“I saw my father butchered in his own workshop. I was with him at the time and managed to escape through the back door. I hid for four hours under some sheets and a pile of firewood in one of the outhouses belonging to our neighbours and then escaped under darkness into the woods nearby. I have no idea what horrors my mother was forced to endure, but I found her body in our yard when I returned the following day once the royalists had left. The bastards had slit her throat. My father’s workshop, meanwhile, was little more than a pile of ashes. They had burned it to the ground.”
Wade’s story was a terrible one, and I did not know what to say in terms of offering sympathy to the lad, so I simply asked him what he did next.
“I had no reason to stay in Birmingham,” he said. “I had no family and no business, so I walked north until I happened upon Sir William Brereton’s forces near Whitchurch. There was nothing that I would have rather done than kill some of the bastards who had murdered my family, so I joined Sir William’s forces. I was with them when Whitchurch was taken at the end of May, but, shortly after that, I was sent north as a secondment to the garrison at Beeston.”
“You have lived a lot in a short space of time,” I said. “Tell me, what happened yesterday in Beeston?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was in the lower ward at the time, but I can’t understand how they got in. I suspect treachery is the answer.”
“And Captain Steele?”
“He was trying to save our lives, sir, and he is to be commended for that. The problem is that he sent food and ale up to the invaders and entertained the firelock captain to a meal. He will pay for that, I’m sure, but at least we live to fight another day.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure that you have got the best of it,” I said. “Given the choice of attacking less than ten firelocks or being besieged by five thousand Irish veterans, I know what I would prefer.”
The gallery on the top floor of the Crown Hotel was a swarming throng of people when Simon and I arrived later that afternoon for the unveiling of The Public Scout. Far from the “select reception” described by Alice, the gathering was more closely akin to a public meeting. Although the gallery was usually light and airy, benefiting from a continuous range of windows which overlooked the High Street and ran along the whole length of the building, the midwinter dusk meant that it was illuminated by a row of candles affixed in sconces along the walls. The room, which filled the whole of the top storey of the inn, contained over a hundred people, who milled around, engaging in animated conversation. Many held copies of the newssheet, which, together with some modest refreshments, had been laid out for the guests on a large oak table in the centre of the room.
I had to admit that attendance at the meeting had been exceptional, for nearly every townsperson of importance seemed to be in the room. Unsurprisingly, most of the gentlemen who had signed the “Remonstrance of the Inhabitants of the County Palatine of Chester” were present, including Roger Wright, Thomas Walthall, and the ageing lawyer Thomas Malbon, but so were Thomas Maisterson, Roger Wilbraham and several others known to have been sympathetic to the King’s cause.
There were a number of local clergymen, and Colonel Booth was there with several of his officers, including Major Lothian.
Looking around the room, I realised that nearly all the town’s public officials had put in an appearance – all four Rulers of Walling, including Gilbert Kinshaw, Welch, the new minister, leave-lookers, ale-tasters, fire-lookers and channel-lookers – even Arthur Sawyer was to be seen deep in conversation with Hopwood the bailiff. With a pang of disappointment, I realised that there was nothing special about Alice’s invitation to me – the Furnivals had simply invited anyone they considered to be of influence.
Simon and I had been ten minutes late, and it quickly became apparent that Hugh Furnival had already spoken to the assembled crowd before our arrival, as both he and Alice were busy making sure they mingled with everyone who had made the effort to attend.
Alice was dressed elegantly, but in the sober colours that were to be expected of the wife of a prominent puritan. She wore a pointed stomacher under her high-waisted black dress with lace-trimmed collar and cuffs, accompanied by a high-necked white chemise. Despite the restrained style of her garb, I still felt the same pangs of anguish as before.
