Amidst unrestrained cheering at Booth’s words, I turned to my right and saw that Simon had appeared at my shoulder.
“Well, if it was not the case before, there will now certainly be a reckoning,” he said, a hint of resignation in his voice.
“Aye, let us hope Brereton gets here in time,” I replied.
The reading of the statements certainly seemed to have motivated the town, for, on the same day, several companies burst forth from the garrison to attack the King’s army where they had built walls and dug in earthworks of their own, driving them away with the loss of only one man and gaining a considerable amount of clothes and ammunition. It was temporary comfort, though, for the cannonade from Dorfold House began again the following day, striking fear once more into the hearts of the townsfolk.
Byron’s men must have discharged their cannon nearly a hundred times and, although the artillery fire did not cause much damage to property, the intention was obvious. At daybreak on the Thursday morning, therefore, the townsfolk of Nantwich waited for the assault they knew would shape their future.
It was five in the morning. The air was icy cold but perfectly still, as every spare man – soldier and townsperson alike – stood in the grim darkness of the pre-dawn, ready to face the anticipated onslaught, the earthen walls illuminated only by the line of torches which flickered intermittently along their perimeter. Most men stood on the walls and in the sconces at the end of each street, chatting quietly or smoking their clay pipes. The tension was palpable. With the town having turned down Byron’s summons and suffered a day of bombardment, it was clear that an attack was imminent and the most likely time for that was dawn.
I had been sent to a position in Wickstead’s sconce, so named because it was next to the garden of Richard Wickstead, one of the town’s leading merchants, and was located down by the river on the North side of Welsh Row. Simon and Alexander were with me, as were many of the other recruits who had been trained up, including James Skinner and his brothers. In order to guarantee a force of equal strength along the town defences, the townsmen were interspersed with soldiers from the garrison, and I was glad to see the figure of Jack Wade on the wall next to me. Patrolling the wall behind him was Sergeant Bradshaw.
“So this is what it comes down to?” I said, by way of greeting.
“Don’t be misled by the size of their force,” said Wade, gesturing into the gloom beyond the walls, where, despite the darkness and the freezing mist hanging like a pall over the river, the royalist soldiers could be seen manoeuvring into position along the river bank. “These walls are built to hold. I’ll wager these Irishmen have bitten off more than they can chew.”
“Let us hope that that is so,” I said.
The garrison soldiers and the male townsfolk were not the only people on the walls, though. The women of Nantwich were also prepared to fight. In anticipation of the struggle to come, the wich houses along the side of the river had begun to boil brine, and a team of women stood ready with buckets, waiting to fling the boiling liquid on any attackers. I looked over towards the Davenports’ wich house and caught sight of Ann Davenport, her expression fixed in a look of steely determination, organising some of the women into a line, ready to pass buckets up the ladders to the top of the walls. I glanced to my right and caught sight of Elizabeth, who, having left Ralph with Mistress Johnson, was standing thirty yards away, ready for action at the top of one of the ladders.
The first we knew that something was about to happen was just after five, when a single piece of ordnance was discharged from Acton. Immediately, raucous shouts of “For God and King” echoed through the air, and groups of green-uniformed soldiers began to approach the walls. I noticed that many of the first wave of attackers were carrying scaling ladders. Intermingled amongst them were musketeers.
“Those are firelocks,” said Wade, in my ear. I looked and saw he was correct, as no glowing match was visible to betray their location.
“Hold your fire – don’t waste your musket balls,” shouted Sergeant Bradshaw. “You’ll barely tickle them at this range.” The women, however, started to ferry buckets of brine along the line for the women on the top of the wooden platform.
Eventually, the firelocks arrived within range and quickly organised themselves into formation. We knew exactly what was coming next. When the royalists fired their first volley, we would have to duck, and that would be the cue for the other soldiers armed with scaling ladders and snaphanches to charge for the walls. Our orders were to shoot the attackers whilst they were within range, then let the women pour water on them once on the ladders. Each alternate man inside the sconce was to stand back from the edge and to blast any attacker who emerged over the top.
