Pistoleer: Roundway Down

by Smith, Skye

  "Where did you ever learn such things?" Fodder asked as if it were a jest.

  "I'm in my mid forties and sometimes it seems like I've spent half of my life in battle," Rob replied. In truth if he added up all the months he had spent in battle, or waiting for battle, or traveling to do battle, or recuperating from wounds after battles, it was likely less than eighteen months all tolled. A year and a half. Why did it seem like so much more? He supposed this was because those times were etched in his memories by the intense stress of waiting for battle, followed by the absolute terror of the few hours of actual battle, followed by weeks of worrying that your wounds may turn septic and give you an agonizing death.

  "There's the trumpets and drums," Fodder said, listening. "What a din, and that is from here. Can you imagine what it is like in the main camp."

  "Or at the wall," Rob said softly. "The drums will be leading all the rousted men to the town wall. Yes, I think it best that we stay here at the bridge.” The men around him had been ready to get up out of their blankets and cloaks, but now they snuggled back into their warmth.

  Rob looked around over them like a mother hen, and wondered if he should blow out the candle. They did have men out on watch, and it was usually a good idea to keep a candle lit so the watch wouldn't step on anyone in their comings and goings. "The music has changed. Listen."

  The men around him sat up again. "Those are bells. Those are church bells. Do you think a major fire has broken out in the old town.” Rob looked at the sleepy men. Well he wouldn't find out lying here wondering. He got up and put on his boots and reached for the cloak he had been curled up in. Almost as an afterthought he buckled on his Dutch steel chest armour and stuffed his guns under his belt, for he may not find the answer in the manor and would have to walk through the lower town.

  He took the short cut through the breastworks and around to the front of the manor. Waller and some other officers were standing in the doorway in their slippers and nightcaps, looking towards the old town. An ensign rode up and pulled his horse to a stop so quickly that the poor thing almost stumbled on the cobbles.

  "Sir, sir, you will never guess," he called out as he leaped from the saddle almost before the horse had stopped.

  "Don't play guessing games lad," Waller said, but not in anger for the lad was his favourite nephew. "Just tell me."

  "They are asking for terms. They are pleading with us not to storm the walls. They wish to bargain the terms of surrender with you."

  Of the many men standing about with their mouths open, there were few other than Waller and Rob who realized the true irony of this. They had been about to withdraw. They had used the trumpets and drums to call everyone to the wall to protect the cannons as they were withdrawn. Instead the garrison had actually thought they were massing to storm the town. Rob couldn't keep his laughter in, and his laughter started Waller laughing. Once the general was laughing, everyone began laughing, but for them it was not in appreciation of the irony, but in the great relief of knowing that they would survive this siege and would see another sunrise.

  * * * * *

  By eight that morning the terms of surrender, simple quarter, were accepted and the three hundred men of the royalist garrison surrendered to captivity, including the governor Colonel Herbert Lunsford, the brother of the infamous and murderous Colonel Thomas Lunsford. There were two other colonels, a sergeant major, six captains, six lieutenants, six ensigns and four quartermasters. These days, having so many officers for so few fighting men was becoming normal in the king's army, because anyone of noble birth had to be given an important rank even if they had no actual command. The sergeant major and the four quartermasters were the men who really ran things.

  Rob noticed that Waller never once mentioned to his captured officers that he had run out of munitions and was at the point of withdrawing. Waller was ever willing to see the best in men, even in his battle foes, and not mocking them was part of his chivalry and morality.

  As for the townsfolk, they seemed glad to see Waller, but that may have been just that they were glad that the bombardment had stopped. In truth, other than to the wall at the neck, there was not much damage. The abbey had some gouges taken out of it, but it had survive worse than this under to dissolution ordered by Henry the Cock a hundred years ago.

  "It must have been the constant fear of being hit by a ball," Rob speculated once more, this time to Waller’s second in command, Arthur Haselrig. "There was no other reason for them to surrender to us. They were not short of food or water. They were in no physical danger so long as they didn't open the gates. They have an armoury filled with weapons, and no shortage of powder. It must have been the general fear growing with every thump of a ball against stone."

