1640–2
England: London — Ldgehill
It was bitter cold and the small fire I had nursed into life did no more than burn the palms of my hands. I was thoroughly pissed off and did not even raise my head when I heard someone stumbling around in the frost-lined undergrowth which filled this dreadful wood. A ball in the back of my neck would have been welcome relief.
‘Fantom? Fantom? Is that you?’
‘Bugger off, Robin,’ I answered surlily but he came forward nonetheless.
‘It’s a chill night,’ he observed as he sat on the fur-covered stool I vacated. I was in a foul mood but knew that there were limits to the unmannerliness a soldier in the field should offer his commander-in-chief.
Essex took a glowing twig from the fire and lit a pipe as I stamped my feet and wrapped my arm round myself in an effort to get warm. He was my senior by many years but did not seem to feel the cold. Perhaps there was something in this godliness after all.
‘Carlo,’ he said after two or three contented puffs. ‘You are too hasty.’
‘Not for myself, my Lord,’ I answered. ‘Were I hasty in defence of my own honour, Sir William Balfour would be out of the cold this night.’
‘No more of that,’ Essex said sternly. ‘We may leave that kind of vanity to the popinjays who mislead the King. It is God’s honour we must study to preserve.’
‘My Lord,’ I said humbly, thinking, Jesus Christ! how did I come to get stuck with this canting old Puritan and his killjoy friends? Balfour with whom I had quarrelled so fiercely was in some ways the best of the lot. A rabid Protestant certainly, but a professional soldier also, and a man of experience and guile. It was our common ground rather than our differences which had made us fall out. Essex had asked my opinion on some matter concerning the disposition of our cavalry in the imminent battle. I had given it and Balfour had contradicted me, on grounds good enough I acknowledged, but in terms which had angered me so that instead of being diplomatically silent, I had laughingly wondered whether the lieutenant’s lodgings in the Tower of London were a good place to study modern cavalry tactics.
‘Aye, sir,’ he had snarled. ‘And it is a good place to put foreign fools with their Papist notions.’
I had left the meeting in anger and moved my bivouac apart from the central encampment, like a spoiled brat sulking in a corner. But Balfour was the occasion rather than the root of my anger. I had hung back as long as I could from joining this campaign. It was not for this that I had crossed the seas to England. Chance had turned me into the most unlikely friend a man could think of for the Earl of Essex, and when war had become certain, his offer of preferment had seemed too good for a man of my calling to refuse. But it had been my mind that accepted it, not my heart.
I had prospered in England and legitimately too. Papers I had had of King Charles’s sister on parting, mainly letters of recommendation and introduction, had established me as a gentleman of standing in London. I had put aside enough of my wealth to keep me well for a time, while the bulk of my money I had invested in a scheme for sinking mines in the Malvern hills beneath which lay (according to the prospectus) rich deposits of silver and lead. I know nothing of such matters but I had been introduced to Mr Thomas Bushell, the main proposer of the scheme, and after listening to him for an hour, I was convinced that there was a fortune to be made here. Not that I rushed in without doing some checking first! I have lived too long in a world of roguery to be conned by a charming tongue. But this Bushell, it appeared, had been seal-bearer to that most renowned of scientists, Francis Bacon, and more recently had looked after the Royal mines in Wales and been made Master of the Mint. He was universally marvelled at for his ingenuity in mechanical contrivances and his knowledge of engineering. With Bushell in control, I had no doubts but that soon I would become wealthy beyond lust.
Speaking of lust, I had had some fears that my sad disability might upset my new-found social standing, particularly in times of peace. But I need not have worried. True, the trumpets sounded three or four times in my first few weeks, but to my amazement my outbursts were never followed by complaints and finally I concluded that what I had heard of your Englishman’s unsubtle wooing must be true, and my own efforts by comparison were but gentlemanly essays!
