“Are they truly so bad, Sergeant?”
“Worse, Red Man. Watch them as we head north. We lost maybe one man in ten, so far, fallen out sick or run away. Time we crosses the border, it’s going to be twice that gone. When we sees - not fights, just catches sight of – the Scots, then another half of what’s left will leg it. When the first cannon roars, then, Red Man, most of the rest, what has only stayed because they’re too bloody lazy to run, will be gone. There’ll be you and me and young Edward and Jonathan the natural, what stays because ‘e don’t know where he is anyway. Besides that, Corporal Meadows for sure and maybe one or two others what reckons they’re safer with us than with the running mob. It’s a bloody disaster waiting to happen - and happen it bloody well will!”
Chapter Three
Years of Blood Series
Bold and Blooded
Jacob settled in quickly to his new existence as the senior Slater and had asked Rebecca to marry him within the first month. She had shown every evidence of delight in accepting him and taking over the place of mistress of the Slater household.
She was about sixteen, she thought, and had been facing the alternatives available to every village girl, of finding a husband or going into service in one of the local big houses. Serving as a housemaid paid no more than pennies but provided living-in with meals and a new dress each year and a pair of shoes when needed; it was better than staying unwed in a poor cottage, working every daylight hour for nothing at all. Taking a husband was better than the other options, particularly when that young man – or greybeard for that matter – possessed a skill and the prospect of prosperity beyond that found in most cottages.
Jacob was now the catch of the village, owning his quarry and employing hands in it. There was every chance that he would eventually be able to buy or lease another working and become a rich man, in village terms. Twenty years of thrift would enable Jacob to put as much as forty or fifty pounds together and that could make him master of a second quarry and possibly a third as little ten years later. He had the advantage of coming into his inheritance young and still active, probably a score of years junior to any other quarry master in the village. Rebecca was delighted with her good fortune.
They were wed in the chapel, the pastor unhappy that the young man had chosen to marry so soon after his father’s death but appreciating why the son did not mourn him. All births and deaths were legally to be recorded in the parish register, but that was kept at the church, not the chapel, and was very patchy and as far as Pastor Doddington knew, Jacob was probably of age and needed no adult consent. He felt that he must perform the ceremony, for fear that the couple might otherwise sin and force his hand with a pregnancy. He ignored the service’s validity in civil law as he had for the whole of his congregation.
It was arguable that lawful marriages could take place only and exclusively under the auspices of the Church of England; his chapel was not formally licensed to baptise, marry or bury his folk, but the authorities took no notice of his actions. They were married in the eyes of God, he said, and the lesser rules of the King must be ignored. The local magistrates, who might have prosecuted him, could see no crime in his actions, believing that he acted to keep the peace and to create a law-abiding population. If some of the laws in question were not entirely those of the King in London… well that was London’s problem, and far distant from them.
A week after the wedding, the squire, who lived some distance from the village itself and had no part or ownership of the quarrying, appeared at the chapel on Sunday morning and demanded the presence before him of every man of the parish.
The Lord Lieutenant of the county believed that Squire Tixover, a magistrate, was the source of order in the parish and addressed his commands to him. Pastor Doddington accepted that the Squire had authority, but only while he exercised it in acceptable fashion. The two normally ignored each other.
The pastor knew that in law the parish defined the community, even if almost none of the parishioners actually attended church. He made no complaint at the squire taking over in his chapel for a few minutes and scowled at the older men who looked askance at the gentleman. He shooed the women and children out, as was proper, and then addressed the men.
“Squire Tixover is wishful to speak to all of ye. He has words that come from the King’s Majesty and under the Law you must hear them.”
The pastor had on occasion preached against the King, claiming that he was the enemy of the old liberties of the people, so they were a little surprised to hear that they were to pay heed to His Majesty now. They were used to doing as they were told, raised no complaint.
Squire Tixover stepped forward and inflated his chest. He was not the largest of men, nor was he exactly young, and he had difficulty in making himself heard. They listened carefully.
“There is a spirit of rebellion in the Scottish men. They have forgotten their loyalty to their King. There is fear of an uprising in the North of Britain. The King in his wisdom has declared that the Trained Bands must be formed anew and where possible increased in number, and that men shall come to the flag and learn the pike or musket or horse as is proper for their station. Some have already marched but the numbers are too few. The Law always was that every man must practise with his longbow, and that statute has not been repealed, meaning that you all have a duty of service. The bow is no longer our friend but from this afternoon every man of the parish who is not too old or otherwise infirm shall stand outside the church, on the green, every Sunday, and discover a skill with arms. God Bless the King! At two o’clock by the church bell.”
Squire Tixover rode off and left the men.
The women, who had heard all from outside came back in and began to protest that their men should not be taken off to war. The pastor waved them to silence.
