by M. J. Harris
“Have you given up Englishman? Is your spirit broken?”
“Yes Lord.”
The Tall Man studied him for a moment then scoffed.
“I think not,” he stated and Pitkin cringed. More pain?
“Be easy Englishman. A man with no backbone is of no use to me.”
“Use Lord?”
“I am told you were taken in a fishing village. Are you a seafaring man?”
“No Lord. Once I was a soldier.”
“Ah, as I suspected. Your scars said as much. A King’s man?”
“Yes Lord.”
“So then, your escape did not proceed as planned I gather! The Corsairs did not factor in your scheme!”
“No Lord,” sighed Wil.
The Tall Man studied the horizon for a while then turned his piercing eyes back upon Wil.
“Do you wish to remain a slave Englishman?”
“No Lord. Yet I see no alternative.”
“There may be an alternative. Mark me though, I say ‘may’. There may be an alternative to this … this …”
“Hell Lord?”
‘Hah! This is not Hell Englishman. Consider it purgatory. You must pass through purgatory to reach the other side.”
“The other side Lord? Would that be Heaven then?”
“Heaven or Hell,” shrugged the Tall Man. “Perhaps there is no difference. Perhaps Hell and Heaven are, in reality, a lot different to what your preachers and priests would have you believe. One thing I can tell you though. Getting to there, whatever it might turn out to be, is a painful process.”
“More painful than this Lord?”
“In some ways, yes. But there are rewards for those who apply themselves with diligence and learn. Above all, learn!”
“What must I do then Lord?” “Persist. Suffer. Do nothing stupid. In such a manner perhaps your stay in purgatory will soon come to an end. We will speak again. Get on with your work.”
Pitkin bowed and was about to recommence his labours when the Tall Man turned and spoke again.
“Englishman, heed my words. You see these hands? Not all these scars are from battle. Once, long ago, I mixed the lime mortar too.”
Wil was astonished, dumbstruck. A tiny spark of hope ignited within him.
“Lord!” he cried, “Tell me how to keep going?”
“Find something, or someone from your past to hate Englishman. When God and hope desert you, HATE, is a powerful motivator!”
CHAPTER NINE
Richard Mead eased his aching back and shifted his numb lower limbs into a marginally more comfortable position in the saddle. He was deep in thought. Ketch’s Regiment of Horse, not that it had ever really been of such strength, had now been divided up into individual undermanned troops whose role it was to police a large area composed of Middlesex, Buckinghamshire and parts of Hertfordshire. In fact even to say they were undermanned was in truth a huge exaggeration, as they had received no replacements since Naseby. This was clearly deliberate. The Regiment, and others like it, were being run down to bolster the ranks of the New Model Army. There was now no place for independent formations in the new, religiously motivated, scheme of things. Glory was for Cromwell’s followers and for them alone. Yet this thirst for success in achieving the New Jerusalem by slaughtering dissidents in battle had saved Mead and his men from being included in a vicious campaign in Ireland. True, they had seen countless bloody affrays with the Scots, but this was but small beer compared with the horrors both sides had committed across the Irish Sea.
England itself was pacified and largely peaceful now, yet to Mead, it seemed a dour, joyless peace. People did not laugh anymore; they dare not for fear of seeming unpious. The Major Generals who ran the counties now did not approve of merriment. Strict observance of the Puritan way of life was the only option on the table and no deviation from the true path would be tolerated. Was this really the way the Almighty wanted things? Mead looked at the hangdog expressions of the people in the towns and villages he passed through and wondered. He noted their sombre garb and their sullen, depressed demeanour and frowned. No, this was not the way things were meant to be. But had he himself not contributed to this state of affairs? Had he not bloodied his sword in its creation? Was he not therefore responsible? Mead’s mood darkened at the prospect and he fidgeted again causing the letter within his tunic to rustle. He pulled off a gauntlet and withdrew the missive to reread it yet again. Ketch, Colonel Ketch as he was now, had ordered all outpost troops to regroup and muster at Uxbridge. Why? Richard snorted derisively and stuffed the communication back whence it came. It was obvious; the Regiment was being disbanded. With a tired sigh he pulled his mount off the lane, followed by the unit’s sole surviving trumpeter, and waved his men on past him. Lieutenant Frobisher, his second-in-command, was first to pass. A protégé of Ketch’s, Frobisher had but recently joined the troop and was a poor substitute for … for … damn! Why wouldn’t the name come? Steadman? Yes, Steadman! Clever, good humoured and a valiant fighter, James Steadman had been blasted to oblivion by a Scot’s cannon; such a waste. Mead frowned at his new Lieutenant. All the officer’s equipment was brand new and unmarked. His breastplate glistened a lustrous black causing Mead to look down and spot the rust coming through his own battered protection. He was particularly irritated to see that Frobisher’s helmet was a superb, virtually musket-proof Zishagge, something Mead could never have afforded in a century of soldiering. Next came the cornet, chatting in an animated fashion to a shifty little trooper named Letts. Nobody trusted Letts who would never meet a man’s eyes when talking to him. Both he and the cornet, who was brave but impulsive, wore green willow bands in their headgear denoting them to be Levellers. If Mead was wrong and the Regiment was not to be disbanded, these two young men would regret their ill-timed political awakening, for Cromwell would not tolerate any opinion other than God’s, in other words, his! The surgeon rode with the farrier, also deep in discussion but obviously of a professional nature - hardly surprising since they often had occasion to share their tools. No clerk and no suttler rode in the ranks, both being long departed this mortal plane through typhoid. Then came the ‘meat’ of the unit. Forty troopers, well mounted, armed to the teeth and experienced in the ways of war. They took their lead from three hardened corporals one of whom doubled as quartermaster, or rather, legalised thief. Forty troopers? Once there had been sixty. All had been scared but none had run. More waste of good men who were now buried the length and breadth of the land. A full score, plus two: Corporal of Horse Bowman and Tatchell, whose bodies were never found. Bowman was sorely missed; Ephraim Tatchell, ‘The Preacher’, was mourned by no one. Although brave to the point of lunacy, his religious fanaticism made his comrades uncomfortable, indeed, Bowman had declared that the man was evil pure and simple. Mead suddenly came to an abrupt mental halt. He had been thinking like a bookkeeper; they had lost more than twenty! What of all those he’d never had time to put a name and face together with? He grimaced and shook his head, ashamed at his lapse. Still, not one desertion in all that time. Surely that would count for something? But then, what politician ever valued integrity and fidelity over their own self-interest.
