Believe or Die

by M. J. Harris

  “What? It cannot be! The man is dead!”

  “Not so Richard, but I sincerely hope he will be so in the very near future.”

  “So that is the mission in plain speech? Seek out Ephraim Tatchell and terminate his activities. Will there be no questions asked about his disappearance?”

  “None. A grateful silence and a loss of memory shall befall Gloucestershire.”

  “Then it seems I have no choice. Do you have any notion of Tatchell’s whereabouts in the county?”

  “Here is a package which contains all known information of his recent activities. It should point you in the right direction I believe.”

  “The money?”

  Ketch reached under the table and tossed a bag forward.

  “Exactly half of what I estimate to be the sum owed to you and four troopers.”

  “Two of them were corporals.”

  “Very well. The amounts will be amended upon completion of the deed and paid with the balance. Is that satisfactory?”

  “It will have to be. I’ll need requisitions for supplies and such.”

  “I will instruct the quartermaster to attend to your needs.”

  “Ah! ‘Instruct’ is it? Nothing in writing then?”

  “It might prove … inconvenient.”

  “So would a noose around my neck! Do not play me false Sir or you will live to regret it!”

  “No threats please Richard. I see this as a business opportunity, one that is beneficial to both of us as well as those others formerly under your command. Threats are as unnecessary as they are counterproductive. Depart as soon as you can and may God go with you.”

  “How do I find you when all is done?”

  “In the package Richard, in the package.”

  Mead hefted the purse and turned on his heel. He had no compunction with killing Tatchell, that was not the issue and as Bowman had said, the man was evil. As to his crimes, Richard had little time for the witch fever that seemed to be sweeping the country. No doubt witches did exist, but most of those charged as such that he had come across seemed merely to have crossed their neighbours. Old women mostly, drowned or hung as “Disciples of Satan” when a man’s cow died of the flux. Richard hefted the purse again then went to locate his soon-to-be partners in crime. Was this what he had been reduced to? A mere hired assassin? Something else was nagging at him. Ketch. Could the man be trusted? Could he be believed? Mead thought not. The whole scheme rang of falsehood. But what choice was there? He must proceed, but he must tread very carefully, very carefully indeed.

  Ex-Captain Mead collected his men who were sullen of countenance and looked naked without their arms and armour. He led them to a graveyard some distance from what little remained of the Army’s activity by the river. They squatted on a hillock to the side of the cemetery and looked up at an ornate arch erected a century before by a grieving but clearly wealthy landowner. Nearby, a lane ran up a hill to the centre of the little town. It was lined with closed-down inns and dominated by an ancient but now ransacked church. The aspect was drab and joyless, a veritable microcosm of England itself. Mead looked into their faces and considered each in turn.

  “I thought you’d be glad to go back to the land Doggett,” he said to the nearest.

  “Thought on it Captain. Prayed for a bit of guidance on the matter too so I did. But the King’s men took my farm and the plague took my wife and kin. I got nothing to go back to and that’s the truth of it.” “And you Corporal Hitch? No more soldiering for you?”

  “Can’t see nothing worth fighting for anymore Captain. All we seem to have done after all the blood and woe is to have swapped one set of bastards for another.”

  “Amen to that brother,” agreed Corporal Poulton. “Everyone is at everyone’s throats. Parliament argues with the Army, Westminster argues with itself, and we’re caught in the middle. You mark my words, them as stays in the Army, New Model though it be, if they can’t keep their mouths shut, they’ll be sent all over creation. Ireland, Scotland, Flanders, the Caribe, whatever, it is as good a way as any to get rid of a problem, and that’s the way Cromwell is looking at it I reckon. I wouldn’t be surprised if them at the top just disbands the whole Army now it’s done its job.”

  Mead was impressed. That was the most he’d heard Poulton say in one go in all the years he’d known him.

  “Master Shalley, what say you on the subject?” asked Mead of the remaining man.

  “Captain. I’m just plain confused. If I told you I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my days, I’d be lying. The fact is that afore the war, I was always in and out of trouble. Ain’t got a trade lessen you count soldiering. I liked soldiering, methinks I’m going to miss it. I just don’t know what to do. Likely I’ll end up on the gallows I ‘spect.”

