Three Treasures

by Jack Elwin

PART

  ‘WHEN YOU COME to the Puritanical towns of Taunton, Crewkerne, Bristol, Dorchester and Exeter, then let your swords cruel it without difference of age, sex, or degree.’ That was what the old Cavalier Lord Paulet told his soldiers. He also said that Dorset should be ‘fattened with the blood and carcasses of the inhabitants’.

  When we heard that we tried to comfort ourselves by saying, ‘He doesn’t really mean it. He’s trying to raise the courage of his soldiers, and it shows they’re not up to much.’ The fact was that, apart from a few old soldiers like Ted Barlow or Thomas Gregory, we had no idea what war would be like.

  Also we had quite a lot of armed men to defend us. I myself had joined the Militia under Captain William Churchill. It was formed of two companies of about eighty men each. We did some training each week, learning to handle sword and pike, and a few of us even got to fire a musket once or twice. We wouldn’t have been much use against professional soldiers, but we were full of enthusiasm and marched quite smartly.

  Every few nights some of us were on duty patrolling the walls. In fact I believe there were about two hundred and fifty men in all (besides the soldiers) who were passed as fit for ‘watch and ward’.

  There were also a quite a lot of real soldiers. The ones Sir Walter Erle commanded were mainly from a troop of volunteers he himself had raised and trained and armed properly with pikes and muskets. These volunteers mostly came from all over west Dorset and included some of the richer Dorchester men. Sir Walter must have had nearly a thousand in his little army, surely enough to protect Dorchester.

  But the news, when it reached us, was bad.

  ‘Have you heard?’—It was my next door neighbour, Tom Hartley the tailor, putting his head round the door of my shop—‘Have you heard about Taunton?’

  It was the middle of June, about a fortnight after the defences had been finished, a lovely summer morning.

  ‘What about Taunton?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s fallen. A minister who was there has been to see Mr White, and brought the news. Sir Ralph Hopton’s Cornish levies joined Prince Maurice’s cavalry from Oxford—the ones who went through Blandford, you remember?—and together they attacked. It was a very fierce assault, the minister said, and they took the place by storm.’

  ‘God help the poor people there! How terrible!’ I exclaimed. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘It was about the ninth of this month, I believe. But where will the Cavaliers go next, do you think? Will they come this way?’

  I considered for a moment.

  ‘Taunton is a long way from here,’ I said. ‘It must be nearly forty miles. If I were Sir Ralph and the Prince I’d go for somewhere more important. Taunton guards the way from Cornwall to the middle of the country, and Bridgwater does the same. So I’d attack Bridgwater next, and then perhaps try to have a battle with the Parliament army in the open somewhere.’

  ‘What about Bristol?’ suggested Tom.

  ‘I would pass Bristol by,’ I said. ‘It’s too well defended, by all accounts. No, Bristol won’t fall, and I wouldn’t want to spend months on a fruitless siege when I had a chance of finishing off my enemy’s army in the field.’

  It was worrying news, though, that Taunton had fallen. I couldn’t help wondering whether their defences had been as strong as ours, and whether ours would be able to resist an assault. But when I did my next spell of duty on the walls I felt confident again. The amazing depth of the ditch and the mighty height of the bank with its stockade on the top, assured me that no enemy would be able to break through.

  I still often saw Sir Walter Erle riding up or down the High Street with an escort of troopers, and saw bands of his soldiers marching or riding in and out. Their movements made it seem as if there were plenty of them, but I had an uneasy feeling that were never enough of them kept in the town. For example, soon after we had heard the news about Taunton, I believe he had five or six hundred regular soldiers in Dorchester. However, a few days later there seemed to be far fewer. People had often grumbled about the way Sir Walter kept sending them away on his patrols and raiding parties, but even so we had always expected them to come back in a week or two. But this time they didn’t return. We feared that he now intended to use them permanently elsewhere, and that we would soon be left with only the three badly trained companies recruited from the poor, along with our own Militia, to defend us.

  I soon heard what had happened to those soldiers, for I decided to ask Tom Hartley to make me a suit of doublet and breeches. After he had measured me, I asked him if he had heard any news.

  ‘Well, have you heard what Sir Walter’s gone and done?’

  ‘No, tell me,’ I said.

  ‘He’s taken Corfe.’

  ‘What! Has he really captured the Castle?’

  ‘No, not so far as I’ve heard, but he’s got possession of the town with hardly a blow struck, I’m told. They say he took advantage of the early morning mist and made a surprise attack, and has bottled up the defenders in the Castle.’

