Traitor's Blood (Civil War Chronicles)

by Michael Arnold

  Stryker had led his men as far south as the high, escarpment-fringed plateau that cut through the land between Petersfield and Alresford. There they had briefly rested their horses at the White Horse inn, suffering the locals’ suspicious stares and threatening glances, before covering the final distance.

  Now, as dusk rapidly crept toward them, they cantered into the cleared land of the house’s estate. The area around Langrish was a mass of small hillocks, the land undulating like furrows in a ploughed field. They reached the top of one such rise, the gardens sloping away from them down towards the house, which stood in a miniature valley. Stryker led the way, trotting down toward the building.

  Langrish House had been grand once. But now, as the bitter November wind whistled through untilled fields, Stryker saw that the manor was not as well kept as it might have been. He recalled Prince Rupert’s description of Moxcroft. He knew that the crippled spy could not work his own land, and presumed there had once been a considerable workforce of servants and groundsmen here. They would likely have fled the approaching tide of danger or joined the burgeoning ranks themselves, and now no one was left to care for the estate.

  The company reached a cluster of bare trees that stood just a few paces out from the gable end of the house, their branches straining toward the sky like giant claws. A wave of Stryker’s hand signalled for the men to dismount, and they jumped down, grass streaking them to their knees with moisture. Stryker turned to meet the eye of each of his companions.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him and go. Kill anyone who gets in the way.’ Making for the front of the house, he turned back suddenly. ‘Prime your muskets.’

  Stryker glanced down at his own weapon, checked the pan remained covered, and pulled on the well-oiled trigger. It slipped back easily under the pressure and the glowing match arced down to touch the metal. Satisfied that all was well, he strode to the sturdy-looking door and hammered a fist against it.

  There was no response.

  Stryker repeated the action, but to no avail.

  He looked round and caught the eye of Corporal O’Hanlon. The grey brows were raised in expectation.

  Stryker jerked his chin toward the side of the building. ‘Off with you, Corporal. Find someone to let us in. There must be a servant around the place.’

  But when the Ulsterman returned, he shook his head. ‘Sorry sir. Not a soul about. Rear door’s locked tight too.’

  Stryker’s jaw quivered in irritation. ‘If he wants to make it difficult for us, we’ll return the favour.’ He looked to the gap-toothed musketeer who had joined them with O’Hanlon, and jerked his thumb at the stout wooden front door. ‘Mister Dance. Let’s have this bugger down, if you please.’

  Dance grinned and flicked open the cover of his musket’s priming pan, exposing the charge to the burning match that hovered ominously above it. He took a step forward, levelled his weapon and launched a massive kick at the big wooden door. There was a satisfying crack on the opposite side and Dance knew he had inflicted damage, so he kicked again, and a third time.

  Jared Dance was still grinning as he hit the ground.

  The shot had come from the gloom beyond the door. As the lock had broken and the door swung wildly inwards an almighty crack rang out, followed by a plume of thick, black smoke that filled the doorway. One moment Musketeer Jared Dance was battering a door, the next he was on the ground, staring at the weak sun, a clean hole ripped in his windpipe. A pool of blood raced out from beneath Dance’s head, widening with every second and simmering under fine droplets of rain, the sticky liquid pumping rapidly from the large exit wound.

  If time slowed in that first moment, it accelerated the next. As Dance’s body twitched on the now crimson flagstones, the remaining six men instinctively ducked and scattered. Voices could be heard from inside the houses, speaking loud and rapidly.

  ‘Soldiers!’ Skellen hissed as he ran. ‘Fuckin’ soldiers!’

  ‘To me!’ Stryker ordered.

  In front of the house, immediately opposite the gaping doorway, a wall rose out of the grass. It had once been part of the boundary to a kitchen garden. Originally dour walls of red brick, reaching no higher than a man’s waist, would have enclosed a series of ornate flower-beds. Only one of those walls was left, the rest having fallen to ruin, but it would suffice. Instinctively the retreating men scrambled towards the brickwork, diving behind the protective barrier.