Simon and I managed to get a couple of shots off before the scaling ladders were put against the walls. I took aim at the firelocks fifty yards away and pulled the trigger, my nostrils filling with the now-familiar stink of sulphur. I glanced to my right and saw Skinner doing the same. Along the riverbank, a piercing scream went up, and one of the greencoats tottered and collapsed into the water. Despite a volley of fire from the firelocks, nobody was hurt in the sconce, although a ladder appeared to my left, as if out of nowhere. Simon and I tried to push the ladder over but couldn’t do so without making my head a target for the firelocks below. With horror, I felt the ladder vibrate as one of the attackers made to climb up it.
Suddenly, I saw Elizabeth and another woman scuttle between us and tip a bucket of water over the wall. With relief, I heard a blood-curdling yell from a few feet below as someone received a bucketful of boiling brine in the face. The women were now passing buckets along the line as fast as they could.
The shooting and the boiling brine were effective, but after a few minutes it became clear that the number of people climbing the ladders was too large. Suddenly, a shout went up as a hate-filled face appeared above the wall on the right of the sconce. Wade aimed his musket and fired. The musket ball hit the royalist just below the eye, and his head exploded in a shower of blood. For a split-second his destroyed face stared at us, then it disappeared over the edge, taking the next soldier with him.
More soldiers began to appear one-by-one, our musketeers shooting them as they appeared over the parapet. One stumbled into the sconce, fell to his knees and then tried to get up, but was smashed over the head by Elizabeth with her heavy wooden bucket. He was then run through by one of the soldiers with a sword. Anyone else who was lucky enough to escape a musket ball in our vicinity was clubbed by Alexander with the butt end of his weapon.
Things were happening so fast that it became difficult to keep track of what was going on, but it was clear that Wickstead’s sconce was not the only place that was being attacked. Immediately across the river at Wall Lane, the earthworks were under attack from a regiment clad in bright red uniforms, whilst sounds from across the river to the right suggested that Pillory Street End was also coming under pressure. The melee inside Wickstead’s sconce continued for nearly an hour, until the floor was littered with dead royalists. Meanwhile, the more fortunate ones who had been injured or surrendered had been hauled down from the sconce and were being guarded.
During a break in the assault, Wade and I looked over the parapet and saw the captain of the group of firelocks attempting to rally his men. Wade squinted and turned to me. “You know what,” he announced, “If I’m not mistaken, that captain there is the same fellow who took Beeston Castle.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I’d recognise him anywhere,” grinned Wade. “What I’d give to bag him.”
I looked at the Captain just in time to see him rally his troops for an attack. At that point, a hundred firelocks all charged for the walls, and we braced ourselves for further hard work and bloodshed. I glanced to the right and saw James Skinner, his eyes fixed in concentration, step up to the wall as the Captain charged at the head of his men. He took careful aim and fired as the Captain got within fifteen feet of the sconce. The Captain stop
ped in his tracks, gave an audible gasp and grabbed at his stomach, before crumpling head first into the side of the earthworks.
“Captain Sandford’s down,” came a cry, and the rest of the flintlocks hesitated. The rest of us inside the sconce took aim and fired, three or four of the royalists falling under the volley. The rest took fright and retreated as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving the scaling ladders behind. These were rapidly hauled up by the townsfolk and soldiers, in order to stop any more assaults.
Sounds from other areas of Nantwich had also subdued and were being replaced by cheers and shouts of “For King and Parliament”. It was clear that against all the odds, the royalists had been repelled from there too. Meanwhile, in the half light of dawn, we could see the royalists retreating in the distance, dragging their dead with them, although many dead and injured still lay on the ground outside the walls.