  "They surrendered with simple quarter," Haselrig reminded him. "The garrison did not even ask to walk off free with their weapons in return for handing over the town. Could it be that they feared a Prince Rupert style sacking if we were forced to storm our way in."

  "Perhaps," Rob replied thoughtfully. "I have read some of the king's newssheets and they certainly describe us as being vicious, untrustworthy demons. Of course the same sheets also laud Rupert as being a gallant hero." They would have to listen to the town gossips if they wanted to know more. "So who will be the new governor here?"

  "Edward Hungerford, no doubt. He has been petitioning the Committee of Safety for us to retake Malmesbury ever since his squabble over it back in January. And why not, since Major Burghell is already here with a company of Hungerford's men."

  "But Hungerford is already the Governor of Bath," Rob lowered his voice, "and Burghell is like unripe fruit. He doesn't have the experience despite his rank."

  "Ah, but this is more about politics than logic. Besides, with Burghell already here, and Hungerford within an easy ride, then our army can continue on immediately to, um, Cirencester." Haselrig had almost said 'the Severn' which a mere captain would not know of, not when it was paramount to surprise the Welsh in Highnam.

  Rob almost blurted out that they were not going to Cirencester but to cross the Severn, but he caught his words in time. Was it possible that Waller's own second in command did not know that Malmesbury and Cirencester were just a diversionary tactic?

  * * * * *

  * * * * *

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

  Chapter 12 - The False March on Cirencester in March 1643

  The main part of General Waller's army arrived at their chosen campsite in the village of Kembie just three miles south of Cirencester, in the early afternoon. The royalist scouts from the garrison at Cirencester had been marking the column all morning, and twice Rob's expendables had chased them away.

  Other men, sly men, had been let through the pickets to meet with Waller. Presumably they were spies with information to sell. Presumably about the where-abouts of Prince Rupert's flying army. Waller met with them and paid them less than they asked for the information, and then had them escorted from the camp.

  "Lies and best guesses," Waller told Captain Robert Blake and Lieutenant General Arthur Haselrig as he crumpled the latest message. "It irks me to pay for it, but what choice do I have. If I were truly on my way to lay siege to Cirencester, I would pay any price to the spies. Rob, as soon as we are in twilight I want you to get rid of every spy and scout that you find about my camp."

  "You mean take them prisoner," Rob confirmed.

  "If you must," Waller replied, "but if news of our breaking camp reaches Cirencester too soon it could cost us many lives. The lives of a few scouts are nothing in comparison."

  Rob sat stunned for a moment. He had never heard Waller speak so frivolously of taking men’s lives. Waller's Christian compassion was renown, especially for a military leader who had won so many battles so quickly. Even in taking Malmesbury, where there were thousands of men involved, not even thirty lost their lives, and that was on both sides.

  "Oh, by the way," Waller stared at Rob, "I noticed that some
of your enlisted men are wearing swords. I do not approve. A sword is a gentleman's weapon, and they are very far from being gentlemen."

  A dozen angry retorts flooded Rob's keen mind, but he quelled the urge to voice any of them. Three days ago he had been part of a night attack on a royalist cavalry camp, and the only men who had been slaughtered had been slaughtered by gentlemen with swords. What then was the measure of a gentleman? Instead he said, "I beg your pardon sir. It was not meant to flaunt your rules. I was trying to instill a sense of self worth in men who have too little of it. With my own men I found that issuing them with a steel backbone did wonders to stiffen the one that our good Lord gave them."

  "Poppycock," Haselrig grunted. "Your expendables will never have enough of the right stuff to stand up to gentlemen in a fight."

  "And just where do you think they got their swords?" Rob replied. Sometimes Haselrig was just too full of himself and of his class. His entire regiment of cuirassiers were the sons of London gentlemen, but his regiment would have been far more powerful had he instead recruited the sons of London blacksmiths.