  Shalley’s remarks sat ill with his comrades, particularly with Mead and a silence ensued. Then Hitch tapped out his pipe and pointed it at the young man.

  “You ain’t without skills boy. What about your cooking? You were the best our troop ever had, we ain’t never eat so well since you turned up. I hear tell a good cook can earn a pretty fair living.”

  “Well there’s some truth in that Corporal, but a man would need funds to set himself up for a cook. He’s need premi … prem … somewhere to work, and he likely need a partner if he ain’t so good with his sums.”

  “So you have been thinking on it then!” chuckled Poulton.

  “Well, a small inn or maybes a chop house or such. It crossed my mind I’ll admit, along with a hundred other notions as to how I’ll spend all my arrears of pay. And when pray tell me Corporal is that likely to happen?”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone but Richard Mead who waited until the derisive chortling and snorting had subsided then tossed Ketch’s purse on the ground between them.

  “Mayhaps sooner than you think Master Shalley,” he stated.

  The men had heard the ‘clink’ as the purse landed and now they just stared at it for some minutes unwilling to touch it least it disappeared. Finally, Doggett slowly reached out, gingerly picked it up, and opened the drawstring watched intently by his comrades. At length he withdrew a single coin, frowned at it for a while, turning it this way and that, and then bit it. He looked at his audience and grinned.

  “The Lord shall provide,” he smiled.

  Poulton and Hitch glared suspiciously at Mead.

  “It’s half our owed back pay, both yours and mine; payment in advance for a task that needs doing. Other half gets paid when the job’s done.”

  “Full arrears? No dithering? No treasurers begrudging every ha’penny?” demanded Poulton.

  “Aye, full payment.”

  “Who do we have to murder?” asked Hitch half-smiling.

  “Well, there’s the rub,” admitted Mead.

  There were no dissenters. Each had his own reasons for going. Mead held nothing back, their futures were worth nought if they refused, and their comrade’s pay would almost certainly never appear if they refused.

  “Doggett, you and I will see to the mounts: five good riders and three for packs or remounts if required. Corporal Hitch, you and Shalley look to our provisions, also shelters, tobacco and clothing. Corporal Poulton, as soon as Doggett is happy with the horses, I wish you to accompany me to seek arms for the venture … why do you grin at me Poulton?”

  “Well Sir, could be that we don’t have to seek too hard for armaments, eh lads?” and he exchanged a further grin with his comrades.

  “Care to explain Corporal? You had to hand in your weapons to the provosts did you not?”

  Unlike Mead, who, as a ‘Gentleman’ had been allowed to keep his sword and pistols, all other ranks not following the flag had been disarmed.

  “Weapons, yes Sir. Aye, we handed in arms right enough. But the order just said ‘Arms to be handed in’. No one ever said it had to be our arms as was handed over did they boys?”

  “Am I to believe you still have …?”

  “A good ‘tuck’, a
musket, and a brace of pistols apiece Sir,” beamed Poulton.

  “Anything else Poulton?”

  “Well, I couldn’t let ‘em have me hammer Sir, carried it for too long now.”

  “And I suppose then that you, Corporal Hitch, still have your axe?”

  “That be part of me Sir, wouldn’t be right to just give it away.”

  “Shalley’s still got them fancy screw-together pistols he’s so fond of an’ all,” added Doggett.

  “Has he indeed. Has he so! Is there anything else in our armoury?”

  “Oh, just me old fowling piece, well an’me cutlass of course, an’ … ” Poulton’s voice trailed off into a mumble.

  “AND?” demanded Mead.

  “Grenades Captain.”

  “Grenadoes! God cursed Grenadoes?” exclaimed Mead who had witnessed terrible accidents with the erratic, unpredictable devices. “Are you mad? They’re as dangerous to the thrower as they are to the enemy!”

  “Not these un’s Sir. Made ‘em mesen,” replied Doggett in an offended tone.

