The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  Alice smiled nervously and put a finger to her mouth to stop me from talking. “Quickly,” she said, “you only have a few moments. Follow me.”

  I was dumbfounded, but despite my confusion, I nudged Alexander in the ribs, and we were both on our feet in an instant.

  “Don’t worry about your friend,” she said, gesturing towards Wade, who had not stirred. “Lord Byron has a good physician here. I will make sure he is well taken care of.”

  I looked over at the bed and shook my head vehemently.

  “We can’t leave him here, Alice,” I said. “He is here on my account. If we desert him now, he will be hung as a spy.”

  “That won’t happen,” insisted Alice, with a frown. “He was wearing Brereton’s colours. He will be considered as no more than an enemy prisoner. You know how it is. If he recovers from his injuries, he will be invited to join Byron’s army. That is not such a bad fate. Don’t be a fool, Daniel. You need to come, now.”

  I took one last look at Wade, before nodding briefly and following Alice out of the door onto the landing, where I was amazed to see two unconscious guards propped up against the wall.

  “A sleeping draught,” explained Alice, “administered with the help of Roger Wilbraham of Dorfold. Don’t worry about the guards. They will wake up in a while.”

  “And the rest of Lord Byron’s men?”

  “Lord Byron himself is in Acton, facing the parliamentarian army. He and his colleagues have more important things to worry about right now than two fugitives.”

  “But what if Byron wins the battle and returns this evening? How will you explain this to him?”

  “I won’t need to, Daniel,” said Alice. “Wilbraham is strong for Parliament and Byron will assume he is responsible.”

  “And Wilbraham?”

  “He will not betray me. I have helped him secure your escape.”

  I nodded and followed Alice along a corridor, down a set of stairs, and into the kitchens. Standing there waiting was Wilbraham, who smiled and indicated towards a door, which led out to the lawns at the side of the house.

  “Gentlemen, you may leave this way,” said Wilbraham. “Be careful crossing the lawns. There are still a number of soldiers guarding the house. Once you’re in the trees you should be safe, but be sure to stay clear of the royalist artillery. There may still be some ordnance in place, directed at the town.”

  I nodded my thanks to Wilbraham and turned to Alice. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  “Daniel. I have known you a long time and, despite what you think of me in this moment, I still have feelings for you. Hugh’s death is not your fault. I would not have you and your friends hung as spies on my account. Now go quickly while you have the chance.”

  I needed no second bidding. The next moment, Alexander and I were sprinting across the lawn, heading for the safety of the trees.

  33

  Hurleston, Cheshire – Thursday

  January 25, 1644

  Sir Thomas Fairfax stood on the high ground at Hurleston, a mile to the north-west of Acton, and clicked his teeth in annoyance. In the middle distance, across a dip in the landscape, he was able to identify the massed forces of Lord Byron’s royalist army blocking the road to Nantwich, and he did not like what he saw. Fairfax’s scouts had informed him that Sir Robert Byron’s men on the east bank of the Weaver had been stranded away from the rest of the royalists by the swollen river, due to the collapse of the only bridge north of Nantwich – and yet, judging by the ensign clearly visible ahead, Sir Robert’s men were already moving into position on the royalist left flank, positioning themselves between Fairfax’s army and Acton’s church. Fairfax’s plan had been to attack Byron, but now that he was able to see the strength of the royalist army, he was no longer convinced of the wisdom of such a move. He had therefore halted his force and called his most senior officers to an impromptu Council of War.

  “Gentlemen, our guns and carriages have been too slow,” he said, addressing the select band of eight men standing in front of him. “We no longer have the numerical advantage. How do you propose we proceed?”

  Fairfax ran his fingers through his hair and observed the reactions of his colleagues. The first man to speak was a square-jawed officer of roughly his own age, clean-shaven save for a thick, dark moustache that adorned his upper lip. “We should attack Byron’s army now, Thomas, while we have the chance. His men have been sat in the snow for nearly a month. They are not as strong as they look.”