  "An interesting concept," Waller said thoughtfully. "I will think on it, but not today. I must get some sleep. We all must all get some sleep if we plan on marching through the night."

  Rob tried not to let his meetings with the general's staff bother him, for it was vital that he attend them. As it was, his presence was only allowed because he had once been a member of parliament. No other 'mere captain' was allowed, and certainly not the captains of rag tag dragoon companies. He left the two commanders and wandered back to his camp of expendables.

  Yes, the army needed this early stop to rest and sleep, but his dragoons would have less than anyone else because he had just been politely ordered to sweep the area and get rid of all enemy scouts before dark. His men were relaxing in the weak March sunshine. Waller had ordered the camp kitchens to feed the army well and early, as a reward for making such a grand showing at Malmesbury. Rob knew the hidden truth, of course, that Waller was going to march these men through the night and there would be no cooking fires during that march. When the army left this camp they would leave the cooking fires burning just in case there were scouts watching from the surrounding hills.

  * * * * *

  Perk, the lanky corporal, had his ear resting on a short stick that he had pressed into the dirt of the bridle path. "Nothin' yet," he told them. He meant that he did not yet hear the thumping of hoofs that would tell him that riders were approaching.

  "Why are we here?" Fodder, the master corporal asked. "when our orders are to clear the hills of the royalist scouts who are spying on Waller's camp?".

  Captain Robert Blake did not mind explaining his logic. He never minded sharing his knowledge with men whose lives may depend on it someday, whether they be uneducated troopers, or educated officers, or 'full of themselves' commanders. The longer he lived the more he realized that there was nothing common about common sense. The common sense he took for granted escaped most folk, no matter how much education they did or did not have.

  "Scouting parties have two jobs," he explained. "Spying out the news, and then passing that news on to their commanders. Unless they can do both, then they are as useless at tits on a bull." Everyone within hearing was now listening and nodding. Good. If they understood what he was doing, then he would not need to order them to do the obvious. The purpose of learning was to free yourself from the orders of others. The purpose of teaching was to free yourself from having to order others.

  "The scouting parties are up on high ground, so finding them and chasing them will be a waste of our time and saddle leather. However, once every watch, or whenever anything important happens, they must send two riders back to their commander. Beyond being just a shuttle for the news going one way and orders going the other, the shuttle gives the scouts a chance to rest and eat, before being sent back out. This is the best place to ambush and capture the shuttles going in either direction. Eventually there will be no scouts left on the high ground." I hope, he said under his breath.

  "But there must be ten roads headin' t'words Cirencester within a few miles of here," Fodder argued. "Why are we all here on this bridle path? Shouldn't we be spread out coverin' all the main roads?"

  "To the east are the marshes at the headwaters of the Thames and to the west are the Cotswold Hills, so there are not as many roads as you may think. All the roads lead to Cirencester like the spokes of a carriage wheel. This bridle path is the shortest., easiest, safest way between that town and the high ground above our camp."

  "So you think," Fodder said half under his breath.

  "So I know," Rob corrected him. "While you were sleeping, I rode about and talked to some of the locals. They told me so. I'd have never found it if they hadn't pointed it out."

  "And you believe some local peasants. They could as easily be royalists as believers." Fodder meant the believers in the grand old cause of 'one law for everyone'.

  "Not these locals. They are Flemish Huguenots. They curse the king, or rather, his queen. In any case I have chosen to believe them, so here is my plan. We keep all horses and any prisoners that we capture in that clearing over there on the other side of the bushes. That is our camp. Some of the men will be needed to guard the horses, but most will be with me mounted and blocking the path here in the middle of this bend in the path.

  Fodder, you take a squad on foot and hide in the bushes a hundred yards towards Bristol. Perk, the same towards Cirencester. Stay out of sight until the scouts are past you. Because of the bend, they won't see my men until they are onto us, and then you block the path behind them. They'll be trapped between our squads, and penned in between the dense brambles on each side of this path.

