Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

  “Colonel?” Whistler echoed as they went through the doorway and out into the crisp noon air. He stole a look behind, finally getting to see in daylight the place where he had been incarcerated under the cover of night. It was a plain, single-storied barn, built in stone, with a tiled roof and only a single, high owl-hole for light and ventilation. Christ, he thought but how welcome a cold winter’s day could be when one had been deprived of it. He breathed deeply, lungs smarting, as they crossed what he now saw was an expansive yard, the ground a muddy lattice of water-filled wheel-ruts. Outbuildings of various size and purpose fringed the open space, interspersed by great drifts of masonry, as if the rain clouds had contained bricks as well as water.

  Hobb, leading the way with his strange waddle and a pungent onion trail, nodded a jowly head towards the far corner of the yard. “In there.”

  Whistler looked up. High above everything, an octagonal tower loomed, built in fine brick and dressed in grey stone. He knew it had been part of a larger structure once, the adjoining portions of abruptly ending curtain wall told him that much but those high ramparts had long been torn down, the once-formidable home undermined and slighted by a victorious, vengeful army. The tower was a lone feature now, incongruous and isolated above this modest wasteland. “What is that place?”

  “Gatehouse turret,” Hobb said, adjusting further his awkward gait to account for hidden pitfalls and slimy dung. “Only bit left of the old castle.” He glanced back with a lopsided grin. “Garrisoned by your lot. Smashed up by ours.”

  Whistler watched a large kite do wheeling battle with a pair of noisy magpies above the crenellations. “My lot,” he said bitterly.

  The stocky guard grunted in amusement. “Yours forever, now that you bear the king's mark on your flesh.”

  Whistler stole a rueful glance at his bound hands, one of which would not open fully, for the seared and puckered palm had healed as tight as a drum skin. They had talked briefly, he and Hobb, after his arrival at the tumbledown castle. Hobb had been a Roundhead pikeman, seeing action in the early throes of the war, before the bullet from a harquebusier’s carbine had shattered his thigh. It was strange for Whistler to consider the Royalist cause his own, since he had fled those terrifying ranks as soon as the chance had come but he supposed Hobb was right. He still stared at the remnant of what once must have been a magnificent gatehouse. Lower down, he noticed, part of the original arch remained. “Why leave that one turret?”

  “Tis a landmark,” Hobb answered. “Helps ships navigate Langstone channel.” They were nearing the foot of the turret, where a set of time-smoothed steps led the way up to an open doorway. He grinned. “Also makes for a convenient home for miscreants such as yourself.”

  “Whistler, is it?”

  The speaker had to be the colonel that Hobb had mentioned. Of the trio of soldiers lurking in the gloomy, musty-smelling chamber to which Whistler had been conveyed, the colonel was the only man seated. He appeared to be in his early forties, with long, dark hair that was streaked with silver. His broad shoulders filled a fine green coat that was slashed at the sleeves to show a silken lining of rich yellow, while across his chest, right shoulder to left hip, there was wrapped a broad scarf, the colour of saffron, bearing the black insignia of a lion's head.

  Whistler made the mistake of meeting the colonel's eye. He wrenched his own eyes away quickly, cowed by the nonchalant disdain in the cool grey gaze. “Aye,” he managed to say, though it was an effort to force the words out of a throat suffering sudden drought. The colonel yawned expansively and licked his lips. He was lord of this place, a deadly beast in his lair and Whistler's eyes were drawn inexorably back to the lion. “That... that is to say, Whistler be my name.”

  The colonel glanced left and right at the other men, flanking the table on either side like a pair of grim sentinels, their faces devilish in the shadows thrown by tremulous candle flame. One was tall and stick thin, the other so portly that his scarf, fastened about his waist with a large knot, looked fit for tearing. The tall man, blighted by a facial tick that never seemed to settle, rubbed his hands together against the cold, putting Whistler in mind of a fly alighting upon meat. He glowered. “Sir.”

  Whistler nodded frantically. “Sir.”

  “Do you have a real name?” the fly asked. “A Christian name? What did your mother call you?”

  “Never knew her, sir,” Whistler replied, achingly aware of the final syllable's absurd trilling. “Was always Whistler, long as I can remember.”