“The Trained Band cannot be denied. It is the lawful duty of every man to stand in his place. It has been the case that only one man has ever been demanded of the village, but the King has the right to impress all to his service for some part of the year.” The pastor hesitated, then smiled. “If the King shall continue to dabble with Popery and to demand unlawful taxation of us all, then it may not be a bad thing that a man knows how to push a pike, or to fire a pistol or stand with a musket, though such are few and far between in these parts. We villagers have no horse and shall not be dragoons; all the more reason to know the pike. No few of God’s saints have informed us all that our duty to Heaven transcends any demands made by the Herod that dwells in London town, far from us and even further from the Promised Land. We have the chance now to ready ourselves to go to battle in the Lord’s Holy Cause.”
The congregation had the duty to correct its pastor if he fell into error and was free to discuss his words during the service. They debated and on this momentous occasion they concluded that Pastor Doddington was in the right, was a responsible leader of his people. They also considered it amusing that the King’s man, Squire Tixover, should teach them how best to defy his royal master.
There were questions to be answered.
“Beg thy pardon, Pastor, but of what age must a boy be to stand as a man in the Trained Band?”
Jacob was master of his workers and must be tender of their interests.
“A good question, Jacob Slater, and none so easily answered. I think it must be that none can be trained who is not a man in his body.”
They nodded, embarrassed to mention such a thing but agreeable that must be so.
“What of the elderly and the unwell, Pastor?”
“That choice must be made by the man himself, Jacob. If he is infirm in his body, then he cannot serve.”
Several of men in their thirties immediately decided they were unwell.
The pastor frowned but found he could say nothing more; he could not force his people too far. If a man did not want to go to war, then he lacked the power to make him, other than by shaming him in front of the congregation, which he was unwilling to do on the wicked King’s behalf. He
had problems as well with reconciling his own profession as a man of peace with his determination to stand with his congregation, pike at his side.
Squire Tixover rode into the village in front of a wagon and two horses, three of his own men striding behind.
“Well, Pastor Doddington? How many loyal men have answered their King’s call?”
“Every man of an age and with the health to serve is present, sir. None shall call the people of Collyweston deficient in their duty.”
Pastor Doddington did not specify to whom the duty was owed.
“What of drummer boys?”
“We have called only those who are of man’s estate – in their bodies, that is, sir, thinking they were to go to battle perhaps.”
“Wise enough, but you might give thought to those who are soon to grow up, to start to shave their beards inside the year, perhaps. They could learn so that they might take their place as soon as might be proper.”
“No, sir. Those who are children shall not be taken to war. It is not right; it will not be done.”
Squire Tixover bristled, unused to being directly challenged.
“The Law states what shall and shall not be done, Pastor Doddington.”
“So it does, sir. And the Law states that Collyweston village owes the service of one Trained Band soldier, in breast and back and helmet and leather boots, to carry the pike or musket that may be given him. Where is the Act of Parliament granting the King’s Majesty the right to demand more? The loyalty of the villagers has brought them forth to stand for their King – but that loyalty may be strained by tyrannous demands, sir!”
Parliament had not sat for many years, due to the King finding it intransigent in matters of religion and the rights of the ordinary people and particularly in its rejection of the concept of the Divine Right of Kings. According to Parliament, the King ruled by the consent of the people; the King held that he ruled by the Grace of God and none other.
Squire Tixover was just wise enough to avoid the great controversy.
“The Law is the Law. So be it, Pastor Doddington. Will you stand with the people of the village?”
“Such is my duty, sir.”
The Squire was placed in an impossible position. He did not want to take the man to war at his heels. He regarded Pastor Doddington as a Puritan and a traitor, but he had never been taken before a court and could not be refused as a felon. As the leader of worship in an unlicensed chapel, he could not be exempted from service as a Man of God – that right adhered only to clerics of the Church of England. He did not want the man but could not refuse him, not without risking that every man of his so-called congregation would walk away with him.
“Then take your place in the ranks, sir.”
Nineteen men stood more or less straight and tall. None were fat – they were not rich enough to overeat. None were skinny and malnourished. All were within reason well-muscled from the work they did.
Squire Tixover surveyed them and decided he had done well by his King. A large platoon of strong men, as much as any one village might ever send to war. None were yeoman farmers who might be expected to ride a horse into battle, but they would be strong footmen. The village had done its duty, at his call. He nodded to his bailiff to distribute the contents of the cart.
There were six of wrought-iron breast and backs and fifteen of boiled leather, just sufficient to be able to find something to fit, more-or-less, every man. There were six pairs of gauntlets, with thin iron strips on their backs to protect some of the pikemen. There was a morion, an old-fashioned metal helmet with a protective crest, for each man, and woollen strips to pad them out to fit where needed.
“Very martial, sir.”
“Indeed, Pastor Doddington. I have twelve of half-pikes, with nine-foot handles. Each pikeman to have a short sword besides. Those for the biggest men. For the other seven, I possess a score of flintlock pistols, so they may have two apiece, and again a short sword. I have twelve apostles for each man, and powder pouch and a bag for ball and a pair of spare flints.”