  “So you see Sir, with a good stock of powder and shot, by the Lord, we won’t have a fear for anything we meet on the road,” stated Poulton.

  “On account of us being the deadliest pilgrims on the road like!” smirked Hitch.

  “Very well then. It seems the Lord, who as we know works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, has provided. Even if he did so by means of such devious felons as yourselves! So then, let’s get to it.” And the party went to their allotted tasks.

  Mead found an odd kind of enjoyment in the purchasing of the horses. It was a strangely satisfying experience after all the duplicity of humankind. The Provinder glared in disgust at the old nags Richard had put in as part-exchange, but he was clearly under orders and so held his tongue. Doggett took his time in selection but finally opted for five prime, and three not-so prime animals. The Provinder pursed his lips, grimaced, then summoned his clerk.

  “How much are these mounts?” inquired Mead. No price had been mentioned, let alone been haggled over and Richard hoped they were going to cost Ketch a might of pain to his finances.

  “What care you Sir? I am instructed to remit the bill to Master Ketch.”

  “Idle curiosity. How much?”

  “Ten pound apiece,” shrugged the man.

  “Hah!” exclaimed Doggett. “We brought better than these for six pound at Huntington Fair less than a year back!”

  “Indeed,” agreed Mead. “The New Model pay only seven pound and ten shillings for theirs, and four pound for a dragoon’s nag. Do you intend to cheat Master Ketch?”

  “Not I!” spluttered the Provinder alarm spreading over him like a tidal wave. “Never in life Sir! I respond only to supply and demand. Perhaps my valuation was a little on the high side, indeed, maybes when I come to look more closely at the beasts … ”

  “Stay. Charge Master Ketch your stated price, BUT, for that outrageous, nay, CRIMINAL, amount of coin, you will provide all tack, pack and harness. Do I make myself clear Master Provinder?”

  “Perfectly clear Sir,” snarled the man between clenched teeth.

  Shortly thereafter, Mead and Doggett, well pleased with their purchases, led the horses back to rejoin their companions. Doggett was a quiet man by nature, except in battle. When the fray was at its thickest, Doggett became a veritable cyclone of fury screaming like a banshee and his eyes ablaze with Old Testament fury. Then it would be over, and ‘Doggett the Berserker’ would fall to his knees and pray with tears cascading from his eyes. Now he was quiet, indeed, even quieter than usual, and that meant he was ether pondering on an issue or trying to remember something. Mead watched the big man out of the corner of his eye. The silence was indicative of something, something was on Doggett’s mind alright. Has he had second thoughts about the mission? Mead started felling apprehensive, then …

  “Where did you say we was bound Captain?” asked Doggett.

  “Gloucestershire. Not sure exactly where in Gloucestershire as yet, the truth to tell, but that is the county we must visit.”

  Doggett nodded then resumed his speechless pipe sucking. They plodded on in companionable silence for another minute or two then Doggett spoke again.

  “I was talkin’ with one of Oakey’s dragoons. They just come back from them parts.”

  ‘Have they indeed? Did they come across Ephraim Tatchell in their travels?”

  “No, not so I heard. But this here dragoon, his brother used to live near me once, anyways, he said as how Gloucestershire was a nice, peaceful part of the world compared to much of what we seen nowadays.”

  “Not so sure of that Doggett. By the Lord, Edgehill’s close by the county, and there was nothing ‘peaceful’ about that back in ’42!”

  “True enough Captain. But this here lad I’m speaking of, though he didn’t come across no witches or such, he did bump into a body we know. Seems that someone’s set up a nice little business roundabouts that part of this Godforsaken land of ours.”

  “Don’t talk in riddles Doggett, I’m far too tired. Who pray tell is this person we know? And in Gloucester for all love?”

  “Annie Trivett Sir,” grinned Doggett.

  Mead stopped abruptly causing the mounts to shy and protest.

  “Annie is in Gloucestershire? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what the dragoon said,” shrugged Doggett.

  “But what business could … ?” Richard’s voice tailed off as the realisation hit him.

  “Well, you know Annie Sir,” winked Doggett pulling the horses onwards.