  ‘What’s the point of that?’ I said. ‘The town’s of no importance. But the Castle may hold out for months, and tie down his soldiers for ages when they ought to be defending us. What’s going to happen if Dorchester’s attacked while Sir Walter and his men are besieging Corfe?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tom. ‘I suppose Sir Walter thinks capturing Corfe Castle would be a big blow to the Cavaliers.’

  ‘It would be a blow to their pride, but it’s not all that important in the war. It’s only defended by a very few soldiers and some women, they say, so they’re not much of a threat to others. And Corfe is so out of the way, there in the Isle of Purbeck, whereas Dorchester is much more important overall.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious. Corfe is on the way to nowhere, except some stone quarries and the port of Swanage, whereas we in Dorchester are astride two main roads, from Weymouth to Sherborne and Poole or Wareham to Bridport. As long as we stand firm for Parliament the Cavaliers can’t capture Weymouth and bring in troops and supplies from the sea.’

  ‘You are clever, Micah,’ said Tom, ‘you understand these things.’

  I thought I was rather clever to work it out too, but I coughed modestly and said,

  ‘Oh no, it’s just that I know Dorchester is important. And there’s another thing,’ I went on, ‘Dorchester is famous throughout the land, thanks to our Mr White. We’re known as “the Godly City”, a beacon of light in the darkness, like the city on a hill in the Gospels. It would be a terrible blow to the godly Cause if Dorchester were captured by the enemy.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. But I suppose we have to trust that Sir Walter knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘I think he’s making a mistake. He ought to keep his men here to protect us. But I hope I’m wrong, Tom, and you’re right.’

  Sir Walter occupied the little town of Corfe and surrounded the Castle, blocking all ways in and out, and no doubt thought that as its master, Sir John Bankes, was away fighting for the King, leaving only his wife in charge, it would soon fall, and he could then bring most of his troops back to defend us. But she was a woman of spirit and refused to surrender, and the Castle is so strong on its hill that he couldn’t storm it. We heard all about what was happening there from soldiers who passed to and fro. I saw Sir Walter himself a little later, riding up to his house in Dorchester, and thought he looked tired and worried.

  Other people noticed too, and were becoming nervous, although life went on much as usual. Farm carts came in with eggs and vegetables, sheep and cows were driven down High Street to market, and people went to see their friends and relatives in villages round about.

  But as the siege of Corfe Castle dragged on our anxiety increased. Sir Walter seemed to have no idea how to capture it, and we were daily all too aware how few troops he had left to defend us. Reports from other parts of the country were depressing. The great champion of Parliament, John Hampden, had died of wounds, and there were ru
mours of armies on the march and of riots even in parts of Dorset, though Dorchester itself seemed peaceful at the moment. But as my work took me to some of the poorer parts of town I saw how hard life was becoming for folk who lived there. Prices were rising, and some of the people did not have enough to eat.

  It must have been at this point that Elizabeth and Nicholas had quite a sharp quarrel. I knew nothing of it at the time, but long afterwards she told me what had happened.

  He had been out late with his friends gambling the night before, and when he came to see her was in a bad mood.

  ‘I’ve got a splitting head,’ was his greeting.

  ‘Why, what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It was just last night. I was with the lads till late—too late.’

  ‘Why do you see them so much, if it doesn’t make you happy, dear?’

  ‘I shall see whoever I like. Don’t you try to stop me.’

  ‘I want you to be happy.’

  ‘I am happy. At least I would be if they weren’t such bloodsuckers!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re too much after money, my money—which I haven’t got.’

  ‘Why do you go on seeing them then? Please don’t.’

  ‘I’ll see who I like, I tell you. I’ll get it back from them.’

  ‘You’ve been gambling again. Oh, Nicholas, I wish you wouldn’t.’

  ‘You let me be! I’ll do what I like. At least my friends don’t carp at me!’

  ‘But they lead you into trouble. Weren’t some of them involved in the attack on Mr White?’

  ‘What do you know about ’em? Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘What’s the matter, Nicholas dear? Why should my asking make you so angry?’

  ‘Now listen to me, woman. You keep your prying out of my business, d’ye see? I’ll not have you nor anyone stick their noses into my affairs. So you get that in your head from the start.’

  She began to cry a little then, and I think he had the grace to say sorry and put his arm about her. But she began to wonder how far he was really involved in plots and what life with him would be like.

