fields with their ploughs. "You know what I mean."

  "Aye, Prince Rupert and Colonel Waller are having a go at each other across Somerset and into Wiltshire. I think the king must have told Rupert to capture Bristol."

  "But Bristol is still ours, right?"

  "Oh aye. Bristol and Bath, and even Bridgwater, but for how long?"

  "Then I'm to Bristol," Rob told him, "for that is where I will find Waller. It's just as well. I trust Waller a lot more than I trust Stamford. At least Waller is a proper general. When will parliament stop putting Lords who know nothing of soldiering, in command of soldiers. Stamford has no battle experience, and they've sent him out against Hopton, who is a seasoned veteran of the German wars." Both men shook their heads. It was the most common complaint amongst soldiers, that is, after the complaint that their pay was in arrears, and that the cooks were serving up French stew, yet again.

  Sam looked at the small ship, the Alice. It was one of the ships that the Wellenhay clan from the Fens had converted from square sails to Bermuda sails. She was a beauty, especially when seen in this harbour filled with tired, old fashioned hulls. "Are you taking the Alice to Bristol?"

  Rob turned to face the ship. "Nay, we've been gone for months. The crew deserve a rest with their families, who will doubtless hand them a list of spring chores that need doing. I suppose rest is not quite the right word, is it? Besides, it's only a two day ride to Bristol, but perhaps four by ship, depending on the wind. I'll ride. I'll take a handful of volunteers with me for protection, and ride."

  "Don't say that to their women. Not until they've slept a few nights here." Sam warned.

  "But," Rob began, but stopped at the 'but' and began again. "Yes, of course. Point taken."

  * * * * *

  Rob had chosen to take the high roads towards Bristol, rather than the more usual valley roads. The high roads were actually the shortest route by miles, but not by time. From Lyme they had climbed up and across the hills to Crewerne, and then up and across the hills to the Load Bridge which crossed the River Yeo at Long Sutton. They collapsed into the beds of an ill kept and rustic farmhouse just north of the bridge, for they did not want to risk entering the villages of Long Sutton or Somerton at dusk.

  Riding the high roads had exhausted them. They had chosen them out of caution at a time when the flying army of the ever so vicious Prince Rupert was said to be in the area. An hour's snooze while the farm wife did a fry-up gave them enough strength to lift their spoons, and even enough strength to trade stories with some other travelers.

  From one traveler they learned that they had been wise to keep to the high roads, for many of the small bridges on the low roads had been swept away by winter storms, and the rivers were still running high with spring's water, so the fords were deep and treacherous. They had also been wise to give Bridgwater a wide berth for that was not a happy town due to the rapacious Wyndhams who governed from the tumbled down castle, and were making life ever more difficult for the merchants who supported parliament.

  Oh how every Blake brother cursed the Wyndhams. It had been the Wyndhams who had financially ruined their father, for no other reason than spite because during his terms as mayor their father had not cowed to them. It had been the Wyndhams who had bought up all of his debts to keep Rob and his brothers from rebuilding their father's importin
g business. It had been their debt collectors who had sat impatiently waiting for their mother to die so that they could claim all of the Blake land holdings.

  All of this had forced Rob to seek his fortune in the Dutch Republics, from where he had returned only a few years ago. He had been just in time to pay off the Wyndham bailiffs just before his mother had died. When they couldn't finish the Blakes financially, the Wyndhams tried to ruin their reputation. It had been the youngest Wyndham lad who had seduced and deflowered Rob's youngest sister, Alice, and then had whored her in a gentleman's club. Oh how the Blakes hated the Wyndhams.

  Even with his family safe and their fortunes renewed, Rob found himself consumed with the desire to avenge the unscrupulous actions of the Wyndhams. All of his plans of converting Lyme's idle ships into Bermuda rigged ships and again starting up his father's lucrative import trade with France, were now on hold. On hold because so much of his wealth had been spent on recruiting, training and equipping a company of dragoons who could protect the folk of Bridgwater from the Wyndhams.

  Wyndham's in-law, Ralph Hopton was an even greater danger. His Cornish army had sided with the royalists, and last year it had rampaged out of Cornwall and across Devon, and ever closer to Bridgwater. Again Blake had put his business plans on hold for there never seemed to be either the time or the coin to convert ships for running wine in from France. Always his energy and coin were soaked up by this bloody civil war. By the arms race of this bloody civil war. Match lock muskets and boiled leather armour were no longer enough. Now you needed flinters and steel chest armour, and because of Rupert and his flying army, every man must be mounted and carry pistols and blades.

  Most of the other militia field commanders had been surprised by this sudden arm's race, but not Rob. He had seen the same arm's race happen in the Dutch Republics while riding as a pistoleer for the Rotterdam Militia. The arm's race that worried him the most however, was not the race to arm men, but the race to build lighter and better field guns. Field guns that could bark grape shot at soldiers, and yet still be towed fast enough to keep up with a mounted company.

  It was no wonder that both sides in the war were constantly stealing from each other's estates, and constantly levying new taxes. Taxes. This war began over taxes. The Ship's Tax that paid for the Navy was too high and not fairly spread. In the perspective of hind sight the Ship's Tax now seemed reasonable and equitable. So far the only obvious winners in this war were the Dutch weapons factories and their bankers.

  * * * * *

  The next day came with an early start, for this was a working farm with fields to plough, but at least today there would be fewer high roads to wear they and their horses out. Sam had come along, of course, with four of his best mates, and so Rob was by far the oldest of the group, and his aching back was now making him feel very old. He had been two months recuperating from a leg wound that had almost claimed a leg, and then his lungs, and since then he had seen more ship time than saddle time.