  They proceeded on their way. Richard Mead was now worried, very worried. Obviously, Annie Trivett had opened up a whorehouse somewhere in Gloucestershire. No doubt, even in these ‘pious’ times, it was a roaring success. No doubt too, it would be the talk of the county. And therein lay the problem. Whoremasters, or mistresses were very much a favourite target for Puritan outrage and Tatchell, self-appointed Witchfinder, was abroad in Gloucestershire.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wil Pitkin had gone beyond despair, far beyond any previous nadir in his pitiful existence, and into a realm he’d never known existed, a kind of twilight world that was both mentally dark and physically painful. Yet the tall Moor in the sombre clothing, whom he now knew (courtesy of a now dead fellow slave) to actually be a Dutchman called De Rood, had been right. Hatred was indeed a powerful motivator and it had enabled him to survive thus far. By focusing his mental venom upon Richard Mead, he had found an inner strength that had propelled him through one miserable day at a time. But the ‘poison’ had spread through him like a contagion. He now had a profound loathing of all mankind. Pity had been removed from his make up and the deaths and torture he witnessed on an almost daily basis now left him totally unmoved. The weak shall inherit the Earth? Not in this world’s lifetime! He found it difficult to believe now that he had once fought in a war that had largely been caused by religion. What did those petty Christian bickerings amount to? Here on the Barbary Coast, Jesus, Jehovah, Christ, God, call these deities by whatever name chosen, none of them existed here! Pitkin had seen preachers and followers of every creed whimper and die in the slave pens. He had seen all species of the devout blister and perish under the merciless African sun, forsaken by their Gods. Religion now equated with weakness in Pitkin’s eyes. A pox on God!

  “Not a wise thing to say Englishman,” admonished the Dutchman scaring Wil witless. Yet again he hadn’t seen or heard De Rood approach, and certainly hadn’t been aware he had been talking out loud.

  “You have need of God,” continued De Rood. “By that I mean the God who rules this land and all other domains to the East. Bear this in mind. And now, have you suffered enough yet Englishman? Is your hatred for your fellow man now sufficient for you to change your life?”

  Pitkin squinted up through the sweat and glare trying to focus on the dark figure.

  “How can I change my life Lord?” he almost laughed, but knew he must not, not only was it forbi
dden, but his precarious grip on his sanity might not allow him to ever stop once he started. “How Lord? I am a slave, worthless.”

  “Worthless only if you choose to remain that way. Worthless only … if you remain a Christian.”

  Pitkin sighed heavily and lowered his eyes to the ground.

  “I am no longer a Christian Lord.”

  “I believe you. Yet neither are you a follower of the Prophet, blessings be upon him. Thus, you are nothing at this time.”

  A kind of tentative realisation clambered feebly through Pitkin’s ragged brain.

  “You want me to turn Moor?”

  “What I want is of no consequence. Just as, if you continue in your dismal apathy, your very existence is of no consequence to me. However, if you wish to become free, free of your current slavery that is, you must turn to Allah, the one, true, and only God. From this, other things will follow.”

  “Other things Lord?”

  De Rood looked carefully around. Pitkin wondered if he was making sure no one else was in earshot.

  “Just so,” said De Rood. “Wealth, power and all the trappings of a successful man. In short, a new life.”

  Pitkin found he was trembling; perhaps it was the sun.

  “Well, my old life has done me no favours Lord,” he tried to smile but it hurt his blistered lips. “What must I do?”

  “You will presently be unchained. You will, soon after, give your oath to my Master Yusef. You will also give your oath of personal loyalty and fidelity to me and believe me Englishman, that is not an oath you will default on in any way. Should you ever give me cause to regret my decision in having you released, retribution will be long, agonising, and final.”

  Pitkin nodded.

  “What happens now Lord?”

  De Rood barked some orders to an overseer who salaamed mightily and disappeared.

  “Now you will be unchained, taken from this place and cleansed. Then you will renounce the Christian Trinity and raise your forefinger. This means you apostatise and embrace Islam.”

  “Is that all Lord?”

  “No. You will then be hurt and humiliated. And when I say ‘hurt’, believe my words.