  Soon, though, news from the wider world seemed worse than our local worries. I had looked into Tom Hartley’s shop to see how he was getting on with the clothes he was making for me.

  ‘Terrible happenings,’ he said, ‘terrible! There’s been a big battle near Bath, on Lansdown Hill, they say, with many dead and wounded on both sides. Our general’s retreated.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘I met a man at Top o’ Town by the gate there. He’d just come in on his way to see the Mayor. He cried out the news as he passed.’

  ‘Who do you mean by “our general”?’

  ‘Sir William Waller, of course. William the Conqueror, they used to call him. But he’s that no longer it seems.’

  ‘So where are the armies now?’ I asked.

  ‘God knows,’ said Tom, ‘the man didn’t say.’

  But before evening the whole town knew as much as the man could tell. Apparently when he left after the battle, the Cavaliers were staying in the Bath area, while Sir William was leading his Roundheads towards Wiltshire, though no one knew where he would be going after that.

  Even when next day a messenger arrived from Sir William himself we were no wiser as to his plans. But his message was worrying, and soon known all over the town. He was asking, or rather demanding, that Sir Walter Erle should send him reinforcements.

  We watched with dismay as most of our remaining soldiers—two cavalry troops and a hundred dragoons—rode out of the East Gate at the bottom of the town and disappeared along the Blandford road. That left Sir Walter with little more than five hundred men to carry on the siege of Corfe, go raiding, impose order on the countryside, and defend Dorchester and Weymouth.

  The danger to Mr White seemed to me now greater than ever. With the town poorly defended and the people restive anything might happen. I went to consult with Lawrence Huatt again.

  ‘I still don’t know who the men were who attacked Mr White,’ I said, ‘but I’m certain that Nicholas Dashwood was one of them. I’m wondering if we could use him to warn them off. Perhaps then they won’t try any more wickedness.’

  ‘Truly the arms of the wicked shall be broken, and they shall fall into the pit which they have dug themselves. But surely he won’t take any notice of anything we say?’

  ‘We will have to make out that we know more than we do. I am certain that he and his friends were involved, and anything we say to him will get back to them.’

  ‘So what can we do?’

  ‘If we look in at the alehouses at the bottom end of town we’ll probably find him. Will you come now, and we’ll do it?’

  ‘You must go in to fetch him out. The Lord knows, I won’t be seen in such places,’ said Lawrence. But he did come with me, and agreed what he should say. I wanted him, as the older and more weighty townsman, to give Nicholas the warning.

  We tried several likely alehouses, and in the fourth I saw Nicholas with a group of other young men. I pushed through to him and touched his arm.

  ‘There’s a man outside who has something for you,’ I said.

  ‘Who is it?’ he said.

  ‘Mr Lawrence Huatt. Come and see him, it won’t take a moment.’

  ‘Aren’t you Mr Judd the apothecary?’

  ‘Yes, you know me. So will you please come and see Mr Huatt.’

  ‘I can’t think what he wants with me. Right, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said to his companions, and followed me out to where Lawrence was waiting. Lawrence told him what we had agreed.

  ‘Mr Dashwood, you know me and Mr Judd here. We have something very serious to say to you, and I charge you in the Lord’s name to listen carefully. There was recently an attack made upon the minister, Mr White, a most disgraceful attack. Those involved are known. You must tell them that any further attempt to harm Mr White will be visited with immediate and sure punishments upon their heads.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘That is all,’ I said. ‘Now go and tell your friends.’

  ‘It’s a damned insult. You make accusations like that and I’ll get my father to haul you before the Council!’

  ‘You’ve heard what we said,’ replied Lawrence, ‘go and do it—and the Lord judge between us and thee.’

  And we walked away.

  ‘Do you think that will make Mr White any safer?’ asked Lawrence.

  ‘I hope so, but we must still be vigilant.’

  I went that evening to the King’s Arms to see if I could pick up any more news of the war, and found a rather gloomy feeling in the bar. Old Thomas Gregory, who had lost a leg in the wars in Germany, was holding forth.

  ‘Have you any idea what it’s like when a town is sacked?’ he was asking, gazing round with watery eyes at a circle of men. ‘Consider,’ he went on, ‘your usual brave sort o’ captain don’t want to surrender too soon, or he’ll be in trouble with his general, so when the herald comes and says, “Open the gates”, he says, “Never! not on my life!” So the siege begins. An’ at first it’s not too bad—jus’ the odd red-hot cannon-ball settin’ fire to your thatch or choppin’ the odd chile or two in half.’