I looked over to see if I could find Elizabeth, for I’d lost track of her. To my relief, I found her collapsed, exhausted, against a wall, sweating profusely and breathing heavily, but safe. I had a quick look around and saw that there were a couple of injuries amongst the town’s defenders, but miraculously, no-one in the sconce had been killed.
Skinner, meanwhile, was being congratulated by Sergeant Bradshaw for shooting Sandford, whose dead body was hauled up into the sconce and stripped. I walked over to inspect the corpse and noticed that several pieces of paper were sticking out of the dead man’s pockets. I unfolded one of them and started to read.
“Fucking papist bastard,” said Wade, aiming a kick at Sandford’s leg. “Serves the motley-minded miscreant right.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Jack,” I said. “Listen to this. Appearances can be deceptive.”
I smoothed out Sandford’s note and read it to Wade. “To the officers, soldiers and gentlemen in Nantwich : Gentlemen, let this resolve your jealousies, concerning our religion. I vow by the faith of a Christian, I know not one papist in our army. And, as I am a gentleman, we are not Irish, but true borne English and real protestants, born and bred. Pray you mistake us not, but receive us into your fair esteem and know we intend loyalty towards his Majesty and will be no other than faithful in his service. Thus gentlemen believe from yours, Thomas Sandford.”
Wade snorted, but I could see I had made my point.
“Sandford was a brave man,” I said, handing the letter to Sergeant Bradshaw. “It’s a shame that such men have to die. A curse on this war.” Shaking my head, I picked up my musket and headed towards the bridge.”
29
Pendennis Castle, Cornwall – Thursday
January 18, 1644
The Duke of Hamilton sat thoughtfully in his chamber at Pendennis Castle and stared out at the view over Falmouth. The weather in this far-flung extremity of England was wild and stormy, clouds scudding rapidly across the sky. A number of small boats at anchor on the Fal estuary bobbed precariously, the wind whistling past their masts. Behind them, on the east bank of the river, rising starkly against the angry sky, was the twin castle of St Mawes. The Duke sighed and contemplated the bad fortune that had plagued him in recent months.
Since he had been arrested and removed to Cornwall, he had been treated with respect and had enjoyed some degree of comfort. However, he had not been given any idea of when, and if, he was going to be released and feared he may eventually end up with his neck on the executioner’s block, especially if his rival Montrose had anything to do with it.
The King, as he had expected, had been furious when the Duke and his brother, Lanark, had arrived in Oxford, and both had immediately been placed before a court of inquiry. He could not complain, of course. The inquiry had been carried out thoroughly and with dignity, but with the witnesses including Montrose himself and other Scottish noblemen of considerable standing, there was only ever going to be one outcome. His Majesty, to be fair, had shown a substantial degree of reluctance in banishing him to the depths of the South-West, but he had done it, nevertheless. Lanark, on the other hand, had fared better. Having managed to escape from custody, he had high-tailed it back to Scotland and had cast his lot with the covenanters.
Hamilton surveyed his surroundings. Pendennis Castle was a mighty fortress built by Henry VIII, consisting of a circular keep approached via a drawbridge and portcullis and surrounded by a lower curtain wall. The whole construction was defended by a formidable outer defence with angular bastions. The castle was considered impregnable, being constructed on a narrow headland on the west bank of the River Fal, and surrounded on three sides by sea. There was no way he was going anywhere. Reluctantly, he had accepted the necessity of the back-up plan that had been instigated on his behalf.
It had not been easy, but Michael Forbes, the loyal servant who had followed him to Oxford and then on to Cornwall, with the express intention of helping the Duke, should he be incarcerated, had managed to bribe one of the servants at Pendennis to smuggle a message inside and a sealed letter from the Duke out. Forbes was now on his way to Ralph Brett in Nantwich. If all went well, the King’s letters would soon be in the hands of those that could make best use of them, and, God willing, he would be freed from his prison, to be one day, perhaps, heir to the throne.