  When all six were flattened against the impromptu barricade, Stryker raised his head slightly to peer over the top layer of ornamental bricks. He half expected to see a troop of Roundheads burst forth from the manor to complete the ambush, but no punitive force appeared. Stryker rapidly calculated. Attack, retreat, or dig in. If they were to attack, to pour fire upon Langrish House and take steel and death to the men who had put a ball into one of his own, he knew the defenders would probably pick his company off singly as they made for the door. However, if he led a full-scale retreat, the nearest cover was the tree line and that was too far behind them to reach and still live.

  He turned to the others. ‘We’re staying here.’

  ‘Staying?’ Forrester was the first to respond, and voicing the surprise of the rest. ‘I’ve heard more than one voice from that blasted house, old man. We can’t very well charge ’em.’

  ‘No, we can’t. We’re digging in. They’ll be at the windows, with guns trained on us. If we make a run for it, or go for the horses, they’ll like as not fire lead into our arses.’

  The crumbling mortar between the bricks splintered violently at their backs as a pair of musket-balls thumped home. The men flinched as the wall vibrated behind them. Another shot thundered in, followed by a whistling sound as a ball displaced the air above their heads. Stryker caught his sergeant’s eye and jerked his head towards the house.

  ‘Musketeer Brunt,’ Skellen said, acknowledging his officer’s unspoken order. ‘Give the bastards something to think upon.’

  With a flick of his thumb, Wendle Brunt unmasked his priming pan and raised his musket. He sucked in a breath, gritted his teeth and stood, swivelling round on his toes as he did so. In a single, swift movement the musket was at his shoulder, the barrel trained on one of the building’s upper windows, and the trigger pulled back. Brunt did not see his missile’s final resting place, the cloud of acrid smoke obscuring his vision, but the others peering past the protection of the wall saw glass break and a dark silhouette fall back. The shot seemed to have the desired effect, for the sporadic fire from the house ceased. Brunt ducked down again, rummaging in his bag for the next cartridge.

  ‘Right,’ Stryker said. ‘That’ll do it.’

  ‘Now what?’ Forrester said.

  ‘More of the same. Now they’ve been warned off, they’ll stay back from the doors and windows. And we can take our time getting inside.’

  Sure enough, the defenders were more reticent, only infrequently venturing near the windows to let off a shot. Stryker’s men replied in equal measure with ragged shots – volley fire would not do, for it would leave all six barrels empty at once – while their captain considered his next move.

  Stryker’s back was flush against the wall. He scanned the surrounding area, searching for something, anything they could use to their advantage. A well-aimed ball clipped the top edge of the wall, skittering off the brickwork and missing Stryker by inches. He reloaded his own musket almost automatically, and stood, took aim. And fired.

  ‘We’re fairly pinned, sir,’ Ensign Burton said in an attempt to sound casual.

  Stryker threw a frown at his protégé. ‘Thank you, Andrew. I am aware of it.’ He peered back over the wall. If the commander of the men inside the house was worth his salt, he would know that Stryker’s men, crammed in such a small space, would become increasingly choked by their own smoke. They would not be able to see well enough through the black pall to train their weapons on targets with the accuracy they had achieved in their opening sally.

  Just then Stryker had his ep
iphany. ‘Jared,’ he said, raising his voice over the gunfire so that his men could hear. ‘We need Musketeer Dance.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate, Captain,’ Forrester panted, sending a shot toward another of the upper windows before ducking down to avoid a deluge of stone fragments as a ball struck the mortar near his position. By the time he had finished the sentence he was already beginning the laborious process of reloading his own weapon.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Stryker ordered. He paused as the last of the men already taking aim ignited their charges, and then continued, able to lower his voice now as the deafening coughs of gunfire died away. ‘Listen well. We need to get inside. We can’t go through the front door for obvious reasons.’

  ‘The upper windows are covered too, sir,’ Ensign Burton said, unable to banish the tremor from his voice.

  Stryker nodded. ‘But the ground floor seems in the main unoccupied. They’re in the main entrance in case we make a charge at the door. They have men up high, firing down upon us, but likely none in the ground floor rooms.’