  Old Thomas was warming to his theme and took a swig of beer.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘it’s when the food begins to go short things turn nasty. The captain, maybe, rations it out, an’ makes sure most o’ it goes to so’jers. But soon even they begin to go hungry; so what do you eat?—cats, dogs, hosses, pigeons—anythin’ with a bit o’ meat on it. Then what?’ He rolled his eyes around the group and lowered his voice.

  ‘Rats, bird shit, bits o’ leather. An’ when that’s gone you start to eat each other.’

  ‘Never!’ exclaimed a big man on my right.

  ‘Oh yes,’ retorted Thomas. ‘’Tis in the Bible, the siege of Samaria. The women there ate one o’ their babes, didn’ t
hey? But I’ve see’d it too. I met one or two in the wars that had only kept alive by eatin’ bits o’ their neighbours’ chillen.

  ‘But that’s not the worst o’ it,’ he went on after pausing again to take another swig, and letting his bloodshot eyes range over his hearers. ‘If you’ve a girt stumpoll of a captain who holds out too long in the hope of rescue or glory or ’cause he hasn’t much sense, the besiegers get angry, their blood gets up, they don’t like it. An’ when their cannon make a breach in the wall, an’ the poor so’jers, what have seen their comrades shot by the defenders of those same walls, come stormin’ in, they’re not going to say, “Thank you, good people, for so kindly lettin’ us in. Now we can all be friends”—oh no! There’ll be killin’ an’ rape an’ rapine an’ pillage an’ burnin’ an’ destruction. There’ll be screams an’ cries an’ blood flowin’ in the gutters, an’ smoke from burnin’ houses rising to heaven. That’s a sack, friends, that is a sack!’

  The speech had tired him and he drained his tankard, but someone soon filled it again.

  ‘That’s all very horrid,’ said someone, ‘but that was in Germany, wasn’t it? You surely don’t think Englishmen would do that to fellow Englishmen, or Christians to fellow Christians?’

  ‘Once a so’jer’s blood is up there’s nothin’ he might not do,’ growled Thomas. ‘I’ve been a so’jer, an’ I know.’

  ‘Were you ever besieged, Thomas?’ asked another.

  ‘Oh ’ees. But I had a captain wi’ a bit o’ sense. At the second call he gave up. There was a bit o’ pillage and a rape or two, but nothin’ to what would ha’ been if he’d held out. And’—he turned to the previous speaker—‘I’ve taken part in two or three sacks o’ cities, God forgive me, an’ I know what so’jers, what have had to face death by stormin’ the place, can do and will do, and it ain’t pretty, it ain’t pretty at all.’

  I went back to Agnes in a rather sober state of mind.

  Next day the town was in an uproar. People were hurrying to and fro, their anxiety showing on their faces. Outside the houses of some of the richer townsmen carts were being loaded with pictures, rich hangings and trunks full of valuables. Some were already trundling out of town, heading for country estates, though whether they would be safer there was anybody’s guess. But away from the town they would at least be spared the horrors of a siege, such as had been so vividly described by Tom Gregory.

  What had caused the panic? As usual Tom Hartley told me the news.

  ‘Lord Carnarvon’s on the move,’ he said. ‘He’s crossed into Dorset with a large force of cavalry.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where they’re heading?’

  ‘I’m told they’re coming this way. Oh whatever shall we do?’

  ‘What we’ve been preparing for, I don’t doubt,’ I said. ‘We’ll shut the gates and defy these godless Cavaliers. But I do wish we had more soldiers to man the walls. Now Sir Walter must surely send some back here from Corfe.’

  But the people leaving with their goods had evidently come to the conclusion that they weren’t prepared to defy the Cavaliers. It was all very well for those who had country estates to flee to; the rest of us had no choice but to stay put, come what may, and trust to our new walls and our own hands to defend us.

  As I walked up the High Street I saw a buzz of activity outside Mr Holles’ house. Mr Denzel Holles was our famous Member of Parliament, who in 1629 had helped to hold the Speaker in his chair so that the debate about the King’s demands for money could continue, although the King had ordered the Speaker to adjourn. Mr Holles had been imprisoned and fined for that, but we in Dorchester were proud of him. But now I saw his steward, Ezekias Lambe, supervising the servants as they loaded all sorts of goods onto carts. They seemed to be clearing the house completely.

  Mr Lambe was a customer of mine, so I called to him, ‘Mr Lambe, sir, what’s happening?’

