by Smith, Skye
They were scouting the Castle of Arundel just ten miles west of Chichester. It had taken almost a week for Waller to march his army from Winchester to Chichester a distance of less than thirty-five miles. This because Prince Rupert and his flying army were loose in Sussex and riding about making trouble, which meant that Waller's cavalry had been continuously called upon to decide small battles. Eventually there had been a larger running battle at Upham, which Waller had won handily just by reason of numbers.
Though the losses from these battles were light for Waller, and only slightly heavier for the king's side, there was another type of loss that was crippling Waller. His men had not been paid, were hating being out in the cold, were sick of facing cavalryers, and most importantly, they were homesick. Each day the ranks of Waller's army grew shorter as men, especially the enlisted militiamen, joined into brethren groups for the march home. Warwick's apprentices from London were amongst them, so Daniel's company of skirmishers now numbered thirty rather than two hundred. With so few under Daniel, this expedition to Arundel was led by Lieutenant Colonel Roberts who commanded seventy cavalry.
If Waller had been losing men due to lack of pay and freezing conditions, then the king's regiments were suffering the same losses fivefold. Some of the officers that Waller had captured in Upham had complained that there were not enough common soldiers to do even the basic work of guard duty and the setting up and taking down of the camps. These lowly but necessary tasks in the royalist forces were now being done by gentlemen of good quality, much to their distain.
Despite the lack of common soldiers, the king's forces in Chichester were formidable. So formidable that when Waller had first camped outside the city, he was kept too busy staving off the sorties that came forth from the gates, to allow time enough to plan the siege. He did have the sense to send out to garrisons all around for more men to join him, and to send to Portsmouth for them to bring him some cannons. While he waited for the cannons, Waller wanted Arundel Castle taken so that the royalists, especially Prince Rupert, could not use it as a safe base to launch attacks on his siege force at Chichester.
"Watch it,” came Jake's whisper from behind Burt and Daniel. "Here comes Roberts.” Daniel and Burt slid down the slight rise that led up to their viewpoint and Daniel greeted the lieutenant-colonel.
Roberts asked them, "So what did you see?
"If the garrison is large enough and have the know how to defend it,” Daniel told him, "then without cannons the place is impregnable. It's the same problem we have in Chichester."
"Then we will camp around it and make sure they do not come out. My orders didn't say I need take the castle, just that it is not to be used as a base to attack Waller."
"Err, ahh, my men want to try something, with your permission of course. Something that worked for us at Farnham. If it works, fine. If it doesn't, then we have lost nothing."
"I take it that whatever your plan is, that it requires stealth and surprise,” Roberts said thoughtfully. It was nothing to him if this militia unit wanted to get themselves killed. "Alright, why not? My company will stay back and keep the villagers from warning the castle while you prepare."
"Thank you sir,” Daniel said with respect, for after Haselrig, Roberts was Waller's most competent field commander. He waited until Roberts had gone away to organize his own company, before he began to organize the breaching of the gate with the lads who had been with him at Farnham.
They waited until an hour before sun up before pulling a large and laden, two wheeled hand cart along the road towards the main gate of the castle. That may sound like they were up and out of their blankets very early, but that was not the case. It was almost winter solstice so the days were very short and mornings had late beginnings.
The castle watch, just two men above the gate at this time of morning, shouted out to the two men pushing the cart. "Who goes there?” and "What'cha up to?"
"Firewood!” one of Daniel's skirmishers, a woodcutter by trade, yelled back. "We're goin' to pile it here 'til you drop the draw bridge in the morn.” At the answer the guards drew back into the shadows where they could safely snooze out of sight in case their sergeant made the rounds. The two men dropped a six foot length of log on the road a few feet in front of the cart near where the lip of the drawbridge would come down, and then walked back along the road towards the village. Jake's plan was afoot.