30
Nantwich – Thursday, January 18 – Wednesday
January 24, 1644
Once the walls were secured, it did not take long before the full details of the royalists’ abortive dawn raid began to emerge. Byron’s men had attacked the town at five different places simultaneously, but, thanks to the bravery and discipline of the garrison force and our own redoubtable townspeople, they had been repelled everywhere, taking great losses. Overall, nearly four hundred royalists had died in the assault.
The largest slaughter had taken place at the sconce at Wall Lane End, where the bulk of Byron’s red regiment had been destroyed. Many officers and men, including a Lieutenant-Colonel, had been slain or wounded and cast into the river, but around eighty had also perished at Pillory Street End, whilst lesser numbers died at the sconce on Hospital Street and at the end of Beam Street near Lady Norton’s. Remarkably, only three townsmen had lost their lives.
A number of Byron’s officers and men had also been taken prisoner, and from them it was learned that a substantial proportion of the royalist troops had deserted, despite the fact that the soldiers arriving from Ireland were battle-hardened and well-used to the discomforts of a winter siege. The revelation helped considerably towards sustaining the morale of those who were defending the town.
Despite the magnitude of the royalist defeat, though, the siege continued to hold, and the euphoria of the victory was very quickly replaced by the numbing realisation that nothing had really changed. Food was now dreadfully short, and much of that which was available was prioritised for the garrison soldiers, in order to keep them fit for fighting. The decision had been made to begin slaughtering the cattle that were being held inside the walls, and every second night a communal roast was organised, although the amount of meat per person was strictly rationed. Ironically, there would have been no shortage of salt, had there been any meat left for the butchers to preserve.
Hay was also in short supply and reserved for the horses, leaving the town’s cattle with no food at all, although the townsfolk knew full well that, if the siege continued for much longer, there would soon be no cattle left for this to be a problem anymore. For the first time, with no-one able to get in or out of the town, the people of Nantwich started to wonder how long they could hold out.
Oddly enough, despite the effectiveness of the siege, Hugh Furnival had managed to find his way back into Nantwich. The first I knew about it was when his newssheet, The Public Scout, started appearing around the town. Simon, being very attuned to such things, had seen it in one of the taverns and made a point of bringing me a copy. In it was a brief account of the murders of Brett and Tench, as well as various pro-parliamentarian reports on what was happening elsewhere in Cheshire and Shropshire.
The very n
ext day, Furnival himself turned up at Elizabeth’s house with Alice in tow, to thank me for my attentions while he was away. Knowing my partiality to such things, Alice brought a small pork pie with her, which was particularly surprising and very much appreciated, given the shortage of victuals in Nantwich. Her husband, she explained, anticipating the severity of conditions within the town, had managed to carry a limited amount of food in his baggage, and she had made sure to put a little aside for me.
“How did you manage to get past the royalist pickets?” I asked Furnival, amazed that he had managed to get through at all.
“It was certainly not easy,” he answered, “but, when I arrived in Audlem, I heard about the bombardment and realised that an attack was imminent, so I took lodgings there and decided to wait it out. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Alice was here, I would have gone back to Shrewsbury and waited for the siege to end. In the event, after their failed assault, I was able to use the confusion of the royalist retreat to ride through the line of fleeing soldiers.”
I had to admit I found it impressive that Furnival had managed to achieve such a feat, but it was something I spent little time mulling over, for I had other things on my mind, not least the fact that I had made no further progress on the murders. There was no sign of Bressy and therefore no apparent threat to Simon and myself. Consequently, I had begun to come to the conclusion that he was no longer in Nantwich. At the same time, nothing had emerged to shed any light on the unfortunate circumstances in which John Davenport found himself. I was beginning to think that I was never going to get to the bottom of either matter, when suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, a breakthrough finally came on the Wednesday, six days after the royalists’ disastrous assault on our town. It came as the weather broke to milder air and leaden skies, as if it had blown in with the breeze.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 27