I turned away, knowing that such thoughts needed to be suppressed, and turned my attention to Furnival in the other corner of the room. I had not seen Hugh Furnival for years, but I recognised him immediately. Slim and slightly shorter than Alice, he had grown a short pointed beard, and his jet black hair, now greying slightly around the temples, was cut short. He, too, was dressed soberly in the Dutch fashion, with a black, unstiffened jacket and wide breeches.
He had been in conversation with the lawyer Malbon, but, when he saw me looking his way, he smiled and weaved his way through the room towards us.
“Mr Cheswis, I am indebted to you for attending the launch of The Public Scout. I understand you know my wife well.”
“That was many years ago,” I said, caught off-guard by Furnival’s directness.
“Quite so. And you, sir,” he said, addressing Simon. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.” My brother stepped forward and shook Furnival’s hand.
“My name is Simon Cheswis,” he said. “Daniel is my elder brother.”
“Then you cannot have been more than a child the last time I was in Barthomley.”
“That is true, sir. I don’t remember you, but I am aware of your achievements.”
Furnival bowed his head slightly at the compliment.
“Tell me, sir,” continued Simon, who seemed curiously awestruck in Furnival’s presence, “how does a Barthomley man become involved in printing political pamphlets? The subject fascinates me.”
Furnival smiled indulgently and embarked on what was clearly one of his favourite subjects.
“It was largely a matter of good fortune,” he replied. “I was sent to London at the age of sixteen, apprenticed to a printer. I learned my trade and became a journeyman printer. By the time I got married in sixteen-thirty-four, I had already been in the business seventeen years and had become a partner in a small print workshop publishing textbooks. That was a particularly difficult time for my trade and one of no little danger. All printing was controlled by the Stationers Company, but there was a thriving trade in publishing unlicensed books and newssheets.”
“But that must have been a time of opportunity for the printers of such material,” I interjected.
“Not at first. Things became very difficult, especially after sixteen-thirty-seven, when the Star Chamber issued a decree which sought to suppress publications deemed to be seditious, especially those of a religious nature which did not agree with Archbishop Laud’s religious views. They were times of great hazard, especially if you were caught in possession of such material. They were exciting times, though, as they brought me into contact with pamphleteers like Lilburne, Bastwick, and Prynne. Of course, since the Star Chamber was abolished in sixteen-forty-one, there have been massive opportunities for printers like me.”
“You know John Lilburne?” asked Simon, with surprise.
“Yes,” said Furnival. “Do you know his work?”
“I do. I’ve read The Work of the Beast. His description of the punishments and imprisonment he had to endure for printing and distributing unlicensed books is inspirational. He is a brave man.”
“Brave, maybe,” countered Furnival, “but foolish nonetheless. If he’d been a little less confrontational, he may have managed to stay out of jail.”
I stared at Simon in amazement. He was a veritable box of surprises. My brother had never been the studious type, and yet here he was, displaying knowledge of the very latest in political and religious writings. Where on Earth had he learned such things? I watched Simon’s face, which registered disappointment at Furnival’s casual assessment of Lilburne. Furnival, obviously, noticed this too, because he quickly stepped
in to temper the effect of his words.
“To be frank,” he interjected, “my partner and I were not directly involved with the likes of Prynne and Bastwick, who, as you know, had their ears cropped for their troubles, nor were we involved in the illegal import of books from Holland like Lilburne, but we did publish our fair share of pamphlets and books, and we were well-acquainted with John Wharton, the bookseller who persuaded Bastwick to have The Letany published. Through him we knew these men.”
“I see.”
“You realise, of course,” said Furvival, “that Lilburne, like Bastwick and Prynne, was strongly critical of the Laudian church. You have read Come out of her my People?”
“No, but I am aware of his arguments.”
“So, it is the anti-Laudianism that attracts you to Lilburne?”
“Not particularly. I am for freedom, religious tolerance, and equality. If I am against Arminianism and Laudianism, it is because their followers are religiously intolerant.”
Furnival looked closely at Simon, and a flicker of a smile came over his face. “I think you would get on well with Lilburne,” he said, at length.