  “A veritable songbird,” the colonel said, then, “My name is Maddocks.” On the desk before him was a small chest, a plate bearing a selection of marchpanes that had been cut into wedges and a large silver goblet, which he now lifted to his lips.

  Maddocks. The name made Whistler's guts clench. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees and sob into the man's boots. He swallowed hard, forcing back a stinging surge of bile.

  Unaware or unconcerned, Colonel Maddocks continued, “I apologise for the crumble-down nature of this place but it will have to serve.”

  Instinctively, Whistler's eyes roamed. The place in question, he was beginning to realise, had once been a hub of work and governance. The ancient castle's chancery, perhaps, where documents were scribed, sanded and sealed. Besides the table, some of the accoutrements of administration remained, like fragments of memory. A couple of larger chests in the far corners. Shelves still clinging to the wainscoted walls between iron sconces adorned with elaborate oak-sprig motifs. But now the chests were empty, the wainscoting flaky and the sconces rusted. Like the rest of the castle, it was a place of ghosts and former glories, a chamber left to moulder.

  As if reading his mind, Maddocks said, “The tower, here, makes for a convenient perch as I fly about the county.”

  Whistler managed a mute nod. While never claiming to be au fait with the logistical machinations of the Protectorate and its grandees, he knew well enough that Cromwell had devolved regional governance. The affable and talkative Hobb had told him that Colonel Maddocks, on behalf of Major-General Goffe, engaged in an almost perpetual tour of his jurisdiction, like the progress of a medieval king, centring himself on certain appropriate locations from which he might oversee the mechanisms of justice.

  Maddocks reached for the tabletop chest, pushing back the polished lid and taking the topmost leaf of what looked like a deep ream of paper. “Now then, sirrah. Let us discuss your predicament.”

  Feeling all eyes on him, Whistler felt a sudden pang of terror. The fat soldier, ruddy face glimmering with sweat, sidled away from the wall to stand close. Whistler twisted back, hoping to see a recognisable face but Hobb had long since departed. Returning to Maddocks, he blurted, “I told the other men. The officers what took me. I-”

  The fat man punched him. Hard, in the guts, so that Whistler folded in half. A thin trail of vomit erupted into his mouth, leaking from the corners of his lips to speckle his breeches and shoes. A strong hand snagged the scruff of his neck and wrenched him upright.

  Maddocks, who had not flinched, scanned the paper in his hand, “You were taken at the parchmenter's, yes?”

  “Aye, sir,” Whistler uttered hoarsely.

  “Theft is a very serious felony in the eyes of the Lord.” Maddocks glanced up. “Thou shalt not steal. Tis the seventh commandment.”

  “What choice,” Whistler croaked between heaving gasps, “do a man have?”

  Maddocks cocked his head to the side, evidently amused. “Do not steal,” he said slowly, as if to a dullard. “As choices present themselves, this one is simple enough, no?”

  “When the alternative is starvation?”

  “When the reward is eternity in paradise.” He looked again at the sheet, then placed it back into the chest. Then he selected one of the marchpanes from the plate and crammed half of it into his mouth. “Now. You are a rotten apple, sirrah. A scourge. One lacking the moral fibre to be of any use to a community. In your time you have thieved,” the grey eyes flic
kered to Whistler's hands, “you have deserted and you have trespassed. Lord only knows what other foul deeds will come to light on the day of judgement. You'll know, from your time as a soldier, that when a limb is rotten, the only remedy is the saw.” He paused, letting the image hang in the dank air between them. “It must be cut clean away.”

  Whistler shook his head, frantically, dizzyingly. “No, sir, no, I beg of you-”

  “Unless,” Maddocks halted him, raising his hand as well as his voice. When all was silent, he took a long moment to eat the rest of the marchpane, licking his lips with a slowness that made Whistler want to scream, then leaned back, bending to take something from a low drawer by his knees. He raised it up for all to see and placed it gently on the desk. “This somewhat curious item was found in your possession. Enlighten me, sirrah.”

  Whistler gazed at the book. He had expected to be quizzed on the matter, for it had been in his snapsack when the watchmen and soldiers had seized him but, seeing it now, he was again struck by its beauty. It was a small thing, really. Not a great deal bigger than a man's flattened palm, its typeface so minuscule that it did not have the bulk of other bibles. But it had been crafted by artists. From the elaborate and vibrant illuminations within its fragile, yellowing pages, to the golden casing that had protected it for generations. “I took it off a party of pirates.”