  Stryker could see a tinge of uneasiness in the faces of his men. His face also darkened, but with menace. ‘Would anyone like to comment?’ he said. His voice was soft. No one replied. ‘Good. Volley fire,’ he continued, ignoring the stares of dismay. ‘One complete volley. Use your carbines as well. You three aim at the doorway.’ He indicated O’Hanlon, Skellen and Brunt. ‘We three’ll go for the upper floor. I want them ducking right back, gentlemen. I want them dizzy as virgin lads in their first bawdy-house. We’ll only buy a few seconds, but that’ll be enough.’

  The men prepared to break cover. Those that had loaded and primed muskets awaited the order. Those who had vented their musket’s fury in the last moments before the lull quickly went about the familiar routine.

  ‘On my mark,’ Stryker said, casting his gaze over the men at his side. They were all crouched low, facing away from the house and toward the hills, backs pressed tight against the barricade. He paused while they pulled gently on triggers, testing the length of match, ensuring the serpent would definitely lower the saltpetre-soaked cord on to the pan when the time came. As soon as each man was satisfied that his weapon would fire true, they swept back pan covers in a series of clicks, and braced themselves for action.

  Opening his own priming pan, Stryker balanced his long musket in one hand, his carbine in the other, sucked in a lungful of acrid air, and stood up.

  Eli Makepeace was not surprised to see Stryker appear on Bordean Hill, but he was damned if he would resign himself and his valuable quarry to capture and death. There was not the time to make a clear break, and besides he could hardly leave Sir Randolph behind, for the spy was the very reason he had travelled here. To abort the mission now would be to incur the wrath of his master, the only man Makepeace feared more than Stryker himself.

  So the turncoat captain would stand and fight. Sir Randolph had a private militia of sorts in the form of Jem Marrow and his six sons. They were no more than local ruffians, of course, but they were all strapping lads, well muscled from a life of toil on the surrounding farms, and they all knew how to use their weapons. They might prove Makepeace’s salvation. They would have to be made to try.

  The first throw of the dice had seen one of the Royalist weasels put down in a welter of blood and bone, but Stryker had gone to ground behind a low wall in Moxcroft’s garden from where Makepeace, Bain and their half-dozen clubmen were having untold difficulty in extracting them.

  ‘Keep at them, men!’ Makepeace shouted down the corridor that ran between the bedchambers of the upper floor. ‘Keep them there! They ain’t got a prayer! They ain’t—’ His shouts of encouragement were cut short when, for the first time this deadly evening, a full volley thundered from the enemy position to smash into stone, glass and, for one unlucky clubman, skull and brain. Even Makepeace and Bain ducked down, the noise of the volley shaking the very foundations of the house.

  ‘B-bigger ’n I expected, sir,’ Bain growled as he pressed his powerful form into the floorboards.

  ‘Aye, they’re using carbines, judging by the sound.’

  ‘What the fuck was that for?’ Bain grunted as he regained his composure. ‘The bastards haven’t got a shot between ’em now, sir.’

  Makepeace, drawing himself to his feet, frowned as his sergeant’s words sunk in. ‘God, man, you’re right.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Stryker may be a devil, but he’s no fool.’

  For a heartbeat captain and sergeant stared at one another, considering the implications of a full volley, before both broke into a frantic scramble for the window. They peered out to where they expected to espy the enemy, but the low, pockmarked wall, shrouded as it was in swirling black smoke, revealed nothing. Not a single head peered over the top to take a view of the defenders. No movement could be seen at its edges.

  Then, downstairs a window shattered.

  CHAPTER 12

  The volley had been more effective than Stryker dared hope. Twelve firearms had sparked simultaneously to send deadly packages smashing into the house’s exterior wall. The noise, smoke and flying lead put the defenders momentarily on to the back foot, and that was all he wanted. It gave Stryker and his men time to break cover, vault the pockmarked ornamental wall and burst forth from the cloud of powder smoke that had hitherto obscured the defenders’ aim.

  They covered the score of paces between the barricade and the building without drawing attention. Stryker knew that the men in the upstairs rooms would already be recovering composure and position. They would be eyeing up the black smoke as it wafted around the little wall, looking for signs of an enemy frantically reloading their long firing pieces.