Arriving at length in Uxbridge, the troop were directed to the river where they bivouacked. Shortly thereafter, a messenger arrived to bring Mead to an officer’s conference being held in a nearby inn. Ketch was holding court, flanked by his second in command and his Sergeant Major. All three wore sombre Puritan attire and equally sombre expressions. Ketch drummed his fingers impatiently on a wooden table as his troop captains, all three of them, arranged themselves. Mead looked around, exchanged nods and shook hands with his fellows. Someone was missing. Then the door opened noisily and the portly bulk of Captain William Brocket lumbered into view. He winked mischievously at Richard then assumed what he deemed to be an appropriately pious expression. The conference was tense, ill-humoured and brief in the extreme. Ketch simply unrolled a parchment and read it aloud commencing with, By order of
Parliament ... The Regiment was disbanded with immediate effect. The members of said Regiment had but two options: join the New Model Army and serve wherever it deemed expedient, or return to civilian life. All captains were to draw up documents detailing the amount of arrears in pay owed to their men (six months for most) and submit them for consideration by the Treasurers of Parliament.
“When will this arrears be paid?” demanded someone.
“That is for Parliament to say, not I,” shrugged Ketch.
“You would see the men starve?” growled Brocket, “Men who have given their all for God and the Cause?”
“The matter is beyond my influence,” said Ketch smoothly.
“What would you have us tell our men then Colonel?” pressed another captain, “And what think you they might do when they learn of this treachery?”
A frosty atmosphere now pervaded the inn. For a few moments now, Richard Mead had been becoming increasingly aware of activity outside the end. Now, in the sullen silence that had descended, he turned and peered out of the distorting glass of a window and discovered its source.
“Look you captains,” he called to his comrades, “I think our men will not need any telling!”
With a quick glare at Ketch, the officers rushed outside to find themselves confronted by a double-ranked body of harquebusiers. A battery of light artillery, earlier concealed across the river, was now formed and its guns were trained on the bivouac of the Regiment. Either side of the confused troopers, a Regiment of Ironsides quickly formed. Amid the houses and alleyways, and either side of the inn, stood Oakey’s Regiment of Dragoons. In command of the nearest body, Mead recognised John Lilburne resplendent in a new red coat. ‘Honest John’ Lilburne caught Mead’s eye, shook his head warningly, and looked away.
“Is this the kind of justice we fought a war to achieve?” said Mead.
“Aye, and killed a King for his arrogance as well by God!” spat Brocket.
Lilburne pushed through the surrounding soldiers, his hands open and his manner placating.
“Please Gentlemen, lay down your arms I beg you. I promise you I will do all in my power to gain you redress.”
“Have you turned politician too John?” inquired Mead.
“Not I. Not at least I pray. But perhaps I still have a little influence … ”
“With Cromwell you mean?” snapped Brocket “I’ll warrant his name is on the bottom of that parchment in there. Nay, save your influence Master Lilburne, you may well be next on his list, you may have need of it yourself!”
Ketch’s second-in-command, EthanWilmot, who had started the war as an earnest Royalist, appeared in the doorway.
“Gentlemen, I pray you, come within and let us see how best we may resolve this state of affairs.”
The captains reluctantly and dejectedly filed past him back into the inn. Brocket stopped momentarily and ran a hand over Wilmot’s coat. Although plain Puritan Black in colour, it was of superb quality.
“A good coat Master Wilmot,” Brocket mused. “A coat of such quality would probably cost as much as all my men together are owed in arrears. Yes, a very good coat. I wonder when you’ll turn it again!”