  ‘Ah, Mr Judd, ’tis a bad business,’ he replied. ‘The master has directed me to clear the house.’

  ‘Where is all this to go?’

  ‘To the Isle of Wight. ’Twill be safer there, we hope.—Have a care there, you clumsy numskull!’ This was to a servant who had dropped a chest too heavily into a cart.

  I suddenly had a chill of fear in my heart. This might be the moment for the conspirators to act. With the people’s courage wavering, the capture or death of Mr White would be a fatal blow to our resistance.

  I hurried again to get Lawrence Huatt’s aid, and he soon gathered the friends who had rallied before, and we went to Holy Trinity church, where we found Mr White standing at the door, sadly watching the procession of carts and carriages laden with goods passing through the town. Some of the carriages had ladies and children in them, while most of the men were on horseback. Amongst others I noticed Mr Stephen Dashwood, Nicholas’s father, riding beside a laden cart, with Nicholas riding a short way behind. I did not see Mrs Dashwood with them, nor Elizabeth Whittle.

  When Mr White returned to his house we thought it safe enough to leave him, especially as Nicholas’s friends were probably also occupied with trying to remove their valuables from the town. But we begged Mr White to take care, though all he would say was, ‘I am in the Lord’s hands,’ and with that we had to be content.

  Later Mr Whittle came into my shop looking troubled.

  ‘Oh, Mr Judd, I ought to be the happiest man alive,’ he said, ‘with my daughter’s future settled. But I’m worried sick at what may come upon us. Oh dear oh dear, just think if that Cavalier Lord Carnarvon were to come this way! I can’t sleep for worrying, picturing it in my head, the soldiers tearing through our streets and cutting folk down with their swords, the gutters running with blood! I tell you, Mr Judd, I can’t get it out of my mind, and I toss and I turn till I’m worn to a frazzle. Have you something that might help me to sleep?’

  ‘Indeed I have, Mr Whittle. Here, have some of this. It’s syrup of discodium—made of poppy, you know.’

  ‘I’m having headaches too,’ he said plaintively.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Whittle. Very well, I’ll add a tincture of betony. That should help.’ As I wrapped the bottle I asked, ‘Has something special happened to make you worry so?’

  ‘Oh dear oh dear—it’s all that’s going on around us. All the better sort are leaving town, so they must know things are bad and will get worse. I’d leave myself if I could, but I’ve nowhere to go, and I can’t leave my business.’

  ‘It’s the same for me, Mr Whittle,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to stick it out. But I’m more worried about my wife and little son than for myself.’

  ‘That worry at least I don’t have. I never thought when I buried my Mary last year that I’d say thank God she’s gone. She can come to no harm now. But there’s my daughter, as you well know.’

  ‘Won’t her betrothed, or his father, take care of her?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed, I hope so. I had thought they might take her to safety. But it seems they’re not planning to leave altogether. Mr Dashwood has taken some of their more valuable goods to their country house, and Nicholas has gone with his father to help. But they’ve left Mrs Dashwood to look after the house here in town. So I’m hoping they’ll be back in a day or two, and that Nicholas will see to Elizabeth’s safety.’

  ‘Are you doing anything to preserve your valuables?’ I asked. He half closed his eyes and looked at me a bit craftily.

  ‘If I were I wouldn’t tell anyone,’ he said, then, perhaps realising that he had been a little rude, added, ‘No offence, Mr Judd. I wouldn’t tell you, I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even my own daughter.’

  He put a pudgy finger to his lips, gathered up his medicines, and left.

  Later Lawrence Huatt came in. I thought he might have come to plan further for Mr White’s protection, but in fact he wanted to talk about his own worries.

  ‘The Lord be with you and your house,’ was his greeting to me. ‘What think you, Mr Judd, now young Dashwood and so many ot
her disaffected folk have left town, is our godly minister still in danger?’

  ‘I fear he may be, Mr Huatt. We must keep vigilant and be prepared to rush to his aid if necessary.’

  ‘The Lord is testing us indeed,’ he said. ‘Mr Judd, I am in a quandary. I need advice.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘As you probably know, Mr Judd, although the Lord has blessed me, I am not a rich man. But over the years I have worked hard and saved, and the Lord had prospered me, so that I have somewhat put by for me and my wife in our old age, should the Lord spare us. Now, all these high and mighty folks taking their valuables out of the town have worried me. What if soldiers do come here and pillage? Where can I hide what the Lord has given me where they won’t find it?’