  Fairfax stared at Sir William Fairfax, and a narrow smile formed on his lips. “Thank you, cousin,” he replied. Fairfax did not doubt Sir William’s courage or his commitment to serving God and the parliamentary cause, but he was looking for more than mere bravado.

  “I knew we should have remained in Lancashire,” said a tall man in his early thirties with a clean-shaven, narrow face and black shoulder-length hair that lay flat over his head but bushy across his shoulders. Next to him, an older, smaller, and more rotund man nodded vigorously.

  “Sir John, you should be in no doubt that your interests will be best served by ensuring that Nantwich does not fall,” snapped Fairfax. Sir John Booth and Richard Holland were the commanders in charge of Fairfax’s Lancashire Regiments, and it had taken some degree of persuasion to convince them that a winter’s march to South Cheshire was good idea.

  Of the five remaining men, four remained quiet. They were Colonels Assheton, Bright, Copley, and Lambert. However, the fifth, a slightly-built man with thin, pinched features, stepped forward and spoke calmly and with authority.

  “You are right, Sir Thomas,” he said. “There is no need to risk all by attacking a superior force. We should head directly to Nantwich, relieve the garrison and then attack Lord Byron with a combined force.”

  “And how do we do this, Sir William?” asked Fairfax. “The road ahead is blocked.”

  Sir William Brereton, Commander of Parliament’s forces in Cheshire, pointed across the fields in a south-easterly direction. “There is a narrow lane about a mile distant called Welshman’s Lane. If we cut across the fields, avoiding the road altogether, we can bypass Byron. Once we have reached the lane, it is but a simple walk into Nantwich.”

  Fairfax considered Brereton’s words carefully. Leaving the road would be a slow and risky manoeuvre, requiring his men to haul artillery across sodden fields and cut their way through hedgerows. Then again, nothing he had encountered on his march to Nantwich had been straightforward.

  The first setback had been the point-blank refusal of Colonel Hutchinson to join him with a troop of horse quartered at Nottingham, a reinforcement he had been counting upon. Fairfax had then marched across to Stafford and Newcastle, where he had managed to make contact with Brereton. However, Byron had attacked his men, leaving Brereton and Fairfax with no option but to march north to Manchester, where they had spent two weeks trying to recruit foot soldiers. In total, they had managed to assemble nearly 3,000 infantry to make a combined force of 3,550 horse and 3,000 foot. Included among the Manchester recruits were some of the men who had served under him during his disastrous defeat at Adwalton the previous year. He had burst into tears when he saw their haggard, half-naked state and had immediately set about taking care of their welfare.

  He and Brereton had departed for Nantwich on 21 January, clashing with one of Byron’s pickets at Delamere Forest before billeting at Tilston. That had been the previous night, and now, this morning, he had already had to subdue a small force at Barbridge, five miles from Nantwich, before marching on to his current position, well aware of his tardiness.

  Fairfax considered Brereton’s suggestion for a few moments before deciding that the risk involved in carrying out a march across the face of the enemy was less than attacking them head-on. The column of soldiers, therefore, left the road with the guns and baggage train in the van, the pioneers cutting a channel through the hedges. Immediately behind them was Colonel Lambert’s horse and Brereton and Assheton’s foot. Fairfax himself w
as in the centre, followed by Booth and Holland’s foot and Sir William Fairfax’s horse bringing up the rear.

  At first, he thought his plan was going to work, but it did not take long for him to realise that Byron had identified what the parliamentarians were trying to do and was aiming to cut them off at their point of maximum vulnerability. To Fairfax’s dismay, he noticed that the two royalist wings had begun to orchestrate a wheeling action, in order to attack his column from both the front and rear simultaneously. Realising he was trapped and that he had no hope of reaching Welshman’s Lane, Fairfax ordered Booth and Holland to turn to face the enemy that was about to descend upon them from the rear, whilst watching as Brereton and Assheton were attacked from the front. With resignation and no little degree of frustration that he had lost the opportunity to fight the battle on his terms, Fairfax realised he had no option but to turn his whole army round, organise it, and fight. It was just after half past three in the afternoon.

