“Now put a ball in the barrel and some wadding and seat the charge using the ramrod.” The sergeant removed the ramrod from its holder and thrust it into the barrel.
“Now you can reseat the ramrod - but be careful. Only use your little finger. You don’t want to blow your hand off.” Bradshaw then picked up the musket, holding it in his right hand.
“Now you’re ready,” he said. “Get your matchcord, blow on it, and fix it into the serpent. Test it by moving it towards the closed pan. Cover the pan and blow on the match again. If everything is all right, you can now open the pan and take aim – but make sure you hold the gun tightly to your body. Then... fire.” Bradshaw fired the musket and a metallic clunk sounded from one of the hay bales in the distance. Those watching emitted a low murmur of approval.
“And that’s all there is to it,” said Bradshaw, with a wry grin. “And now it’s your turn. Who would like to go first?” When nobody moved, Lothian stepped forward and smiled.
“What about you, Mr Cheswis?” he said. “Show them how it’s done”.
Cursing, I stepped forward and began the procedure. I had got as far as putting the ramrod back, when my concentration was broken by Bradshaw’s scream.
“Not like that! You’ll blow your fucking hand off! – Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
The group broke out into nervous laughter, but Lothian said nothing. Replacing the ramrod as instructed, I completed the procedure, aimed, and fired. In the distance, the musket ball buried itself in the hay bale with a dull thud. Bradshaw peered into the mist and then turned to me, his face betraying nothing.
“Not a bad shot, sir,” he said. “You just missed the breastplate. Problem is you’ve shot the fucking scouring rod halfway across the field too, so now you can’t reload.”
The group of soldiers standing by their tents erupted in mirth as I traipsed across the field to retrieve the rod.
Next in line was Sawyer, who was biting his lip nervously. Taking the musket from Bradshaw, he surprisingly managed the loading process correctly but then spoiled it all by missing the target completely. Several other recruits followed with similar results. Two or three hit the bale, but most missed. Worst of all was Will Butters, who dropped the musket completely, scattering all and sundry as everyone dived for cover.
Next, it was James Skinner’s turn. My apprentice, his demeanour seemingly transformed, stepped forward confidently and, to our amazement, hit the breastplate squarely in the middle.
“Well done, young man,” said the sergeant, as Skinner returned, beaming, to the ranks. “That’s the way it should be done.”
After that, things began to improve. One of Skinner’s brothers also hit the breastplate, as did Simon. We then split into three groups, and, after an hour of practice, most of us had hit the breastplate at least once and those that hadn’t had at least managed to hit the bale.
Once the session had ended, each of us was allocated a musket and advised of the procedures for getting hold of powder, charges, and ammunition, should we be required to report for duty. As we filed from the field, I was approached by Jack Wade, who stepped forward from the group of soldiers from Beeston, who had been watching the whole procedure with some degree of amusement.
“Good shooting,” he said, with a grin, addressing Alexander and myself. “You did alright in the end, but I would say you still have some work to do.”
“Some work?” came a voice from behind Wade, heavy with sarcasm. “It will take more than a bit of work to train these useless bastards.”
I looked over Wade’s shoulder and my eyes fell on a tall, dark-skinned man with angular features, jet-black hair and a close-cropped beard. I was about to object to the man’s comments, but I was beaten to it by one of the Skinner brothers, who had been following close behind me.
“From what I hear, if you bunch of arseholes had known how to use your muskets properly, you’d still be in Beeston instead of being stuck in this field with your captain in jail for cowardice.”
I have to admit, I was impressed at the speed of the reactions of Wade and his colleagues, for the soldier had barely taken two steps towards Skinner’s brother before his arms had been pinned behind him. Alexander and I were a little slower, though, and Skinner’s brother had managed to land a glancing blow on the soldier’s cheek before we managed to restrain him.
“Leave it, Jem,” barked Wade, as the soldier was hustled away to his tent to cool down.
“I thought we were supposed to be on the same side,” I said, five minutes later, to Sergeant Bradshaw, who had been supervising the removal of the horse and cart and had returned to the scene just in time to see the aftermath of the incident.
“We are,” he replied. “Take no notice of Jem Bressy. He causes more trouble than most. But if I were you, I’d tell those three brothers to watch out for themselves. Bressy’s not just a hothead; he’s also a vindictive bastard. He’ll be looking to get his own back. You can be sure of that.”
Having made no progress whatsoever with my investigations into William Tench’s murder, I decided my time would be best spent looking into the fraud accusations against John Davenport. My first line of enquiry was to gain access to the Court Rolls, so later that morning I walked over to the Court House in the High Street, otherwise known as the Booth Hall, and sought out the bailiff’s clerk, a studious young man by the name of Ezekiel Green, who turned out to be most accommodating.
I was well-aware of the dogmatic nature of the rules of walling, but I had not seen documents like the Court Rolls before. The papers, which Green placed before me, went back ten years and contained surprisingly long lists of petty contraventions of the rules of walling, carried out by briners and wich house owners over that period of time. Men had been fined for offences such as making salt less than measure and not allowing the leave-lookers to check the barrows to ascertain they carried the correct measures, even for not carrying out walling at all, despite having sufficient wood. It seemed that several cases had been heard at every court session, most of which I had not been aware of, despite being in the business myself.