With the sun just up, the sergeant of the guard made his rounds of the wall. When he saw the cart filled with firewood parked on the other side of the moat, he cursed his guards. "Fools,” he told them. "It's freezing in the barracks and you let the firewood sit out there. Fools. Lower the bridge and have them bring the cart in."
The moment that the draw bridge touched down, four men ran out from cover to the cart and kicked out the balancing pole, and then put their shoulders to cart to push it forward as fast as they could. The carts two wheels slammed into the log on the ground. The wheels stopped with a jerk, forcing the hand cart to tip forward, and the men held it at that angle until the load began to slip down the bed of the cart. Most of the load was not firewood at all, but damp sand, heavy damp sand. Slowly but surely the firewood, sand, and all slid down onto one corner of the bridge.
The sergeant was up on the wall watching them and on seeing these surprising actions he ordered the guards to winch the bridge back up. They were too late. With a half a ton of sand weighing down one of the far corners, the bridge twisted on its chains until the windlass failed and the bridge slumped heavily back down. While the guards were busy with the windlass, Jake ran forward and jammed the portcullis groove with a fat length of firewood.
Once the guards had ruined the bridge windlass, they tried to lower the portcullis, and for the first six feet it ran smoothly down the grooves on each side of the gatehouse. When the left side hit the wood blocking its groove, then the entire iron lattice lurched at an angle, and with a screech of metal on stone it jammed tight in both grooves and was stuck half down.
That was when a second two wheeled cart of sand was balanced and pushed by six men along the road and across the bridge. On top of its sand was the church bell from the local steeple. Burt and Jake were carrying a length of fire wood, and they left the cover of the cart and ran in ahead of it and dropped the log in front of the wheels. When the cart wheels hit the log, cart tipped violently forward dumping the sand and the bell against the gate.
Skirmishers with carbines used the upturned carts as a shield so they could take pot shots at any head that popped up from the wall the wall. Meanwhile Burt and his helper were heaving the bell into position against the castle's gate while the other four that had been pushing the cart used hands, feet and shovels bury the bell with sand. By this time the alarm iron was peeling up on the wall, but it was too late. The French Fart was in position, and Burt was lighting the fuse. Jake had left him and was running back across the bridge while yelling to everyone to get off the bridge and take cover. Since there were musketeers now up on the wall, Burt knew better than to run away from them in a straight line, so he zig zagged his way back across the bridge and then along the road to the nearest cover.
After what had happened at the Winchester Castle wall, this time Burt had purposefully cut the fuse too long. While the skirmishers waited impatiently, a half dozen men including an officer had joined the sergeant on the wall of the gatehouse and were looking straight down at the fart trying to make out what it was. There was a muted WHHHOOOOMP as smoke and sand erupted against the gate, When the right half of the gate was blown off its pivot, the men above it were shaken to their knees and immediately disappeared from sight.
Daniel was watching all of this through his looker, and when the smoke and dust cleared enough to see that the gate was broken and breached beyond repair, he yelled out to Burt, "Burt, walk out with a white flag and use that wonderful voice of yours to offer them a safe surrender. I'll join you in a minute."
Burt had been expecting this. Daniel had promised him that this ti
me he could personally accept the surrender of a castle, as something to tell his grandchildren about, that is, if he could ever afford a wife. He walked forward proud and alone with the white flag of parley. He shivered in his shirt sleeves. He had taken off his heavy boiled leather buff coat, the only armour he owned, so that he could run faster away from the blast. He shivered again and stopped for a moment with the though of backtracking to put his coat on, but then he looked at his white flag and shrugged. It wasn't worth going back for.
His great voice boomed out loud enough to have been heard all over the castle. "Surrender now and you will be granted Colonel Waller's peace, the same peace he offered to Farnham and Winchester castle. If you throw down your weapons and armour and give up your horses, then the officers will be held unmolested until Parliament dismisses them, and the men will be given enough pennies to buy food during the walk home to care for their families during these darkest, coldest days of the year."