  34

  Acton, Cheshire – Thursday January 25, 1644

  It was a sprint of no more than thirty yards into the thick but narrow band of woodland that bordered the east side of Dorfold House, but, in my heightened state of agitation, it felt more like two hundred. Concealing myself behind the trunk of an oak tree, I glanced back towards the house and was able to ascertain with relief that we had not been spotted by any of the remaining guards, who, I realised, must all have been stationed on the Acton side of the house.

  Alexander and I waded through the sodden undergrowth to the other side of the woodland, beyond which lay open fields stretching all the way to Nantwich. It was clear why Byron had chosen this place to stand the artillery that had bombarded the town a fortnight previously, as from here the earthworks at Welsh Row End were no more than half a mile away. Having seen the royalist artillery train hauling cannon and mortars from the scene earlier that morning, we did not expect to find any remaining ordnance in place. Nonetheless, we approached the edge of the trees warily, just in case any of Byron’s men had remained behind. It was as well that we did, for, although the heavy artillery had long since been removed, the route back to Nantwich was now blocked by a group of around a hundred infantry, who were loitering meaningfully on the main road with the obvious intention of preventing a breakout from Welsh Row. Alexander and I slid carefully back into the trees to make sure we were not seen.

  “What do we do now?” breathed Alexander, removing his hat to reveal a wrinkled forehead lined with beads of sweat. It was a good question, the answer to which was not immediately obvious. Heading straight for Nantwich was clearly out of the question, as, in truth, was the alternative option of retracing this morning’s steps back to Shrewbridge, for even this carried a considerable risk of being spotted crossing the open fields. What concerned me more, though, was whether it was a good idea to be marching back to Nantwich at all. If we were to return to our homes and Byron was victorious, Alexander and I stood to be arrested and hung.

  “I think caution is called for at this point,” I said. “I say we stay here in the wood and see what happens.” The decision proved to be the correct one, for at that moment, I became aware of an increased volume of shouting from the direction of Acton, followed quickly by the roar of Byron’s field artillery.

  “The fighting has begun,” I said. “Let us see if we can get a better view.” Taking care to stay within the line of the trees, we skirted northwards in the direction of the road to Tarporley, until we reached the edge of the woodland. From here, the vantage point was much better. Not only could we still see back to Nantwich, but we also had a clear view across the fields to the north.

  The sight was magnificent but terrible at the same time. Two or three hundred yards away and facing away from us, down the slope, was Byron’s army, spread across several fields. The standards of the various companies fluttered in the breeze as they started to manoeuvre into position. I calculated that Alexander and I were located somewhere between Byron’s centre and right flank. Through gaps in between the raised pikes of the royalists, I could see the parliamentary army lower down in the distance and realised that they were trying to march across the face of the royalist position.

  “Looks like Fairfax doesn’t want to fight,” I said. “He’s trying to reach Nantwich.”

  “Aye,” said Alexander, with a grimace, “but he’s not going to make it. His pioneers are stuck in a bloody hedgerow.”

  I strained my eyes and stared beyond the royalist right flank towards the head of the parliamentary force and saw, with trepidation, that Alexander spoke the truth. Fairfax’s pioneers and artillerymen had stopped and were frantically trying to cut a hole in the line of hedges that criss-crossed the field. They were now being attacked by cavalry on the royalist right flank. Meanwhile, movement in the distance suggested that Byron’s left flank, the furthest away from where I stood, had attempted to follow suit.

  “He’ll have to fight,” exclaimed Alexander, “otherwise he’ll be surrounded.”

  My friend, I realised, was right. Parliament, in some confusion, was being attacked on three sides. The only positive thing, from the parliamentary point of view, was that the royalist cavalry was having difficulty operating effectively, due to the sodden ground and the small enclosures they were operating in.