Curiously enough it was my weakness that first brought me into contact with Robin Essex. A wench who served me wine in a Westminster tavern sparked the attack. She was plain, just past first youth. Already the peach-blossom of her skin was turning to a vinous flush, doubtless derived from the consumption of too many heeltaps. But the aesthetic principle never played a large part in my bouts. I downed my wine, ordered a fresh bottle, followed her into the cellar and met with little resistance over a barrel of Rhenish. I then gave her some coin and would also have given her some moral advice, for I feared from her demeanour she might be a woman of too easy virtue. But a footfall on the cellar steps prevented my sermon. My new respectability had not yet dulled my old cautiousness and I had no desire to get into a fracas with the landlord who, for ought I knew, was the woman’s husband or lover. So putting a hand over her mouth, I pressed her into the shadows between the racks and waited.
There were two men and they did not descend the steps but stopped by the cellar door, conversing in whispers. I could not make out much of what they said, but I caught the name Pym and I heard a sound which I would have recognized in a thunderstorm, the decelerating click of the ratchet of a wheel-lock pistol being spanned. My heart sank. These men were up to no good. Whether hired professionals or dedicated amateurs I did not know, but if they knew enough not to wind up their pistols till shortly before use (else the wheelspring may grow stiff and fail to work) there was bloodshed soon to be done.
The name Pym I recognized. He was a leading man in this English parliament which through some deficiency of law is allowed to defy its King and go unpunished. This was before their war started, of course, and it seemed to me quite natural that, in this unseemly state of things, gentlemen of honour and loyalty should make shift to teach the rogues a lesson by shooting their leader. For all I knew, the King himself was privy to this plot. It would be foolish then to interfere.
On the other hand I could scarcely step forward now and say, ‘Gentlemen, whatever your purpose, I approve it. Commend me to His Majesty. Good day.’ Men surprised in ambush shoot first and listen later.
I could, of course, remain quiet and let them get on with it. But I had no idea how expert they were. A botched-up job could have this cellar full of angry men in minutes, none of them keen to listen to protestations of innocence from a sinister foreigner.
I suddenly recalled how many years ago, I had set up the phoney attempt on Wallenstein’s life to ingratiate myself with him. Here I was now with no desire at all to ingratiate myself with Pym or his party, yet saving his life seemed the best way I could find of preserving my own.
Yet this too was fraught with danger. I carried no pistol (thus far my new respectability and sense of security had taken me), only my sword. The men were forty feet away, at the head of a narrow flight of steps. To rush them would be fatal. If saving Pym’s life were the means of saving my own, I would do it, but I had no intention of sacrificing myself on his behalf.
Suddenly one of the men hissed the other to silence. The door into the tavern was open a crack, letting an axe-edge of light fall through. Obviously their prey had arrived, perhaps manoeuvred here by some complotter. The time had come to act.
I decided quickly. One man firing in alarm into the dark was a takeable risk; two men weren’t. I needed to draw their fire. Against me I felt the body of the serving-wench still heaving either from fear or the aftermath of our recent exertions. She was a fine sturdy girl, well able to take a ball or two with no ill effect. Women should wage war, I have often thought, not men. They are better fleshed for it. Slowly I released her. She had sense enough to make no noise. I edged round her till I was behind her and she faced the door.
Then I swiftly drew
my sword and plunged about an inch of steel into her right buttock.
She screamed like a trapped boar and ran towards the steps.
‘God’s cods!’ roared one of the men as he span round and discharged his pistol. Whether by luck or skill, his aim was true. The ball struck I knew not where, but the woman went down at the foot of the steps and lay there moaning.
I came after her at the run. As long as the man who had fired remained where he was, his companion could not shoot at me. I trod on the recumbent wench and she grasped at my ankle nearly bringing me down. It was a fortunate stumble, for the man, with a speed which denoted an expert, had hurled his useless pistol at me and drawn his sword. Upright, I would have been struck by the first and spitted by the second. As it was the pistol passed over my head and I came up under his guard, running my blade beneath his rib cage into his left lung. I withdrew it quickly and pressed against the wall to let the poor fellow tumble past me. The woman shrieked as for the second time in ten minutes she was covered by a hot-blooded hard-breathing man.
