The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “Leave it to me,” grinned Alexander, evidently delighted to be given this responsibility. “We may not have found your cheese thief, but our murderer may yet be within our grasp!”

  26

  Dorfold House, Cheshire – Wednesday,

  January 10, 1644

  The man who would become known as the “Bloody Braggadoccio” looked through the upstairs window of the fine red brick mansion he occupied and contemplated the scene developing below him. Lord John Byron had been well-ensconced in the comfortable surroundings of Dorfold House for several days, much to the chagrin of its owner, Roger Wilbraham of Dorfold, who stood in the courtyard in front of the house, remonstrating loudly with one of Byron’s captains and gesturing towards an artillery train, which was making its way laboriously across the grounds of the house towards a gap in the trees and the field beyond. Seventeen pairs of oxen stomped and snorted, their chains rattling, as they dragged the great gun carriage carrying the cannon that would be used to pound the Nantwich defences. Behind it, following the deep ruts in the semi-frozen earth created by the first gun carriage, was a second train hauling a mortar. Accompanying both was the mass of humanity required to move and operate heavy ordnance – gunners, fireworkers, drivers, pioneers, and craftsmen, all marching to positions behind the trees, where they would be in full view of Welsh Row.

  Byron fingered his moustache and smiled to himself as he watched Wilbraham, who was almost incandescent with rage at the damage the artillery train was causing to his property. He had little sympathy for Wilbraham, for he was a traitor and deserved everything that was coming to him. However, Wilbraham was also a gentleman and, for that, against his better judgment, Byron had granted him the right to remain in his own property, whilst it was in use by his Majesty’s forces.

  Byron turned away from the window and focused his attention on the other matter of concern to him; namely, the whereabouts of Lord Hamilton’s correspondence. He was not particularly enthused about the efficiency of the intelligence agent that had been entrusted to recover the letters. The agent’s hired muscle had failed to find anything at Brett’s house, and one of them, Hulse, had been stupid enough to get himself killed in trying to eliminate the Constable, whose persistence in trying to identify his agent had been a grave cause of concern. Still, Brett and Nuttall were dead, so the number of people with the knowledge and opportunity to do anything with the letters was rapidly decreasing.

  Despite this, the Cheswis brothers were becoming a major thorn in his side. Byron had hoped his men would find what he had been looking for hidden in the depths of Greenbank Farm. However, Bressy and the other soldiers who had returned to the Cheswis’s farm had ransacked the place from top to toe and still found nothing. The parents and the brother were clearly ignorant of anything to do with the matter, for threats to kill the children had elicited no information at all. They had searched the house and the cellars thoroughly, but to no avail.

  Nevertheless, he reasoned, if the papers were not in Barthomley, it was comforting to know that they would, in all likelihood, still be in Nantwich. And if that was so, they would not be going anywhere. With a smile of self-satisfaction, he realised he had time on his side.

  He had already issued a summons to Colonel George Booth to surrender the town, which, as he had expected, had been refused. He had heard that Fairfax had been despatched to Manchester and that he and Brereton would eventually arrive to confront him, but he knew this would not happen for at least two weeks. After all, Fairfax needed to rest his men and gather together enough foot soldiers willing to march with him and Brereton to Nantwich.

  In the meantime, Byron’s large ordnance would shortly be in place, ready to start raining fire and terror on the local townspeople. Byron was in no hurry. He would take his time and slowly bombard and starve the puritan rebels into submission. The raid on the King’s carriages had been a setback, for sure, but the people of Nantwich could not hold out for ever, and, just when they had run out of food, ammunition, and will to fight, he would attack. All he had to do was to wait until his forces took over the town, which they surely would, then the Cheswis brothers would be captured and hung as traitors, and the King’s letters would be safe.

  27

  Nantwich – Wednesday, January 10 – Thursday

  January 11, 1644

  I was in the vicinity of Welsh Row when the shooting began. The streets had been quiet, for by now most regular business in the town had ceased. Men no longer dared venture from the town walls for fear of an attack by the enemy, who were now encamped all around the town, their fires and tents visible for all to see. I had finished my sentry duty and was on the way back home for a meal and some rest, but decided to make a brief detour past my wich house to check it was secure. It was eleven o’clock at night, and the townsmen and soldiers I had left manning the earthworks were settling down for what they thought would be a peaceful night. I skirted the earthen walls until I came almost to the banks of the Weaver, keeping to the light provided by the torches on the walkway. I then headed down behind the wich houses on Great Wood Street and along the side of the common cistern, carrying my musket in front of me.

  It was a dark night. The waning crescent of the old moon had not yet risen above the horizon, and the inky blackness of the brine lake gave off an aura of gloomy malevolence, relieved only by the occasional flicker of light emanating from the taverns on Welsh Row. I had just finished checking the locks on the door of my wich house, when the brooding silence was broken by a deafening boom coming from the direction of Dorfold House.