  ‘Do you not think the Lord will protect you?’ I asked, for I was aware that he was a sharp man of business, well able to give the Lord a hand to provide him with both profit and security.

  ‘Indeed He will,’ he replied, raising his eyes to heaven, ‘but He also requires of us that we should be as wise as the children of this world in our generation. So I ask myself, what would He have me do with the little “pound” He has blessed me with?’

  ‘Wrap it in a napkin and bury it. That is what our Lord’s parable suggests,’ I said. ‘Or make a place in a wall and brick it in.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said, ‘but suppose some neighbour saw me hiding it—word might get around that I had riches put away, and I might be robbed. And there’s another thing —’ He lowered his voice and rolled his eyes—‘suppose the soldiers thought I might have money, and tormented me or threatened me with death unless I revealed it, I know I wouldn’t be able to hold out. But if I had put it somewhere right out of reach, I could tell them the truth, that it wasn’t in my possession, and they wouldn’t be able to steal it.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I agreed, ‘so what will you do?’ I didn’t add what occurred to me: that if he told the soldiers he had treasure but had put it out of their reach, they might do him more damage and hurt than ever.

  ‘That’s what I wanted your advice for,’ he said. ‘Should I go out into the country somewhere, and perhaps put it in a hollow tree, or bury it under a hedge? But then a thief might chance upon it and take it away. Or should I perhaps entrust it to someone in one of the villages? I did think of my wife’s sister’s husband at Monkton, John Perrin. I was talking to him. Do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t think so, unless he’s a man I’ve seen in the market once or twice with you,’ I said.

  ‘A bald chap with a grey beard, that’s him. He is, I am sorry to say, a somewhat ungodly man and a blasphemer. But he has a small farm, and there are many places on a farm where things could be hidden safely, are there not? Also Monkton is such a little place and away from the main roads, so perhaps the soldiers would leave it alone. What do you think?’

  ‘You must make your own decision, Mr Huatt. You can either keep your hiding-place secret to yourself, or trust your treasure to someone else. I don’t know Mr Perrin and you do, so if you feel he’s someone you can trust I daresay he would be a good choice. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Lord, Lord, if only the Lord would give me a sign. I don’t know whether I can trust Perrin. He is not one of the elect and his manner of life is sometimes an offence to the godly. Yet he did marry Joan, my wife Anne’s sister, though he’s lived on his own since the Lord took her, poor soul, and in his way he is, I supose, a good-hearted fellow. I’ll have to think and pray to the Lord for guidance. But thank you, Mr Judd, it’s been helpful to talk to you about it. What will you do with your money?’

  ‘I shall probably bury it somewhere,’ I said.

  ‘If I do decide to entrust mine to John Perrin, would you like to hide yours with mine?’

  I thanked him, but said I thought it best not to put too much treasure in one place in case it was found by soldiers or other robbers.

  The conversation did stir me to action though, and that evening I prised up a flagstone in my yard and dug a hollow under it. There I deposited a box with some gold coins, a few bits of jewellery belonging to Agnes, and a silver cup and plate that had belonged to my grandfather. I replaced the flagstone and covered up any sign that it had been moved. But I showed Agnes where the stuff was hidden, in case anything happened to me.

  I felt happier when that was done, and grimly resolved to face whatever hardships a siege might bring.

  But after that Dorchester’s descent to shame was rapid.

  First the poor rioted.

  As the richer people went trundling out with their goods those left behind had watched them with dismay. But the poorer people had stronger feelings—besides their fears they had a sense of outrage. They saw these carts, loaded with riches and luxuries, many items of which might have kept a poor family in comfort for a year. They saw these people, whom they were meant to respect, and who were supposed to protect their poorer neighbours, abandoning the town to whatever horrible fate the rumours flying round might suggest. These poor folk had laboured and slaved to make the town wall and ditch, they had suffered hunger and cold last winter, and all they could see ahead was more privation and the prospect of misery and even death.

  Their murmurs grew louder. When some rich man’s carter cracked his whip and shouted, ‘Out o’ the way, you scum!’ their patience snapped. The crowd surged forward, dragged him off the cart, and began to beat him. Others grabbed at his load and started taking away lengths of cloth, bedding, curtains, pots and ornaments—all was soon stripped bare.

  The carter staggered away bleeding. Someone had called the constables who came running. But when they saw the size of the crowd and their ugly mood, they hesitated and drew back. Other carts were attacked and pillaged, and stones thrown through the windows of some of the larger houses. More of the poorest people came swarming out of the back streets and surged about searching for more to rob, or simply looking for a fight.