But I had no time for ironic reflection. The second man was still to deal with; I could see his face clearly. His eyes were round with terror and the sweat hung on his youthful beard like dew on the maidenhair fern. He must have been absolutely wrought up to the business in hand and had no nerves left to deal with this interruption. I slashed at his wrist so that he shrieked and dropped the pistol which hung loosely in his hand. It proved more dangerous out of than in his grasp for as it hit the stone step, the wheel was released and it went off. The ball ricocheted off the step and I heard it whizz past my head. Angrily I punched him in the belly, knocking him to the floor. Then, recollecting myself, I stood over him with my sword poised till the cellar was flung open and crowded with chattering figures.
‘Die, traitor!’ I cried, thrusting my sword into him. But I took care to insert the blade just beneath the shoulder. I wanted to establish my credentials with the onlookers, but I also wanted at least one of these two would-be killers to be fit to answer questions.
As it was, some fool did not pause to work things out but fired a pistol down the steps at almost point-blank range. The ball caught me glancingly on my right shoulder blade, flinging me against the wall. Next moment I was seized roughly, my sword was wrenched from my grasp and my arms were forced behind my back by a pair of eager bully-boys. No one seemed capable of taking charge and I could not even identify Pym, the cause of all this trouble, in the mob. I was mightily relieved at the arrival of a troop of part-time soldiers from the London Trained Bands who were at this time reponsible for guarding the approaches to the Houses of Parliament. Part-time they might be, but at least they were disciplined, and the situation was further improved a little later by the arrival of the Bands’ overall commander, the Earl of Essex, who had been in the vicinity.
Pym was now identified to me, an undistinguished enough fellow though with a kind of knowing cunning in his face which made him a man to look out for. I was now able to tell my story which, apart from my reason for being in the cellar (suspicion that the wench was watering my wine), the wench’s part in the fray (she had run to the door in hysterics) and my own motives (desire to preserve such a noble bulwark of democracy as Pym), was the truth. This was confirmed by the few words the badly shocked but lightly wounded girl could say and by the almost incoherently complete confession of the second ambusher. The first was meanwhile uttering nothing but frothy blood.
Essex ordered me released and grasped my hand.
‘Sir, we are much in your debt,’ he said warmly. Immediately those who had so recently been manhandling me crowded round to shake my hand and clap my back. It was almost as painful as my former treatment. When I winced, it was recalled that I had been hit by a ball. But when my tunic was removed, nothing but a light bruise was found.
‘God must have you in His special care,’ observed Pym who had been the least forward in expressing his thanks.
‘Aye, sir,’ I answered. ‘While your health He has merely consigned to mine.’
He grinned as though genuinely amused.
There was no way of preventing news of my part in this affair from being carried rapidly throughout the city, therefore as is my way I made the best I could of the business. While the King’s followers could scarcely do less than express relief at the failure of the plot (variously laid at the door of the Court, the Papists, and, most subtly, the Puritans who it was alleged wished thus to rouse the ire of the people), privately they must deplore my albeit accidental intervention.
It would be long before I could look for royal favour. But every man needs a friend in a position of power. I had little choice. It had to be Robin Essex.
Mind you for all his tobacco stench and Puritan cant, he wasn’t a bad fellow. He was no man to hand out idle favours though; he had to feel they were deserved. We talked often of warfare and he listened with keen interest to my views on the armament and disposition of cavalry in the modern army. The ideal, I suggested, would be for all cavalry men to be trained in all the cavalry modes – as cuirassiers, as harquebusiers, as lancers. Also a good cavalryman ought in a fix to be able to dismount and fight as a dragoon, though I have the true cavalryman’s contempt for these second-raters with their spavined beasts.