Also made available to me were a number of old walling books, which showed the walling allocations set according to right, as well as any amendments made during making meet sessions.
I was not sure exactly what I was looking for, but, going through the old court records, I did make several interesting discoveries. Firstly, it struck me that in 1642, the last year that Davenport was a Ruler of Walling, the number of misdemeanours finding their way before the court fell substantially. I also noticed with interest that Edward Yardley had been fined during that year for carrying out a night and day’s walling from a previous year’s book, despite having no right to do so. This, I mused, may have gone some way towards explaining the continuing antipathy between Davenport and Yardley.
Next, I picked up the old walling books and discovered two or three further anomalies during Davenport’s period of office. It appeared that Davenport had carried out four extra days walling that had not been picked up on and a further two days brought forward as old days but mis-accounted for. In addition, there was an instance where a wich house owner called Henry Ellcock had failed to claim two extra days walling, which should have been included as old days. These two days, it appeared, had been carried out on Ellcock’s behalf by Davenport. I couldn’t prove anything, but I wondered whether Ellcock actually knew about this. I was unwilling to condemn my friend without proof, but the irregularities in the accounts did appear somewhat suspicious, and it seemed, on analysis, that Davenport had, at best, miscalculated and broken several rules; offences which would result in quite a fine, in addition to loss of face.
I also wondered why it was that, if these misdemeanours had been so easy to spot, they had not been followed up by Kinshaw and the rest of the new Rulers months ago. My findings seemed to provide more questions than answers, but, noticing that I was late for my appointment with Hugh Furnival, I realised I had no time to look into the matter any
further. Gathering together my papers, I resolved to take the matter up with Davenport at the earliest possible opportunity.
Furnival, it turned out, was a skilled conversationalist and a most agreeable companion, as indeed was the lunch – rabbit stew, one of The Crown’s specialities. We talked for nearly an hour about the politics of the day, by which time I could have almost forgotten that this was the man who was married to Alice.
Eventually, though, the subject turned to the purpose of our meeting, so I took the initiative and asked Furnival why he was so interested in the murder of William Tench.
“The Public Scout is primarily a political newssheet,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration. “Our aim is to represent a variety of views, supported by stories of local interest. However, the circumstances surrounding Mr Tench’s demise suggest that there is more to the story than just a locally-motivated murder, don’t you think?”
I took a mouthful of ale and considered Furnival’s comment for a moment before saying; “What do you mean?”
“Come on, man,” said Furnival, his eyebrows raised in mock disbelief. “I don’t need to spell it out, do I? Tench is found murdered by the earthworks around a town which is most likely to become the focus of the war in Cheshire. The dead man, it appears, is suspected of being a royalist scout, even though, strangely, none of his acquaintances had thought it necessary to bring these suspicions to anyone’s attention. The Good Lord knows how that was kept quiet. And what’s more, the victim is found to have been throttled with a crimson scarf, identical to those worn by officers in the King’s army. Did you bring the scarf?”
I extracted the scarf from a pocket inside my cloak and laid it on the table. Furnival picked it up and inspected it closely, fingering the gold embroidery.
“This material is of high quality,” he said. “Not the sort of thing worn by every officer in the King’s army. This must have come from someone of high standing.”
“That is what I had assumed.”
“William Tench’s wife is employed by Randle Church, who has connections in high places. Could this scarf possibly belong to him, do you think?”
I gave Furnival a sharp look, but he merely smiled at me inscrutably and took another mouthful of rabbit stew.
“You seem to know a lot about this murder, Mr Furnival,” I observed.
“I make it my business to know such things,” he replied, breaking off a piece of bread. “The public wants information and I try to give it to them.”
“Information? You mean second-hand rumours about the Irish, designed to scare and manipulate your readers? Tell me, why is this murder so significant for you? Why is a little local affair like this of such importance to a political newssheet?”
Furnival wiped up the juices around the edge of his plate with his bread. “So many questions,” he said. ”Let me try to answer you. The mystery and hubbub surrounding the death of William Tench is symptomatic of this whole conflict. He was, on the face of it, a royalist in a parliamentarian town. But there is no black and white in defining the loyalties of individual towns in this war – only shades of grey.
“Think about it. Nantwich is, in principal, supportive of Parliament. Sir William Brereton is a radical leader, and his way of thinking has attracted many like-minded people, not only politically-motivated activists such as your brother, but also the radical preachers and hot protestants who are so prevalent in these parts. However, it is not the aim of all parliamentarians to create upheaval and change the world. There are just as many moderates like Colonel Booth and Roger Wilbraham at Dorfold, who would not want to change the established way of things and who would oppose much of what the likes of Brereton stand for.