  Then the Mayor arrived. He strode boldly towards the crowd, calling out, ‘Who’s been saying everyone’s abandoning the town? Here I am, you know me, your Mayor—I haven’t abandoned you. Now, what’s all this about? Two or three of you come and tell me what’s the matter.—Hey, you, Harry Lambert, John Flitch, you come. Anyone else?—Yes, you, man in the jerkin, I don’t know your name, but you come too. The rest of you, go home quietly, otherwise you’ll be in real trouble.’

  It took him some time to get them to listen, but his brave appearance and the fact that he was bothering to address their grievances won them over in the end, and at last the crowd quietened and began to disperse. I think some of them were a bit ashamed of what they had done to the carter, although it was his rudeness that had started the trouble.

  The Mayor took the three he had picked out, and a few others, and listened to their complaints, but I doubt if he was able to do much to lessen their sense of grievance. However, he promised that he and the Council would do what they could to help the poorest and to protect us from bloodshed and pillage.

  But next the soldiers mutinied.

  That night I was due to take my turn patrolling the walls, and reported to my guard commander at the West Gate. This was one of the patrols when we militiamen were supposed to be accompanied by regular soldiers, but when I reached the Gate I found a group of soldiers there, standing around without helmets or muskets. They were looking angry and defiant while one of the officers berated them.

  ‘We want our pay,’ the tallest of the soldiers was saying. He had flaming red hair and a bristling moustache.

  ‘We want our pay,’ was taken up by the rest of the group as a sort of chant: ‘We want our pay.’

  The officer raised his hand and waited until the noise died down.

  ‘You shall have your pay,’ he said firmly, ‘but certainly not if you don’t earn it. Come now lads, you’re Parliament men, tried and true. The enemy are at hand—don’t let down the Cause, the great Cause of God, liberty and a free Parliament!’

&nbs
p; ‘Why should we risk our lives when half the town have fled?’ shouted one of them.

  ‘Because you’re a soldier, not a coward,’ retorted the officer. ‘And as you very well know, in truth only a few of the townsmen have left, and some of those are just securing their goods, and will come back to join with you to defend the town and the Cause.’

  ‘That’s what you say,’ the man exclaimed scornfully. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it!’

  ‘What about our pay then?’ shouted another. ‘We’re three months in arrears.’

  ‘I’ve told you, you shall have your pay, you shall indeed. I too haven’t had my pay, but I trust it will come, and meanwhile I do my duty. Now here are the militiamen all ready to go on patrol, townsmen who are willing to risk their lives alongside you. We must not let them down. Sergeant, will you please call out the men who are to accompany them. The rest of you, I promise you, you shall get your pay, so now—back to your quarters!’

  It was touch and go whether they would obey him, but two of the soldiers happened to glance my way and we recognised each other. They were a pair whose hurts (got after a brawl, not a battle) I had tended. Our eyes met and I nodded to them. They grinned back a bit sheepishly and stepped forward to join the patrol with me, and the tension broke. The sergeant detailed others for duty, and reluctantly the other soldiers turned and drifted away.

  As we began our patrol I thought, ‘That officer’s promises and orders have stopped mutiny for the moment, but I don’t really believe him.’ Nor, it seemed, did the soldiers with me.

  ‘That was a lot o’ horse shit,’ said one. ‘The only pay we’ll get is what we take ourselves.’

  ‘An’ there’s not much chance o’ that,’ said the other. ‘There’ll be no sacking o’ cities for us, I reckon.’

  ‘Being sacked, more like. We wouldn’t ha’ backed down just now if it hadn’t been for you, sir. But as you played us fair it was only right for us to play fair with you.’

  ‘What will happen if the Cavaliers attack?’ I asked. ‘Will you fight?’

  ‘Who knows? I don’t fancy getting killed, and I doubt if there are enough of us to hold these walls if we’re besieged.’

  Then came the worst news yet.

  When I went to collect my new clothes Tom Hartley was bursting to tell me.

  ‘Have you heard? Have you heard?’

  I was admiring the cut of the doublet and not paying much attention.

  ‘Have I heard what?’ I asked.

  ‘Bristol—it’s been taken, and the defenders scattered or prisoners—those not killed, that is.’

  ‘Bristol!’ I exclaimed, ‘It can’t be! It’s too strong, it’s supposed to be impregnable.’

  ‘Well, clearly it wasn’t, for certainly it’s fallen. Nowhere’s impregnable it seems. They’re saying in the market that three armies joined together and stormed the place. ’Tis thought there are many dead. Oh what will become of us?’