  "Then we kill'm, right?" one of the lads asked.

  "Hopefully they will see that they have only two choices, surrender without violence, or die."

  "When they reach for their guns, then we kill'm, right?" the same lad asked with a gleam in his eye.

  "Think it through, lad," Rob told him. "Loud noises will warn the rest of the scouts not to use this bridle path."

  "But..."

  "No!" Rob growled. "No gunfire. Absolutely not. Threaten them but don't pull any triggers, and don't let them pull theirs. I don't care if you cut them or stab them or bludgeon them, but no gunfire."

  "What's the use of being a pistoleer," the lad grumbled under his breath, "if we aren't allowed to use our pistols?"

  Rob shook his head. Why was simple logic so hard for others? "The best use of a single shot pistol is to make threats, not to shoot," he told the lad. "You can use a loaded gun to make many threats, but you can shoot it only once."

  "Single shot pistol, he says," Fodder laughed. "as if there is any other kind. All guns are single shot."

  "I have a friend with a double barreled dragon," Rob told him. "Well double barreled in any case, though only one barrel is a dragon. The other is a normal pistol."

  "What will they think of next? Now that would be worth havin'. Where do I get one?"

  "His was made as a gift for a king, so I doubt you could afford one."

  "I can't afford the one I carry, and it's crap," Fodder laughed. "It would be nice though."

  "If you do for Prince Rupert, my friend would likely give you his just as a reward," Rob told him, seriously.

  "Well that's a safe promise, ain't it," Fodder snorted. "Everyone knows that if you kill a member of a royal family that lightning strikes you down, so I would'na live long enough ta collect the reward."

  Rob lectured him that royals may be privileged, but they ate and shit and died like everyone else. That the only thing special about them, was that others thought them special. He was interrupted when Perk took his ear off his stick and called out, "Riders comin'. Thars two or three an' they's a hurryin'. Can just hear'm, so's they's most'a quarter mile off."

  "Which way along the path?" Rob asked. When Perk shrugged, he hissed to the lads, "Right, everyone to their positions. Dr
agons drawn but no gunfire. If they don't surrender, use your blades. Try to take them live, but none must escape and none must fire their guns. Understood. None must escape."

  When the two royalist messengers came into sight, they were riding towards Cirencester. They came at a canter around the blind bend and at the sight of the path completely blocked by a group of mounted men aiming dragons, they pulled up sharply. There was no way around so they began to dance their horses a half turn to retreat. Men leaped out of the bushes to block their retreat. One of the messengers unsheathed his sword.

  "Don't be daft," Rob called to him. "Our orders are to take you prisoner. Don't make us kill you."

  The messenger lowered his sword and called back, "We are the king's messengers. We carry his passport to travel every road unmolested."

  "Bullocks," Rob replied. "You are scouts from the garrison at Cirencester. You've likely never even seen the king. Surrender your weapons. Our general means you no harm, he just doesn't like being spied on."

  The messengers surrendered peacefully, and were bound and led with their horses into the clearing beyond the thick brambles that lined the bridle path. "Give them food and ale," Rob called after them, "and then gag them."

  The episode repeated itself a dozen times before dusk, as the group of bound royalists scouts grew from two, to five, ten, twenty, and eventually twenty-eight. By dark their prisoners outnumbered them, but they were well bound so could make no trouble.

  Just after dark Fodder and two men returned from their own scouting mission with word that Waller's army was on the move. "Should we be joining them now?" he asked.

  "We'll follow them in the morning," Rob replied. "We need to keep a watch here all through the night in case royalist scouts in the hills figure out that Waller is no longer heading towards Cirencester."

  And they did keep watch, in shifts through the night. This time with the help of a barricade so that it would take fewer men to ambush scouts, which allowed them to run the watch in shifts while the others slept. For all of their chilly discomfort they caught only four more messengers.