Through the smoky dust of the gap in the gate, an equally smoky, dusty figure emerged waving a white handkerchief above his head. "I am coming out to bargain the terms,” called out a man with precise grammar and an educated voice. "I am Sir Richard Rochford, a king's knight and the commander of this garrison."
Daniel was caught by surprise by how quickly this officer had emerged from the gate. He had expected a few minutes of banter between Burt and the men behind the gate, while the officers gave it some thought. He came running down from his perch to the group of men who had been pushing carts. Once there he asked them to straighten his clothes up a bit to make him look more like a captain. He even borrowed a battered sword from one of them, the sword being the formal weapon of an officer and a gentleman.
Burt’s voice boomed out, not so much to the knight who had almost reached him, but to his men on the wall and behind the gate. "There will be no bargaining. I have told you the terms. They are the same terms as the other castles so quickly accepted. You have a choice ... agree or not.” He expectantly held out his hands to accept the officers sword in surrender.
By this time Daniel was walking across the bridge, and trying to keep himself from tripping over the sword in his belt. "Wait for me, Burt!” he yelled out. Hard of hearing Burt hadn't heard him, so he yelled again. "Burt, stay where you are and wait until I get there!” An eerie foreboding swept over him. He had seen this scene before, in September during an ambush on Babylon Hill. "No, Burt!” he yelled out and began to run, "Wait for me!"
"You cur,” Rochford hissed. "You, a pig of peasant, you presume to dictate terms to me.” Anger flashed across his face. Without a second thought, and with one well practiced move, he drew his sword.
Burt blinked at this knight's unexpected anger, but since the man was drawing his sword he held out both hands palm up to accept it. This would make a wonderful story for his grandchildren, and he smiled to himself and then smiled at the knight, just as the knight's sword buried itself between his ribs. He stepped backwards in anguish and surprise, and then slumped forward from the pull of the sword being withdrawn from his lungs. From drawing, to lunging, to withdrawing the sword, it was all one smooth move that the knight had practiced a thousand times. His sword was ready for the next action.
Burt slumped backwards into the arms of Daniel who had only just reached him. He lowered the solid young man down to the bridge deck and with horror stared down into his face. Burt was already spitting up blood, so the wound was deadly. Out of his daze he heard racing footsteps on the bridge deck, his carbineers, and called out in a shout with a thunder that would have made Burt proud, "Everyone hold your fire. Hold your fire!” and then he hissed to the knight, "Move one step towards the gate and you're a dead man."
Meanwhile Burt was dying in his arms. Between spits of blood he sputtered, "Danny. How do you expect to die?"
Daniel wanted to whisper such a private knowledge but Burt was so hard of hearing, that he had to call it out to the world. "I will drown in a frigid sea like my father and brother before me."
"I always thought I would die in the pitch black, underground, like my father and brother before me,” Burt's words were laboured by a shortness of breath. "But I have cheated the fates. Now get yourself out of my last bit of sunshine."
Daniel spun around the man so that he could support him from the back, and so that the morning sun could flash yellow on Burt’s face, his miners face, his filthy face, and his smile went from cheek to cheek as he took his last breath of sunshine. Daniel had seen death before, too many times before, and he knew it when it came. He lowered Burt's head to the ground and then slowly stood, holding back his temper, and faced the knight. His voice shook as he yelled into the knight's face, "If I leave the decision to my men, they will slaughter your garrison with no quarter, but for one minute and one minute only, I will hold them to the terms that this honorable man offered you. Do you accept his terms, yes or no?"
While the knight was deciding, his men within the broken gate had already decided. They began filing through the gate onto the bridge and as they did so they were laying down their weapons in a pile beside the dead man. More of Daniel's company had to troop out from their cover to frisk their new prisoners and then line them up against the low wall that ran along the road to the bridge. Eventually the entire garrison was lined up, perhaps a hundred men. Half were the young sons of lords and gentlemen, and half were their personal servants. There were six officers not old enough to be anything but ensigns, but there was one older officer and three older sergeants.