He explained the nature of the apostles and that they could be kept on the belt and made for far faster loading than using a powder flask. He apologised at some length for their blasphemous name, knowing that the Pastor was easily offended by careless words.
“There are no more than two muskets, which my own men will carry. They will have the remaining pistols as well. The muskets are the new flintlock pieces.”
Flintlock pistols had been the norm for a decade and more, but the matchlock was still far more common in muskets. Flintlocks could sometimes function in the rain; matchlocks almost never.
Pastor Doddington knew nothing of martial exercise, could offer no sensible lead to his flock. One of Squire Tixover’s men, his gamekeeper, had been to the wars in Germany as a young man and was to be sergeant to the platoon. He stood forward and spoke in loud voice.
“Ralston be my name, as some of ye know. Sergeant Ralston on a Sunday when we stand to drill.”
They nodded, two or three of the younger men smirking.
“I knows that some of ye have taken a rabbit or two under my nose, and I knows who ye are, too! We ain’t here to argufy about that, not now. The twelve of you what wants ‘em, grab a hold of a pike, now.”
Ralston watched as the seven cleverest and most able to think for themselves stepped to the side at Pastor Doddington’s command.
“You seven has pistols, in the nature of what’s right.”
They grinned uneasily and picked up the weapons, the first time any of them had touched a firearm.
“Right. Take a gander at thy weapon. Hold it. Get the weight of it. Don’t pull the trigger on they pistols – it don’t do ‘em no good to snap ‘em empty.”
They obeyed, nervously.
The pikes were eight feet of heavy pole, seasoned hardwood three fingers thick, surmounted by an iron spearhead in itself a foot long. It was no easy task to bring it to the horizontal and hold it there.
“Carry it upright, against thy shoulder. When you bring it down, ‘tis best to couch it, to stick the butt end to thy foot, pointing up so that the head be maybe five foot in the air. In battle, you will be a front rank and the full pikes, of sixteen- or even twenty-foot, will stand behind thee, resting their shafts on your shoulders. Maybe men with twelve-foot pikes too, in the middle. Might be three ranks of thee, the points more or less together. When the horse come, pikes just hold. Stand in a line and put your pikes right. Do that now. Who is tallest?”
“Thee, master?”
“Thy name?”
“Joseph Paxton, Sergeant.”
“Then you are to be pike-corporal. Give them the orders, following me as I tell thee.”
The procedure was simple enough, required only that the pikemen should stand firm while a mass of armoured cavalry bore down upon them, firing their pistols and waving threatening swords. While the men held, and presented sharp, shining spearpoints to the cavalry chargers, the charge would fail, because few horses fancied suicide; the animals would almost inevitably turn, pulling away despite their riders. Even a single pikeman flinching and running would leave a gap that the charging horsemen would rip open; one man’s nerve breaking could kill the whole company. Discipline was everything for the footmen, though seen as far less important for the horse.
Jacob stood with the pistol men, staring dubiously at the weighty firearm. The pistol had a curved wooden grip that fitted into his hand and was surmounted by a fourteen inch long barrel. The flintlock was placed where butt and barrel joined, held together by iron bands. There was a brass guard underneath to protect the trigger.
“When horse hits the pikes, and not before, you steps forward at they shoulders and levels the pistol and fires one then the t’other. Just hold they flat out and point they forwards and pull the old trigger. Then you steps back, and if they ain’t no horses coming from the side, you reloads. If there is, you pulls out the old sword and whaps the old horse in the mouth with it. The horse goes
over and rider comes off and then you swipes him one as well.”
Sergeant Ralston made it sound simple, not mentioning that the dragoons carried long straight swords, and pistols, and might use them first.
“What you got to learn, is to form your ranks. You marches along in a column, and then you turns side by side into a rank. Sounds easy. You got to do it quick and right. No time to bugger about thinking. Just listen to the order and do it. I shall show thee how.”
At the end of two hours they put armour and weapons back into the cart and filed into the chapel for afternoon service. Squire Tixover and his three men returned to the manor.
The pastor prayed at great length, demanding God’s blessing on the brave souls of the village who were readying themselves to go to war in His cause. He then preached an extempore sermon based on the day’s events; he demanded that every man must ready himself for battle, to stand at God’s shoulder, making his opinion clear of backsliders from the cause.
“Some of the congregation of saints have chosen to leave the land and flee to America, there to found God-fearing colonies and live at peace with the Lord. They are wrong to have done so! They have fled the fight! Better far to have died here as martyrs to the Glorious Cause of Heaven than to live in comfort as tillers of the soil in a far foreign land. The men of Collyweston shall hold their ground when the day of battle comes. We shall stand in service of the Lord God of Battles!”
He later touched on the reluctance of some apparently whole and healthy men to stand in the ranks of the elect, pointing out that the way to Heaven often took men across stony ground, that the path of virtue was not easy. Those who refused the struggle must not then expect the rewards…
Bold and Blooded Page 4