  As the minutes went by, however, I gradually began to realise that, although the royalists had initially held the upper hand, Parliament was holding firm. The cavalry on Parliament’s right flank had begun to rally, and the ensign of Sir William Brereton’s foot, which I recognised in the middle of the left wing, began to make an impression against the pikes and muskets of the royalist right. Strangely, through all of this, the royalist centre had held back, barely engaging with the enemy.

  The battle was now at its loudest; artillery, musket, and sword drowning out voices. So, when the bells began, I almost didn’t hear them. It was the sharp ears of Alexander, attuned to such things, that picked them up first.

  “Daniel, listen,” he shouted, grabbing my arm. “They know!”

  I listened carefully, and, sure enough, above the noise of the battle, I could just make out the sound of St Mary’s church bells being rung back-to-front, a coded sign which we both knew was a call to action. The garrison and townspeople of Nantwich knew what was happening and were coming to help.

  “Now we’ll see what these Irishmen are made of,” said Alexander, as we watched the road which led to the end of Welsh Row. After a few minutes, we observed soldiers breaking out via the sconce at the end of the street and over the walls and ditches surrounding that side of the town. I was amazed. In the distance, men flooded over the walls like ants until they numbered nearly a thousand, engulfing the unfortunate royalist guard in a matter of minutes. Once Byron’s men had surrendered, the garrison men started to march up the road towards where Alexander and I were standing.

  Turning my attention once again to the main battle, I realised that the royalist centre had begun to retreat, so that the parliamentarian centre was beginning to separate the royalists’ left and right flanks, falling into the flanks of both their wings. It also seemed that the parliamentarian horse was beginning to beat Byron’s cavalry away from the lanes that enclosed the fields in which the action was taking place.

  Alexander turned to me and smiled. “It looks like Fairfax’s boys are beginning to take control,” he said.

  “Thank the Lord for that,” I replied, and looked down the road towards Nantwich at the column of men, which was now almost upon us. At its head was Colonel Booth, on his fine bay gelding. Behind him were the soldiers of the Nantwich garrison and the men of the Nantwich trained bands. As they came within fifty yards of us, Alexander and I stepped out of the trees onto the roadside and waved our hands frantically in the air. It took a few moments for those in the van to recognise us, and one or two musketeers lined us up in their sights, suspecting a trap. However, a shout went up; “It’s Constable Cheswis and Bellman Clowes. Hold your fire, men.”

  Within
a few seconds, Colonel Booth pulled his horse alongside us and halted. “Well, sir,” he said, by way of greeting. “I did not envisage finding you here. You’ll have a story to tell, I’ll wager?”

  “We do, Colonel,” I said, “but it can wait until the matter at hand is resolved. Can we be of assistance?”

  “You most certainly can,” said Booth, spurring his horse forward. “You may join our rear. I’ll send a rider back to pick up a couple of spare weapons.” With that, Booth summoned over a cavalry officer, who quickly galloped back towards the town and secured a couple of muskets, bandoliers, and swords from the weapons taken from the royalist prisoners, who were now being led away into town. Five minutes later, we were able to tag onto the end of the column, which was now heading rapidly towards the rear of the royalist force. As the column marched past I caught sight of James Skinner and his two brothers, eyes alight and focused in front of them. One of the brothers saluted me as he marched past, but Skinner himself didn’t even see me, his face a mask of concentration.

  Our group of townsmen followed Sergeant Bradshaw, who headed straight for the rear of the royalist centre, which was already in retreat. Positioning ourselves behind a hedgerow, we started firing at a line of green-coated musketeers, several of whom collapsed to the floor screaming, causing their neighbours to wheel round in panic. In the melee, several royalist officers, realising they were being attacked from two sides, were frantically trying to rally their troops and to reposition some of their pikemen. As I reloaded my musket, I caught sight of a familiar face wielding his sword and threatening any of the wavering royalists who looked like they were ready to flee.

  Jem Bressy didn’t notice me because he had his eyes on other things. He had recognised the Skinner brothers, who stood to the left of our group, next to a gap in the hedgerow. Aided by several of his colleagues, Bressy waited for the Skinners to empty their muskets before charging headlong into their midst.