“I must apologise for my brother,” I said, hurriedly. “He has strong views.”
“Not at all, Mr Cheswis. My business is founded on strong views. The proof is herein.” With that, Furnival offered us both a copy of The Public Scout and passed onto his next group of guests.
I was about to admonish Simon for his impertinence, but was beaten to it by a quiet but insistent voice to my left. “Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen, but I could not help but overhear your comments on religious tolerance.”
I turned and recognised the short, slightly overweight figure of Edward Burghall, the headmaster of the school in the nearby village of Bunbury. I would normally have been surprised at the presence of a village schoolmaster at such a gathering, but Burghall was a controversial figure around Nantwich. A strict Presbyterian, he had developed a reputation as a firebrand minister, stridently preaching in favour of a sober, hardworking lifestyle and intolerance of sins such as games, drunkenness, and profaning the Sabbath. He was well-respected but considered by many to be dogmatic and possessing a godly righteousness which bordered on arrogance. I sensed that Simon had talked his way into a longer debate than he had bargained for.
“If you are in favour of tolerance,” demanded Burghall, “does that mean you would tolerate Arminians and papists in our church?”
Simon looked at the schoolmaster and rose to the bait. “I am no Arminian,” he replied. “I would not want to force popery into our church as has been the case these past years, thanks to the efforts of the King and Archbishop Laud, but I would not wish to persecute them. I would leave them to worship in peace. You, sir, I take it, would not?”
“I would consider it my duty not to do so,” said Burghall. “It is incumbent upon all godly ministers to guide their brethren on the right path, for God is working actively against the powers of evil. Our King, married to a papist, has promoted popery in our church for years and subjected this land to the tyranny of Laud and Strafford. Now, one of these traitors languishes in jail waiting to stand trial for his life, whilst the other has already met his end on the executioner’s block. Meanwhile, the King rules over a kingdom that is split from head to toe. Is that not divine providence?”
“I don’t think so. I think that is just a King who will not listen to his people. In any case, the King’s side use exactly the same argument. If Mercurius Aulicus is to be believed, John Pym’s death is also due to divine providence.”
“No, I have studied this in some detail,” insisted Burghall, who was now in full flow. “God’s judgement is to be seen every day. Those who would live a godless life, indulging in drunkenness, dancing, and forbidden sports, and those who take part in wakes, popish festivals as they are; they all stand to be judged. I remember, many years ago at Bunbury, a bear-ward was torn apart at a bear baiting by the animal he was in charge of. That is an illegal calling, sir. Was it not providence that he paid with his life?”
I saw that Simon had his hands full, and so I left him to it. Instead, my attention was drawn to the copy of The Public Scout that I was holding. I started reading the main article, a long elegy to John Pym. I had barely been reading five minutes when Furnival appeared at my shoulder again.
“These must be profitable times for printers like you, Mr Furnival,” I said, turning the page to reveal a series of local news items from Shrewsbury.
“You are right,” replied Furnival. “There is a thirst for public debate of the issues of the day, especially in a garrison town like Nantwich. This town has become a melting pot for all manner of political and religious debate. There are rich pickings to be had for a wordsmith like me.”
“Why would that be so?” I asked.
“With Chester being controlled by the royalists, Nantwich has become a magnet for all kinds of diverse groups. There are puritans of the more extreme kind, including ministers who were persecuted under Laud, and there is a sizeable parliamentary force, and yet Nantwich also has more wealthy merchants and gentlemen than any other town in Cheshire. Even amongst the general population it is clear that the town has been torn asunder by this conflict. Despite the fact that most people here are for Parliament, it is clear that this town still has many people who are not of that persuasion. It is this aspect that I find most interesting.”
“I see.”
“For instance,” he said. “Take the murder that took place at Welsh Row End on Saturday, which I understand you are investigating.”
“That is correct,” I acknowledged.
“On the face of it, it appears that it may have been politically motivated.”