  ‘This is terrible,’ I said, ‘for now the Cavaliers will be able to stamp up and down the land and do whatever they please.’

  Bristol was indeed a key city. Besides being the chief port in England after London, it guarded the road from the west country and Cornwall to Wales and the Midlands, and its loss would be a great blow to the spirits of Parliament supporters everywhere.

  ‘Whatever shall we poor Dorchester folk do?’ said Tom.

  ‘I would have said, “Man the walls and hold firm”,’ I replied. ‘But now I don’t know; the spirit to fight seems to be leaching away.’

  The news quite spoiled my pleasure in my new clothes, though when I showed them to Agnes she said they were very fine.

  The following day a Roundhead officer arrived in Dorchester. He had escaped from Bristol in the confusion when the defences were stormed, and had been dodging from place to place to avoid capture. He was entertained by the Mayor, and (I’m told) gave the assembled Council a horribly vivid account of the siege and its end.

  Next morning he walked round some of our defences and looked at the ditch and earth wall I and the rest had laboured so hard to raise.

  ‘What do you think of our fortifications, Mr Strode?’ the Mayor asked.

  ‘Well, Mr Mayor,’ he replied, ‘these works might keep the Cavaliers out for half an hour or so.’

  ‘Do you really mean that?’ said the Mayor, astonished. ‘This great ditch and wall—who could get past them?’

  ‘My dear sir,’ said Strode, ‘you have no idea what these Cavaliers can do. They’re very devils, sir. Why, at Bristol we had sheer walls twenty feet high, and they came running straight up ’em. No sir, your works look fine enough, but they’ll be nothing to those devils. No works will keep ’em out, sir. Believe me, I’ve seen ’em.’

  I have often thought that if we had kept our spirits up, and if the leading citizens had stayed and given a strong lead, and if we had manned the walls with courage, the enemy would have gone away. After all, in spite of its position astride the roads, Dorchester was hardly important enough in the country as a whole to warrant the time and expense of a long siege. But Mr Strode’s remarks were the final blow. Anyone who had the means to escape and who hadn’t already gone, now left.

  I comforted myself that we still had our champion, Mr White, with us, provided we could protect him. But next morning I saw his servant-maid coming out of Holy Trinity church.

  ‘Is Mr White safe? Is he keeping within doors?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said, looking ready to weep.

  ‘Gone? Where?’

  ‘Gone away. He and Mr Benn have gone together, to London.’

  ‘But why? He was telling us to stand and die together.’

  ‘He said he had to go back to the great Assembly of divines.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘He was there at the beginning of last month, and ’tis true, he’s a very important leader amongst them. But he came back—I thought to strengthen us and keep us firm. Why has he left us now?’

  ‘He said, “I’ll be more use in London than here. If I stay the Cavaliers will kill me. What purpose would my death serve? I would do better to live and keep the Lord’s Cause alive”. So off he went, with Mr Benn too.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, hardly knowing what to say, ‘what does he expect us to do?’

  She did not answer, but gave a sort of sob and turned away, her apron pressed to her eyes. I too was deeply distressed. My spiritual father, the leader who had moulded our town and inspired us all, had let us—let me—down just when we needed him most. I had always admired him for his steadfastness and vision, and now he was shown to have feet of clay. He had deserted us, whom he so often called his children, and left us to face the enemy on our own. The Reverend William Benn also, minister of All Saints church and an even stricter Puritan than Mr White, but co-worker with him in making Dorchester ‘the godliest town in England’—he too had failed us.

  The Cause he had urged us to defend, and which I had steeled myself to fight for—the Lord’s Cause, as he called it—had evidently not been worth dying for. The religion, the very God I had been brought up to believe in, seemed to be failing me just when I needed faith most. I felt shaken and my mind was churning with doubts. Who could I trust? Where could I base my faith? Were we really God’s elect people, or had we somehow gone wrong and missed the right way? Perhaps we Puritans did not have all the truth and our enemies none. Could it be that we were all groping for a larger truth, and all coming short? Might we one day end this dreadful fighting, and together seek that truth? My spiritual father had failed me; I would have to work out my own faith and my own way through life.

  I thought rather bitterly that at least I would not have to worry any more about his safety. But I went home sad and indignant and full of foreboding. What would happen to Agnes, Mark and me, and to our friends and neighbours when the Cavalier army arrived? Could we survive the sack of Dorchester?