Realistically I knew no paymaster in Europe could afford the outlay necessary to train and equip such a force, but the point I was making was that there is no such thing as ‘the best cavalry’. The winning side will be that which is best equipped to deal with the kind of cavalry opposed to it. It’s rather like that children’s game in which scissors cut paper, paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors. A force of cuirassiers will smash through an equal force of lighter cavalry who try to meet them head on. But well-trained harquebusiers who avoid the head-on clash and concentrate on bringing down the horses, may then leave the floundering cuirassiers to their infantry.
Likewise, bullets are obviously stronger than spears, yet once fired a pistol or carbine cannot quickly be reloaded and men with lances can often spit a harquebusier before he has time to take a good aim. The infantry also are most vulnerable to a charge of lance-men. As heavy armour for both horse and foot has grown rarer, so vulnerability to the lance has increased. In many situations, a front rank of lancers followed by two or three of harquebusiers is a devastating formation. But not, of course, against cuirassiers. That is why it is so important to know exactly what your enemy’s strength is.
I held Robin’s attention whenever I spoke on these matters, particularly in my defence of the light lance or ‘staff’ which was rapidly following its heavier medieval counterpart into disuse. Of course, at this time I did not know enough of English politics to believe that internal war was possible. To me our talk was all theoretic, an area of common ground useful to graze over while I worked out what advantage could accrue to me from his patronage. That I needed patronage, I was becoming aware. While I still had every confidence in Mr Thomas Bushell’s schemes it would be some small time yet, as that gentleman had explained to me in his charming, reassuring way, before the vast returns which were promised us began to appear. Till then I had need of employment and I had even begun to think of a foray to the mainland in search of a small war for five to six months to restore my fortunes. England I had begun to regard as men I had served with regarded those of their own estates they felt most secure. I had always mocked this need to have somewhere to rerurn to and angered many by suggesting that when they went back they would find their houses burnt, their goods stolen, their women ravished by just such an army as ours.
So it was with real horror that I became aware that this quarrel between King and Parliament could go further than noisy protests and a few broken heads. Essex was much moved by my reaction, for he loved his country dearly. When I asked him how he could bear to fight against his own monarch, he smiled sadly at me and said, ‘Carlo, you mistake us. ’Tis not against His Majesty we fight, ’tis against his evil councillors. We fight to rescue the King from those who wou
ld lead him into danger.’
I let the matter rest then. What motives these good men and politicians produce for killing people! I have dreamt sometimes of a totally professional army whose loyalty extends only as far as the last clause on the contract their leader signs. We came close to it in Germany but always the purity of such an organization was sullied by a general’s ambitions on the one hand or the soldiers’ indiscipline on the other. God’s bones! If I had enough money to keep five thousand men for a year while I drilled and trained them, I would have an invincible force which would put the mastery of Europe where it belongs – in the hands of the highest bidder! Riches and power were created to go together. It is only the foolishness of man that contrives sometimes to keep them apart.
So, to keep the matter short, this was how it came about that I was sulking by my fire on this cold October night. I could not remain neutral. My association with Essex forbade that. And I could not claim unsuitability. My displays of theoretic expertise forbade that. Nevertheless, despite both these causes, I would have sought a comfortable retirement in the country had not my current impecuniosity forbidden that also!
‘Tomorrow we fight, Carlo,’ said Essex poking destructively at my little fire with a willow rod. ‘How say you? May we win?’
‘Any man may win,’ I answered. ‘So may we. I wish it so for I have no wish to fight at Christmas.’
‘Yes, I think we may, with God’s help,’ he went on. The old sod didn’t want a discussion I realized, just someone to answer his own uncertainties. I would have preferred to do without God and have another regiment of horse, but I did not say so. The first of Essex’s Articles of War promised to reward blasphemy by having the blasphemer’s tongue bored with a red hot iron.
‘Our cause is just,’ said Essex. ‘Our men are ready. Our hearts are strong.’
Captain Fantom Page 10