“Politically motivated?”
“Yes. I understand the victim was found with a crimson sash around his neck.”
“He was. I still have the scarf, but that is no proof that he was killed for his political allegiance.”
“No, but nonetheless, the simple act of using the scarf is symptomatic of the type of conflict we have. Matters such as this are of great interest to me. Perhaps you could spare some time to discuss this with me, perhaps over lunch tomorrow? The Public Scout needs to maintain a local flavour, and so I would like to find out more about this case.”
“I suppose I could do that,” I conceded.
“Good, then I will see you here at midday tomorrow – and bring the scarf with you. As you know, I spent some time in Shrewsbury, when the King was there. I may be able to help identify it.”
Of course, I had no need to show Furnival the scarf, as Randle Church had already told me it had belonged to him. Nevertheless, I was hardly going to admit this to Furnival. Intrigued at his interest, I turned my attention to rescuing my brother from the attentions of Edward Burghall.
13
Nantwich – Friday, December 15, 1643
Tinkers Croft was wreathed in an unsettling, spectral atmosphere as Sawyer, myself, and twenty-eight other reluctant townsfolk stood shivering in the morning mist, awaiting our prescribed musket training. A row of white tents, which ran alongside the southern edge of the field, appeared like ghostly apparitions in the icy mist. Behind us, St Mary’s rose forbiddingly, in a manner which belied the fact that it was God’s house.
As I peered through the murk, I became aware of three figures loitering a hundred yards away, barely visible in the fog, but as I continued to stare, I realised that I was looking at three large hay bales, which had been erected as targets. Affixed to the front of each of them was a metal breastplate.
As we waited, men began to emerge from the tents and started to gather in small groups, murmuring their interest at the sudden appearance of thirty civilians in their midst. These, I knew, were some of the unfortunate soldiers who had failed to find quarter within the town. I recognised Jack Wade amongst them and realised many of those camping must have been the remnants of the garrison from Beeston. Wade acknowledged my presence with a raised hand as I surveyed our small g
roup, a mixed bag of local tradesmen, servants, apprentices and youths, most of whom had never handled a musket before. Alexander and my brother Simon had joined us, as had Will Butters and several other servants from Townsend House. Also present were James Skinner and his two brothers, who stood huddled together, talking to each other in low voices.
Eventually, Major Lothian appeared with a lean-looking sergeant, who he introduced as Sergeant Bradshaw. Behind him came two more soldiers, who led a horse and cart, on which were loaded crates containing muskets, bandoliers, and other equipment. Once he had our attention, Lothian strode over to the cart and helped himself to one of the muskets.
“You may be wondering,” he said, “why you have been dragged out onto a freezing field in the depths of winter. Well, Lord Byron and his Irish army are nearly at our gates and they are getting closer. This town will need to be defended and we need as many able-bodied men as possible to help us do that. The purpose of today is to teach you how to use one of these muskets and give you half a chance of hitting something. Sergeant Bradshaw will demonstrate.”
“This,” said Bradshaw, taking the musket from Lothian and holding it in the air, “is a matchlock musket. The first thing you need to know is that it’s useless in the wet and the wind, and if you’re using it in the dark, your enemy will know exactly where you are. However, if you hit somebody with a ball from this, if he’s within a hundred yards, he isn’t going to get up. That means these things are dangerous buggers. So, if you want to avoid shooting a hole in your foot, pay attention.”
Satisfied that all eyes were on him, Bradshaw then held the musket in front of himself in both hands.
“Hold your weapon like this,” he said. “Open the priming pan and put some powder into it. Not too much – just enough. Now close the pan and blow the excess powder away.” Bradshaw demonstrated the procedure.
“Next, place your musket with the butt on the ground and the trigger facing backwards, but keep your eye on your burning match cord. You don’t want to set off a charge. Now put in one of the charges from your bandolier.” Bradshaw paused for a moment to make sure everyone was still watching before continuing.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 13