  They moved fast. To the left of the house’s main entrance the wall stretched unbroken for several yards until a large, rectangular window punctuated the fastness. Behind this window they could see an empty room, silent and inviting. Stryker and his men were already gathered between the main door and the window. They pressed themselves up against the wall, hoping to reveal nothing to the defenders that had been stationed in that entrance. Beside them, his blood having darkened to a vast crimson lake on the cold stone, the form of Jared Dance was still staring up at the clouds.

  Stryker nodded to Will Skellen who, passing his musket to O’Hanlon, bent low and placed big, gnarled hands on the nearest of Dance’s ankles. The dead weight was difficult to shift, but eventually the sergeant had turned the body so that its boots pointed toward him. He dragged the body off the flagstones, leaving a trail of bloody slime, and on to the grass at their feet.

  While the men battered at the window, shattering the shards of glass with the butts of their muskets, Stryker bent low, prizing the still-primed long-arm from Dance’s already stiffening fingers. All that was left was for them to hurdle the stone sill and enter the house.

  As the glass shattered in a piercing crash, Makepeace’s first thought was that one of the ancient chandeliers had fallen from the high ceiling. A second later he knew that Stryker’s men had somehow got into the house.

  ‘God damn him!’ Makepeace cursed as he led the defenders down the grand staircase. ‘Damn that devilish fucker!’

  At the foot of the stairs he saw Moxcroft, still impressively calm, though his face was slick with perspiration. ‘Where is he, Sir Randolph? Which room?’

  Moxcroft propelled the large wheels of his chair with one bony hand, and pointed the way with the other. ‘The drawing room, we believe, Captain.’

  ‘Then he’s t-trapped, sir,’ Bain said confidently as he joined the officer on the ground floor. ‘The men in the entrance hall will keep ’em hemmed in that room. They’ve no way out. And not an armed musket between ’em. We’ll cut the bastards up p-properly this time. Thought you said Stryker was no fool, sir!’

  The first of the Marrow boys to reach the room was equally confident. He knew the attackers had spent their ammunition in that final volley and he fully intended to fire into that packed room to kill his second ma
n of the day. Raising his musket, Dick Marrow bounded across the threshold.

  The second armed man was just three paces behind his elder brother, eager to share the glory and prepared to follow up the initial shot. Tommy Marrow watched Dick sprint the last few paces, bloodlust roaring through his veins, and heard the older man’s primitive scream as he burst into the room. He had glanced down at his own weapon, shifting the priming pan open, ready to add his fire, so he only heard, not saw, the vicious cough of a musket firing in an enclosed space.

  His brother’s body came back at speed through the open doorway, feet several inches above the ground as if he had been catapulted. The corpse clattered on to the tiles in a bloody mess, a ragged hole carved deep into its chest.

  Tommy slid to a frantic halt, his horrified gaze locked upon the body.

  ‘Draw your swords, lads,’ Stryker ordered, thanking God for Jared Dance’s discarded musket. As the musketeer’s lifeless body had hit the ground, the match had jolted free of his weapon’s firing mechanism. Stryker had taken a risk on the weapon, for a significant amount of powder had been knocked free of the pan, but sure enough the charge had sparked true.

  Stryker examined the room. It was small, square and sparsely furnished with a large table and four chairs pushed against the wall beneath the window. An idea occurred to him. ‘Maurice! Wendle! Get that table up!’

  ‘Sir!’ The pair of soldiers laid down their arms and grasped opposing ends of the tabletop.

  Stryker pointed to the hole in the wall where the glass had been. ‘There. Get it up against the window.’

  ‘With respect, sir, but won’t it block our escape route?’ Ensign Burton said urgently.

  ‘It’ll stop the fuckers shooting at our backs,’ Skellen growled, ‘beggin’ your pardon, Mister Burton, sir,’ he added respectfully.

  ‘We won’t require an escape route,’ Stryker said. ‘We’re going in, not out.’

  The main entrance of Langrish House led to a substantial hallway laid with large, terracotta tiles. Immediately in front was the grand staircase, plunging down from the upper floor, while to the right a long corridor swept away, serving half a dozen rooms of untold size and purpose. On this day, however, the main visible activity was concentrated to the left, on either side of a smoke-shrouded doorway.