  Fewer high roads had been the plan of the day, but then they were warned off riding through Wells, so instead they took the small road to Shepton Mallet and that meant more high roads. They spent the day riding high under low clouds and it wasn't until the sun was low enough to shine under those clouds that it felt like a spring day again. The low sun was actually bad news because they had not yet reached Keynsham, which meant that they would not make Bristol before the city gates were closed tight for the night.

  A local carter warned them off traveling the Bristol Road at night. There were many Bristol Roads but he was speaking of the road that ran from Keynsham to Bristol on the south bank of the River Avon. The carter told them that if they hurried they would just make the last ferry across the Avon at Bickley Wood, which would put them on the smaller, safer roads on the north side of the river. They also lead to Bristol and to the Lawford Gate through Bristol's outer defenses.

  They did catch the last ferry, and despite the primitive rest house on the north bank, or perhaps because of it, they kept riding. An hour later they were regretting their decision for as they rode closer to Bristol they found the buildings along the road all deserted. This was a sure sign that the locals feared roving bands of soldiers, or worse, roving bands of Prince Rupert's gentlemen looters.

  About two miles from Bristol's outer walls they made a decision to camp on a hill that the local's called Harris Hill. They reasoned that it would not be safe to make a night ride along the narrow tow path that rounded the great northern bend in the river known as Crew's Hole. The hill turned out to be a bleak place to camp, open to the wind for the hill's forest had been recently been clear cut, likely to build defensive walls around Bristol. Luckily they found a deserted cottage to shelter them from the gusts of wind.

  The cottage had likely been the home of countless generations of colliers who would have earned their bread by working the now abandoned charcoal mounds. With the forest now stripped, however, there was nothing to make charcoal from anymore. With the trees gone, the cottage did have a marvelous view of the second city of the kingdom. Bristol was built in a natural bowl and surrounded by hills like this one. Below them to the west the lights of the great city spread out in all directions.

  * * * * *

  In the early morning the mists that enveloped Harris Hill hid Bristol from them until they were packed up and in the saddle again. Rather than backtrack, they took a game trail down through the newly cleared slopes. If the shepherds were not kept away from these slopes, then soon this game trail would become a sheep’s trail, and with sheep on these slopes the cleared forest would never grow back again. Or at least that was what Robert Blake told the lads, based on the year he had spent in Morocco with his uncle of the same name. Sheep and goats ate to the root, so cleared forests had no chance of growing back. What goats had left behind in Morocco was arid devastation.

  The game trail eventually widened and they could see far enough ahead to know that it led to a main road. By this time the morning mists had completely lifted and they could see the great earthen work defenses that Bristol had dug in hopes of keeping armies from looting the city. The closest fort to them would be Lawford's gate. The great length of the earth works was proof of how many men lived in the city, for it would take thousands of them to dig and then hold such a long dyke against an attack.

  Just before they reached the main road, and while pushing through the bush at the base of the hill, they heard a cry for help, or rather a moan, coming from a tangle of thorny briars. They dismounted, cocked their dragons and went to investigate. When they were sure that there was only one man in hiding and not a party of brigands, they helped the poor fellow out by dragging him from what must have been his night's resting and hiding place.

  "I was set upon in the night," the farmer told them, "and though they got my horse, I eluded them by crawling under these brambles. They were not brave enough to follow a weasel into its hole, so they satisfied themselves with taking my horse and saddle and bags."

  Rob grabbed the mans arm to help him to stand, but the man cried out in pain and winced and took his arm back. Sam told him that the back of the man’s clothing was stained with wet blood.

  "They slashed at me to stop me from riding through them," the man told them in short breaths. "Slashed me, not my horse, which proved their intentions. They wanted my horse alive and uninjured, but they cared not a farthing about me."

  Rob walked back to his own horse to fetch the little kit he carried for treating wounds, and Sam caught up to him there and told him. "Somethin' fishy with this bloke. He's dressed like a hayseed, but there is fine cloth hangin' out of the tear in his homespun."

  Rob turned and walked back towards the injured man. The other lads had made him comfortable on some soft grass, and were picking the bramble points out of his clothing and boots. They had cut him out of a tangle of bramble branches in order to pull him out of hiding. It was no wonder the footpads hadn't chased him into the bush, for these bushes fought back.

&nb
sp; "When were you attacked? At daybreak?" Rob asked.

  "Nay, it was about two hours after sunset. The local brigands must set ambushes along this road to catch those rushing to get to Bristol before the gates close."

  "We are going ..." Sam began but stopped because his brother had purposefully stepped on his toe.

  Rob said "Oops, sorry," to his brother, but then under his breath said, "Tell the others to keep quiet. This man is too well spoken for his boots.” In a normal voice he asked the victim, "So you are on your way to Bristol?"

  "Nay, I'm on my way north."

  "Then why did you leave Bristol by the eastern gate and not one of the northern ones, and why leave just as they were closing the gates?"

  "The northern gates weren't open," the man said with a wince because Rob was helping him to roll onto his belly so his wounds could be dressed. "There were reports of Prince Rupert's scouts to the north so they were keeping those gates shut. By the time I found out that Lawford's gate was still open, I had wasted most of the afternoon."

  Rob fingered the gash in the homespun. There was no gash in the silk beneath it. This man wore a silk undershirt next to his skin in the way of veterans of the Spanish wars. The scabbing beneath it will have been opened by dragging him and moving him, but it did not seem like a deep wound. The blade had run under the man's jerkin at an angle, both in and out. The silk would have saved him a lot of skin, and would have kept the wound comparatively clean.

  "This wound is bad," Rob lied. "You've lost a lot of blood and are still losing it."

  "Aye, it feels bad," the man agreed. "Burns like a bugger every time I move." He tried to twist around to look at it himself, but howled in pain and gave up.