All but one of Ketch’s captains, Mead included, opted to resign. Most had some form of independent income, mainly in the form of smallholdings. Richard had only the sketchiest of notions as to the state of his former homestead, but the last letter he had received from his mother suggested it still survived though in what condition was anyone’s guess. Nonetheless, he felt he might be able to make a go of it. Then again, would he really be able to turn his sword into a ploughshare? It seemed a very long time ago since he had last worked the land. Also, he would need every penny of his pay arrears, ten shillings a day for nearly seven months, to tide him over and invest according to need. Invest? Invest in what? He would not know where to begin!
And what of his men? What would they choose to do? In truth, for most there was no real choice. A lot of people throughout the land would go hungry this winter and at least the Army would feed them after a fashion. Indeed, when had the New Model EVER gone hungry unlike the rest of them! It might just be bread and cheese but it would keep body and soul together. Also, there were signs that the New Model were now getting better organised and disciplined than they had once been. So, perhaps his men would manage to get by. Their pay, when it arrived, would amount to over two shillings a day for most, a sum not to be sniffed at in hard times.
So it came to pass that the Regiment ceased to exist and Richard Mead was to become a civilian once again. But not quite yet apparently, for Ketch had summoned him to a private meeting.
“I have a task for you Richard. A mission should I say.”
“You forget Sir, I am no longer under yours or anyone else’s command.”
Ketch smirked and turned to gaze out of the window.
“How many of your troop decided to leave the Army?” he asked over his shoulder.
“A round dozen, no more.”
“And have they all left this place yet?”
“Four remain,” said Mead puzzled by the question. “We thought to keep company on the road.”
“You thought you would be keeping your horses? Army mounts?”
Mead glowered.
“I thought … It was my opinion that after all the perfidity we had endured, the Army would not begrudge us a handful of fly-blown nags!”
Ketch waved a hand in dismissal.
“It is of no consequence, merely an observation. Keep the beasts. But tell me, what of your other men, those who now march to Acton to swell the ranks of the New Model?”
“Departed yesterday under Pye’s command as ordered.”
“So, it is just you and your four die-hards?”
“I do not understand the direction of this conversation Sir,” snarled Richard.
“The mission I spoke of. Yes, five men would be admirably suited for it.”
“And why, in the name of the Saviour, would any of us be willing to do anything for you Sir?”
“Pay Richard, all your arrears. Every penny owed to you and they. Paid in coin without waiting for assessments or judgements.”
Richard was taken aback. It was exactly what he needed, his men even more so.
“Full payment? Full payment in advance?”
“Let us say half now and half when the task is fulfilled.”
“Supplies? Victuals? Arms? Re-mounts?”
“Whatever you require.”
Too easy! Far too easy!
“Who do you want killed?”
Ketch smiled, a cold reptilian smirk that told Richard he had hit the mark. Ketch began slowly pacing the room, a furrow across his brow. It was almost as if he were even now rehearsing a speech in the House.
“I have decided to enter politics,” he announced.
“I noticed,” sneered Mead. Ketch ignored him.
“I believe I can secure a seat without too much difficulty, but there is an issue that must be tidied up so as not to offend the sensibilities of my backers.
“And this ‘issue’, this embarrassment, that stands in your way? And why, whatever it is, should I and my men risk involvement?”
“Richard, you need the money, as do your men. And think you, so too do your former comrades recently departed under Colonel Pye’s banner.”
Realisation struck Mead.
“You would deny them justice, deny them their arrears?”
“Not I Richard. But things do take such a terribly long time to be resolved by Parliament’s auditors. It matters not to them whether a man has joined the New Model or has returned to the land. Delays, unaccountable endless delays can ensue if the process is not, shall we say, coaxed a little. Why, a man might starve to death while he waited on the Treasury! I don’t think it will come to that though, do you?”
“It seems I have no choice!” hissed Mead.
“No, not really. And you have much to gain from accepting my charge.”
“Hah! You mean
my men have all to lose if I refuse it!”
“Good. I see we understand each other.”
“Explain your mission then damn you!”
“In a word, witches. They are a curse upon the land and an abomination unto the Lord.”
“You wish me to kill a witch?”
“No. I wish you to hunt down a self-appointed Witchfinder whose zeal has exceeded all reason. This man has hung nigh on three score of people thus far and his evidence for the continuing of his quest grows flimsier by the day.”
“I have heard of such a man. Matthew Hopkins I believe is his name … ”
“No. Hopkins is in East Anglia. He, though he calls himself ‘Witchfinder General’ is not the one you seek. No, your man is fast becoming even more rabid than Hopkins. Many are the innocents he has strung up. His activities are causing … disquiet.”
“Why though does this concern you?”
“He seeks his prey in the county of Gloucestershire. I have, shall we say, ‘interests’ in that county.”
“Ah, your backers perhaps? Too many dangling from the gallows is bad for your political dealings? Attracts too much attention?”
“As you say Richard. Just so indeed.”
Too easy again. Too pat.
“How will I know this man or do you suggest that I just follow a trail of corpses until I find him?”
“But Richard, you know him already. He once served in your troop. Tatchell is his name.”