“Then again,” he continued, “Nantwich is like any other town in England. The King has his supporters too. For every Dorfold Wilbraham there is a Townsend Wilbraham. Men who are loyal to the King but dare not come out in open support. It’s the same in Oxford. The university colleges support the King, but many of the townsfolk are for Parliament, and yet Oxford has become the King’s headquarters. Tell me, were you aware of the tangled web of relationships that link the main families of this town to serving the Crown in Ireland?”
“No,” I admitted. “Pray educate me.”
“Very well. Let us start with Lady Margaret Norton, whose husband was Secretary of State for Ireland under King James. That connection is clear, but he was not Lady Margaret’s first husband. That was Roger Mainwaring, head of one of Nantwich’s other leading families. Mainwaring also held high office in Ireland. He was Auditor for Ireland in the fifteen-eighties.”
“Alright, but where does everyone else fit in?”
“Patience,” said Furnival, with a touch of irritation. “I’m getting to that. The interesting thing is that Lady Norton was born Margaret Maisterson. Both her brother and her father held the position of Seneschal of Wexford, and her father was the younger brother of Thomas Maisterson’s great-grandfather. There are other connections too. Thomas Maisterson is also married to a Mainwaring, and if you want to find out where the Wilbrahams fit in then you need look no further than Roger Wilbraham’s great-uncle, who was Solicitor General for Ireland in the fifteen-eighties and therefore a contemporary of both Roger Mainwaring and Lady Norton’s father.”
I whistled quietly to myself as I took in what Furnival was saying.
“And that’s not all,” he continued. “There are connections everywhere. Tench’s wife works for one of the key merchants in the town, whose son has been a personal assistant to the King. Lord Cholmondeley is for the King, and even the minister at the church was for him until he was removed from office. This war pits brother against brother, and it’s this that I want to get across.”
“I see,” I said. I had not seen things in this way before, but I had to admit my companion was right. It was then that a thought suddenly struck me.
“One thing I’d like to know,” I said. “Your newssheet. What happens if the King wins this conflict?”
“Then we’ll adapt and change our stance to reflect prevailing public opinion. Our job is to report and stimulate debate. We are publishers, and publishing is a business after all. I am not averse to changing my words according to demand.”
“So you’re like a mercenary – a wordmonger – tailoring your words for public consumption? Changing them according to which way the wind is blowing?”
“If you like.”
As I observed Furnival’s self-satisfied manner, I realised what it was that Furnival sought to achieve with The Public Scout. It wasn’t the truth, or even business success. It was power, and I knew that men with such aims could be dangerous people indeed.
14
Nantwich – Saturday, December 16, 1643
As the week progressed, the proximity of Lord Byron’s army had become increasingly apparent, and, by Saturday morning, a tangible blanket of fear and apprehension had begun to settle over Nantwich. Barely an hour went by, day or night, without an alarm being raised. Soldiers guarding the earthen walls surrounding the town dared not lift their heads above the wooden parapet for fear of attracting a musket shot from the frozen hedgerows or from the shattered ruins of barns and cottages flattened by the townsfolk in an attempt to minimise cover for potential aggressors. Attempts were made to damage the earthworks at night, and stories began to emerge of plundering in the nearby villages of Stoke, Hurleston, Wrenbury, and Brindley – all settlements on the west side of the river.
Not surprisingly, these developments had a marked effect on the regular Saturday market. Farmers and visitors coming from the west could not approach the town without risk of being attacked and having their goods and livestock stolen by marauding royalists. As Skinner and I set up our stall in the cold and the mist, it quickly became clear that a number of regular stallholders had not risked the trip, and the market began to take on a distinctly forlorn and empty look. In the light of the poor turnout, I was beginning to contemplate ways of disposing of the stocks of cheese I had b
ought, when my attention was diverted by the sight of my brother striding purposefully up the road from the direction of Beam Street.
I was about to give Simon a hearty welcome but stopped myself abruptly when I saw his demeanour. Instead of wearing his customary affable grin, my brother wrung his hands in agitation, his face pinched and as white as a sheet.
“What is it, brother?” I said, laying down the cheese I had been preparing to cut and wiping my knife on my apron. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Daniel, you must come immediately,” he replied, his voice quivering slightly as he fought to control the symptoms of shock. “There has been another murder, at the end of Beam Street by Lady Norton’s house, and this time it’s someone I know.”
“Someone you know?” I exclaimed, registering the level to which my brother had been affected by this new occurrence. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain on the way,” said Simon, “but you need to come right now. The body has been found by the earthworks, and Major Lothian is already there.”
Removing my apron and throwing it on the table, I gave Skinner brief instructions to take over the stall, warning him not to leave his post until I returned, and then set off at a jog after Simon, who was already halfway down Pepper Street, marching like a man possessed. This was quite unlike Simon, who was normally an unflappable, easygoing character, but his state of unease had begun to be noticed by the street traders lining the sides of Pepper Street, and several of them laid down their tools and began to watch us with interest.
“Calm down,” I breathed, as I reached Simon’s shoulder. “You are drawing attention to yourself. Tell me. Who is the victim?”
“His name is Ralph Brett,” answered my brother, taking a deep breath.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 14