  I stopped in my tracks and instinctively cupped my hands over my ears, realising immediately the significance of what I had heard – mortar fire. I looked over the roofs of the buildings on Little Wood Street and noticed that the sky was filled with glowing orange lights, which were getting nearer by the second. Meanwhile, shouts of alarm were heard from the earthworks to my right, and I realised that the royalists were shooting large, red hot iron bullets into the town. I barely had time to react before one of the red balls thudded into the ground twenty yards to my left. Three more splashed into the cistern, whilst numerous others buried themselves into the wich houses on the other side of the water.

  Once I was sure all the bullets had fallen to earth, my first reaction was to run through Strawberry Hill and onto Welsh Row, where people had already started to mill out onto the street. Brine workers, many of them women, were emerging from the tenements, buckets in hand, heading for the timber wich houses on Little Wood Street.

  “Check for fire!” shouted someone. “Line up with the buckets by the cistern.” I gazed into the gloom and saw the familiar figure of John Davenport organising the workers into teams. I knew only too well the urgency of the situation. If one of these wooden buildings caught fire it would only be a matter of minutes before the whole street was ablaze.

  A couple of minutes later, the booming report of the mortar was heard again. This time, though, the bullets rained down on an area closer to the edge of town. I joined the queue of brine workers by the cistern and helped pass buckets along a line to extinguish a small fire in one of the wich houses. However, after ten minutes or so it became clear that my fellow brine workers had events under control. I thought to return home to the relative safety of Pepper Street, but something told me to head up Welsh Row to where the bullets were falling with increasing regularity. As I made haste in the direction of the sconce at Welsh Row End, I heard several more explosions and was forced to take refuge behind a wall as the glowing red balls flew over my head.

  As I passed the gates of Townsend House, a figure darted down the pathway and tried to hail me. I waved as I recognised the squat, bearded figure of Will Butters.

  “What’s the matter, Will?” I shouted.

  “We need help, Master Cheswis,” he called, the urgency etched in his voice. “The shot these cavalier bastards are sending over has set fire to a hovel of kidds. We need to put it out or the whole damned building will go up in smoke.�
� I followed Butters round the back of the house, and, sure enough, a wooden shack full of faggots used for fuel had caught fire and was burning merrily. Worse still, the wind was throwing red hot smuts in the air and blowing them in the direction of the house.

  Thanks to Will’s efforts, a number of people from nearby houses had already appeared in the grounds of the house and were frantically passing buckets of water along a line to extinguish the flames. Among them, I noticed, were many women brine workers, including John Davenport’s daughters, Margery and Martha. I also noted the presence of Robert Hollis, the owner of the barn near to where Tench’s body had been found, Edmund Parker, the landlord of The White Swan, and Edward Yardley, who, like me, appeared to have just finished sentry duty.

  “Christ’s robes, Will,” I said, as another explosion reverberated in the distance. “This is the very image of hell. Where is Roger Wilbraham?”

  Butters paused to watch a shower of bullets fly overhead, several of which buried themselves in the ground nearby, causing the train of helpers to dive for cover.

  “Master Roger retired to his bedchamber this morning, sir,” shouted Butters, trying manfully to make himself heard above the commotion. “He has a sore fever and has not been able to venture forth without being overcome by uncontrollable shivers. He’s heazing like a dog, sir, if the truth be told. The doctor has already been to attend to him and has administered what medicine he can but he’ll be bedfast for a day or two yet, I’ll warrant.”

  “If anything is guaranteed to raise him then this is surely it,” I said, ruefully. “This is enough to raise the dead.”

  Cursing, I joined the train and started passing water rapidly along the line. Meanwhile, many more people had seen the fire and were flooding into the grounds, so that within the next ten minutes several human chains had formed, each passing buckets along as they attempted to put out the blaze. Every couple of minutes or so a fresh boom reverberated across the countryside, forcing everybody to take cover behind walls, round the side of the house, or curled up on the ground.

  After a while, it seemed that the shots were getting more frequent and more targeted, and we realised with horror that Byron’s gunners had seen the fire and were deliberately trying to kill the people putting it out, men and women alike.

  “Sweet Jesus,” growled Butters, as we took cover yet again. “These Irishmen are nought but a bunch of barbarians. God help us if they break through our walls. If they’re prepared to shoot at innocent women now, what kind of mercy can we expect, if we let them break this siege?”

  I nodded in agreement and scrambled to my feet again as soon as the barrage of bullets stopped.

  Eventually, almost imperceptibly, the fierceness of the blaze started to abate, and at last it began to feel like the fire was under control. This was just as well, because we had been there the best part of an hour, and many of the people tending the blaze were beginning to show a dangerous degree of nonchalance towards the missiles that were being propelled towards us. As the flames began to die down, I found myself stood in the human chain next to Margery Davenport. In between passing buckets of water across, I called to her and asked how her father was faring.

  “A little improved, thank you,” replied the girl. “He is better for being out of jail, but he is still morose and depressed. I can’t say why. It’s a mystery to us.”