  Maddocks had been staring at the bible too but now his eyes darted up to meet those of his prisoner. “Pirates?”

  “Looked like the foreign killers we used to have during the late rebellion,” Whistler said. “Paid to come to these shores for king or Parliament.”

  “Mercenaries.”

  Whistler nodded. “Excepting, this company wore curved cutlasses at their hips, so I took them for sailors of some kind.”

  “Where did you encounter these ruffians?”

  “Up at Guildford. Followed them south.”

  “Because?”

  Whistler glanced to the bible and back. “Because I saw that they did not lack for means.”

  “And you waited for your chance.”

  “God forgive me, sir but I did. Followed, watched, waited. Finally the moment came. The big farm above the marsh at Petersfield.”

  “The Grange. I know it.”

  “They rested.” Whistler shrugged. “I snuck in.”

  “And you took this,” Maddocks said and his hand slid across the golden book. “The Vulgate. The Papist bible.” He looked at Whistler, though his fingers remained, tracing patterns over the metalwork. “Hardly a safe item with which to be caught, notwithstanding the precious material in which it is encased. A man could find himself mistaken for a Jesuit priest and disembowelled.” Now he let go of the book and propped both elbows on the table, steepling his hands beneath his chin. His glare was hard and unrelenting. “Are you, in fact, an agent of Rome, posted to these Protestant shores by Satan's own Society of Jesus? Did not you hear word of the Lord Protector’s recent proclamation? That popish priests be hounded and prosecuted with the full force of the law? That those who say masses and seduce people to the Church of Rome will be speedily and unmercifully convicted?”

  “N… N... no, sir,” Whistler stuttered, so taken aback was he by the accusation. He felt icy tentacles wrap themselves about his torso as his bowels turned to water and his heart threatened to pound his ribs to dust. “I... I did not know. I cannot even read!”

  Maddocks pressed a forefinger against his lips. “Hush, Master Whistler. Hush now, there's a good fellow.” He exchanged a smirk with the fat man and the fly. “Even the Jesuits have standards.” As the others chuckled and Whistler came near to fainting, Maddocks picked up the bible, turning it in his hands. “So you stole this shiny bauble, not knowing what was within the pages. Blinkered by avarice, you saw only the gold.”

  “Aye, sir. I had planned to sell it at Portsmouth. Or have the gold stripped.”

  “But you never reached Portsmouth, on account of your greed.”

  “On account of my hunger, sir.” Whistler felt his gaze slip, unbidden, to the plate of marchpanes.

  Maddocks snorted derisively. “You are a villain and you will be dealt with as such. Next market day at Petersfield will suffice. They have room for one more at Gallows Field.”

  The fly moved in, rubbing his hands together gleefully, while his portly compatriot took hold of Whistler again. Into Whistler's ear, one of them snarled, “The noose awaits you, lad!” and he bucked and writhed in their implacable grasp but to no avail. They dragged him towards the door, his heels scraping and bouncing along the floor's shattered tiles and he began to weep.

  Colonel Francis Maddocks waited for the rumpus to die down before returning his attention to the book.

  “Exquisite, Captain Beck, is it not?”

  The barrel-like physique of his subordinate filled the doorway. The man, sweating even more profusely than before, wiped chubby hands on his scarf as if to purge them of the prisoner's residue. He frowned at the bible in apparent distaste. “A Romish trinket, sir.”

  Maddocks sighed. “One can despise the derivation of an object, John, without despising the object itself.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Beck answered primly as he scratched his back against the wall, like a pig at a post.

  “I do.” Maddocks handled the book gently, reverently, knowing that his reformist officers would disapprove and not caring one jot. “Yes, I do.”

  Beck, as disparaging of Papist ornamentation as he was, appraised the object with a glint in his eye. “Golden filigree?”