The sergeants had the powder-burned faces of mercenaries, and as each one added their weapons to the growing pile beside the corpse, they looked down and saw the powder-burns on the corpse's face which marked the bulky man as a comrade. Each one of them spat at the feet of their knight. The knight still had his sword in his hand as if it would defend him from the half dozen carbines marking him at point blank range. Only when the last of his men were lined up as prisoners did he hand that sword to Daniel.
"I would know your name, man,” the knight said haughtily.
"Captain Daniel Vanderus of the Earl of Warwick's London trained bands"
"I am Sir Richard Rochford, a worthy knight in the service of his Majesty King Charles of England. I offer up my sword as a symbol that I have placed Arundel Castle into your hands, and in return I expect the good treatment owed to a knight by virtue of his service.” As he moved his sword arm to offer up his sword, he noticed that the men holding him at bay with the carbines tightened their aim and their trigger fingers. He decided to offer the sword handle first, just so there were be no misunderstanding.
Daniel took the sword and then replied, "Sir Richard Rochford, I accept your sword in full surrender, and I promise the continued safety of your men. You, however, I now place under arrest for the crime of murder."
"Murder,” the knight sputtered, disbelieving. "But he was a knurl, a nothing. He died in battle, a siege. His death was an act of war."
"He was holding a white flag and no weapon,” Daniel hissed. "It was murder, and a murder most foul."
"No court would condemn me,” the knight replied proudly and stood to attention and stiffened his neck. "And no true officer and gentleman would slight a knight of the realm with such an accusation."
One of the carbineers spat at the knight's feet and said threateningly, "Let's try him here and now. Or better yet, let me shoot a ball into his gullet and be done with him."
Daniel looked at his carbineers. To a man they had marched with Burt and had helped him set up his French Farts ever since Brentford. This knight would be dead in the next minute unless he made a decision they could agree with. "We'll try him here and now, but with a jury of his peers.” He shouted towards the men watching the line of prisoners. "Oye, I need twelve of the prisoners over here to form a jury. Include the sergeants but not the officers."
The elder officer pushed through his guards and called out. "I am the second in command, Captain Goulding, and I protest this treatment of my commanding
officer.” His words earned him a carbine butt in the gut, which took his breath away and had him slumping to the ground.
Twelve men were marched forward to stand in a horseshoe around the corpse and facing the man who had made him a corpse. Daniel addressed them curtly. "You all saw this man, Burt Miner, offering terms under a white flag. You all saw his death. Was it an act of war, or murder? I charge you to think carefully before you pass judgement, for your commander's life hangs on it.” The jury looked around at each other, but before they could discuss it Daniel called out. "No, no discussion. You each will make the judgement on your own conscience. All of you pick up a pebble and mix it between your hands. On the count of three you will hold your verdict out in your right fist. You will all open your fist at the same time ... empty handed for act of war, a pebble for murder."
When the twelve soldiers opened their hands, they showed twelve pebbles. A shitty smell rose from the knight. His fate had been sealed by his own men. There was no escape, no where to run, for the carbineers would have shot him down like a rabid dog. One of the carbineers walked over and cut a length of rope from one of the sand carts and quickly formed it into a noose of sorts and then tied it to one of the chain links of the draw bridge.
"Hold, hold I say! What goes on here?” Lieutenant-Colonel Roberts yelled out as he and ten of his men hurried onto the bridge from the direction of the village.
"This man has just been found guilty of murder. He is to be hung."
"Hold I say. He is a prisoner. You will not hang him,” Roberts called out, and then in a softer tone to the condemned man, "Richard, cousin, is this true?"
"Yes and no,” the knight replied soulfully. "I admit that in my rage at having to surrender to that,” he pointed to the corpse, "that nothing, that churl.... I forgot myself and struck out at him in rage. I am sorry for that and apologize, but for me to be hung for killing a mere common soldier, this is beyond reason. We are at war and at the time I had not yet formally surrendered."