  I began to wonder whether it would be ill-mannered to ask Margery how much she was aware of her father’s activities whilst he’d been a Ruler of Walling, but, as fate would have it, all such lines of enquiry became superfluous, for at that moment, something happened that will live with me for the rest of my life. Once more, we heard the boom of the mortar as the gunners completed their firing cycle, but this time, for some reason, perhaps it was fatigue, we carried on passing water to each other without having a care for the red hot lumps of metal that were heading our way. I turned away from Margery to grab the bucket from the person on my left and heard a brief whistling sound next to me, followed by a dull thud. As I turned back to face Margery, I was confused to find she was no longer there. I looked down and realised with horror that she was lying on her back at my feet. A piece of cannon-shot the size of an egg had hit her full in the chest, and blood was pumping out of a gaping wound in her breast. She tried momentarily to get up, but couldn’t, and collapsed, motionless, as her life blood ebbed away into the snow.

  There was a moment of shock as people took in what had happened, followed by a piercing shriek as Martha rushed over to where her sister was, her face as white as a sheet.

  “Margery, Margery!” she howled, before turning helplessly to the crowd of onlookers. “Somebody get a physician,” she wailed, but everyone could see that such action was pointless. I bent down to help Martha up and lead her away. Meanwhile, Will Butters stood and watched, with a face like death, as the dull red piece of metal that had killed my friend’s daughter lay hissing in the snow.

  Twenty minutes later, John Davenport stood by the rear wall of Townsend House with his fist in his mouth, silently weeping over the inert body of his daughter. Margery had been laid to one side of the gardens with a sheet over her, whilst her father was fetched from Little Wood Street. Martha, meanwhile, was led home to her mother. My friend cut a lonely figure as he stood sobbing in the shadows cast by the Wilbrahams’ great house, his back illuminated by the flickering glow from the fire, which had still not quite been extinguished. His body heaved as I approached him, and I laid my hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, John,” I said. “I was with her when she died. She was standing right next to me. I don’t think she felt anything.”

  Davenport looked up as I touched him and grimaced, anguish etched on his features. “This is all my fault, Daniel,” he lamented. “Divine providence is what it is. The Lord knows I am guilty of something I shouldn’t have done, and now he is punishing me.”

  “You must not allow yourself to believe that,” I insisted. “This is due to the King and his murderous artillery. No-one else. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Davenport, “and I shall be damned for evermore for my sins.”

  “Not if you believe what the puritans say,” I ventured. “They would have you believe that if you are destined to be damned, you will be damned whatever you do, but if you are to be saved, what you do has no import whatsoever.”

  Davenport snorted and turned to look at me through narrowed eyes. “Damn the fucking puritans,” he seethed, “and damn the cavaliers too. Just wait until I get hold of the bastards who did this to Margery. Someone will pay for this, dearly.” Behind me, buckets were still being passed urgently along the line of people stretched across the lawn. Several of them turned round, staring as Davenport spoke, for his voice had risen to a dangerous level. I put my hand on my friend’s arm to calm him, but he shook it off with a shrug.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel, I’d like to be on my own if I may,” he said, stalking off down the garden in the direction of the outhouses, pigsty, and stables. Reluctantly, I let him go and set about helping the others sort out the fire, which was still angrily spitting embers into the air.

  The royalist bombardment carried on for at least a couple of hours more and was not just limited to Welsh Row. Cannonballs were also shot over the river, damaging properties in Barker Street, High Street, and Pillory Street. One crashed into the stables at The Crown and killed a couple of horses. People were consequently out and about in the town putting out fires until three in the morning. Eventually, the blaze at Townsend House was extinguished, but the pile of kidds was burned and useless.

  After a while, I noticed Davenport walk past me, head down and with a preoccupied look on his face. Making sure he kept himself apart from the remaining helpers, he sat down on a garden wall, oblivious to what was going on around him, and started talking to himself in low muttering tones. I decided to leave him alone in his grief and surveyed the scene around me.

  There seemed to be little more that I could
do that evening. The bombardment had finally died down, allowing the exhausted townsfolk to slowly filter away back to their own houses. I was just about to head back home myself, when I became aware of a commotion emanating from round the back of the stables. Suddenly, a couple of male servants came running round the front of the building.

  “Constable, come quick,” one of them shouted. “There’s something you should see.”

  With a sigh, I allowed myself to be led wearily round the back of the house and into the stables. The horses were whickering nervously. One of them was sweating and kicking out at the wall. Clearly, something had disturbed them. After being in the brightness of the snow and the firelight, I had to adjust my eyes to the dark in the dingy stable block. However, I was gradually able to make out shapes in the corner of the building. The servants pointed out what looked like a sack of vegetables, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark, my heart lurched and I groaned with horror, for I realised I was looking at the dead body of Will Butters, his throat neatly cut from ear to ear.

  Perhaps it was the incessant and debilitating boom from Byron’s mortar that disoriented me so, or maybe it was just the sight of so much gore in such a short space of time, but I must have been standing in silence for fully two minutes contemplating the bloody scene in the stables before I came to my senses. As my eyes got used to the light, I could see that the stable floor had begun to resemble the interior of a butcher’s shop, for Butter’s blood had flowed freely, soaking his shirt and jerkin, and had seeped into the piles of straw covering the floor where he lay. It was not until one of the servants, both of whom had been shuffling their feet nervously, coughed lightly and asked what I would like them to do, that I managed to pull myself together.