  Maddocks nodded. “Dominated by an image of the living Christ,” he said, quietly now, unable to hide his awe, “triumphant before the cross.” He ran a finger along the delicate patterns, some of which were inlaid with material the colour of oyster pearls. With his nail he followed each golden thread, caressing them as they swirled. “Around the edges, here, the goldsmith has set red garnets. And here,” he indicated the space immediately beneath the cross, “you see these figures? Mourners, on Calvary. The Virgin among them. Such work, John.” He breathed out slowly, savouring the moment. “To touch such work.” He looked up sharply. “You've heard of Marek Nowak?”

  The question clearly wrong-footed Beck, for the captain’s mouth flapped silently for a moment or two. Then he shook his head. “I do not believe so, sir.”

  Lieutenant Grimes, stooping under the lintel, re-entered the room. “Nor I, sir.”

  Maddocks held up the golden bible. “Its previous owner.”

  “You know him, sir?” Beck asked, taken aback.

  “Of him. He has something of a reputation.”

  “How so?”

  Maddocks had studied the bible extensively since arriving in Warblington. The commanding officer of the Havant patrol, a pompous prig by the name of Delaney, had handled the gold-bound object at arm’s length, as if the very stench of Beelzebub wafted in its wake. But if Delaney had been only too pleased to be rid of the Papist scriptures, Maddocks had been equally happy to receive them. He knew a valuable trinket when he saw one, even if it did contain the Latin poison that Protestant England spent so much time and energy attempting to eradicate. This wondrous thing had struck him like a heavenly epiphany the moment he had clapped eyes on its ornate cover and he had found himself scrutinising every pattern, every jewel and every page for allegories, maker’s marks and any feature of note. “The letters ‘MN’,” he said, “written just inside.” He laid the book on the table, beckoning the others to advance and opened the gold cover to reveal the first page. The initials, inked by hand, were set above the rough sketch of a bird of prey, wings splayed, talons bared. “See the crown atop its head? This is a Polish eagle, gentlemen.”

  “The pirate?” Grimes asked, reflecting on the prisoner’s words.

  “The same,” Maddocks said. “Except that there are no pirates strolling through Hampshire. There are often, however, plenty of other kinds of mariner. Those who fight the Commonwealth’s wars at sea. Shipwrights, caulkers, sailmakers. T
hey walk the lanes between London and Portsmouth.” He stabbed the handwritten initials with a forefinger. “There are not many foreign crews in the Commonwealth Navy. Fewer still boasting notorious Polish gun captains. The ship Diamond is one such vessel. Marek Nowak is one such gun captain.” He sat back. “A fearsome rogue, if ever there was one. As lethal in the prize-fight as he is in battle. You’ve never heard of him?”

  Beck and Grimes shared a nonplussed glance. The former shook his fleshy head. “Should we have, sir?”

  “Something of a character amongst Generals at Sea Blake’s forces,” Maddocks said. “A monster of a pugilist when on land. A divisive figure for his Catholic faith and a fearsome creature for everything else. Fought for his homeland against the Cossacks and Tartars.” He paused for a drink, then, clearing his throat, went on, “Survived the Batih massacre, where the Cossacks slaughtered Polish prisoners by the thousand. You’ll doubtless recall the horrifying accounts of that atrocity.” Invisible feathers played at the skin of his neck as his own memory conjured images he would rather not see. “Days of killing, Captain Beck. To bear witness to such slaughter can only warp the mind.” His mouth had dried and he took another sip from the goblet. “After that, enlisted with a Polish merchantman, then found himself sailing under Blake.”

  Beck wrinkled his flat nose as if he smelled something rotten. “But a papist, sir. We’d not allow such delinquents to infest the Army.”

  “The Lord Protector's qualms on that score are not shared by the General at Sea.”

  “Then why does he not compel Blake?”

  “Because Robert Blake wins battles, Captain.” Maddocks shrugged. “Winning is everything.” He left Beck to splutter indignantly and let his eyes slide back to the treasure. It glowed in the candlelight. Soft and rich and enticing. He smiled. “This is a blessed day, gentlemen. Do you know what this book is?”

  “Bible, sir,” Grimes offered. “Gold bible, sir.”

  Maddocks leafed rapidly through the pages of Latin until he reached the back of the text. On the final page there was more handwritten script, though these lines, tiny and faded, had been left by an entirely different scribe. “This is Spanish, gentlemen, which I know neither of you have. But note the date.”