Captain Fantom

by Reginald Hill

  All over the church my men rose up in the same condition. Slowly, silently, the captain turned to observe this strange phenomenon.

  I rose too, wondering whether I should try to conciliate or intimidate him. With five times our number outside, all properly dressed, the case seemed hopeless. He turned now almost full circle. He was holding something in his hand – a pistol, I thought at first. Then a shaft of sunlight pierced a window and I saw it clearly.

  It was a bottle of brandy.

  I felt a pang of hope. He had retired to the church for a drink, not to pray! Now he spoke.

  ‘I might have known,’ he said. ‘Soon as I smelt the flesh, I might have known it was you, Fantom, you cock-worshipping Goth.’

  And now I saw his face.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ I said, weak with relief and amazement. ‘Why the hell aren’t you dead, Lauder?’

  1643–5

  St Albans — Donnington — London — Oxford

  A week later Lauder was my quartermaster. It was a demotion he accepted gladly. In all armies there are ordinances against drunkenness on duty, but the general disapproval of strong liquor he encountered in his present company made life almost intolerable.

  ‘My stomach is mutinous against it,’ he told me.

  ‘What?’ said I, misunderstanding. ‘The drink?’

  ‘No, you turd-brain,’ he answered. ‘The onions.’

  I discovered that he had taken to carrying onions with him so that whenever he had a private nip, he followed it with a bit of onion to mask his breath.

  Working out terms proved rather difficult. Demotion he was happy to accept, but he wanted his share of the goodies. I offered him five per cent to come out of my own share, for to attempt to redistribute any of the man’s dividends would have caused great protest. Lauder laughed and demanded at least an equal share with Jem Croft. I refused indignantly. That would have reduced my cut to a mere fifteen per cent. Finally after I had taken him to the ruined mill, where we kept our hidden store of material booty (which I began to fear we would have to abandon when our force moved on) he settled for seven and a half per cent, spotting, as I knew he would, that QM’s perks out of the sale of this lot would probably double his cut. Well, that’s the way army stores have always been run and always will be, I suppose.

  Naturally we sat late into the night at first opportunity, drinking and exchanging news and reminiscences.

  When I mentioned D’Amblève to him and told of the man’s many attempts on my life and my fears that he would track me even to England, he looked at me closely through the monk’s spectacles he now wore all the time in private, then roared with laughter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked, irritated as a man must be whose fears are not taken seriously.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘Save that yon bairn had his head blown off at Breisach in ’38!’

  ‘What! Then who …? all these attempts …?’ I stuttered.

  ‘In your mind, laddie,’ he asserted laughing still. ‘It’s the Laird’s way of giving ye a taste of fear, for He created ye sairly deficient in conscience!’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Weil!’

  For it was true in a way. Nothing had I really feared these past twenty years and more except for D’Amblève. I refilled my glass and drank deep. I felt empty, cheated, like a man who, having turned religious on being told he has a terminal illness, discovers that for years he has been cured without knowing it. Suddenly I felt a deeper hatred of D’Amblève than I had ever known. Without him who knows what my life would have been? Drunkenly I said as much to Lauder who regarded me curiously.

  ‘You’ve changed, Fantom,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I babbled eagerly. ‘I’ve changed. It’s not too late. Now without D’Amblève, there’s nothing to worry about. After this war, I shall be rich, you’ll see. Twenty-five per cent, sorry, seventeen and a half per cent of what we take, it’ll set me up. And I have investments, good old Tommy Bushell, yes, I’ll be a gentleman, live in a mansion, raise a family. Oh yes, I’ve changed.’

  ‘No, all I meant was you didn’a used to be a fool,’ said Lauder.

  I threw my brandy in his face and lunged across the table at him. He it was after all who had taken D’Amblève from me. But my hands grasped empty air and when I looked up, Lauder’s pistol was an inch from my breast bone. By his own account he was over eighty; by any reckoning he must be ancient, and he had just downed a flask of brandy; but the pistol barrel was as steady as a cossack lance.

  ‘Shoot!’ I sneered. ‘But take care when your ball rebounds.’

  ‘So,’ he mused. ‘Now he believes his ain fantasy! Oh Carlo, Carlo! If I were a younger man, I’d abandon you in fear of my life. But I’m old enough and curious enough to stay with you even if it takes me over the edge. So sit up like a soldier and take your drink!’

  He pulled me upright, replenished my glass and raised his own. His pistol had disappeared but I had the feeling it was held under the table ready for use if need be. Suddenly my skin felt as soft as a cherub’s cheeks.

  ‘A toast!’ he said. ‘To God who bears with fools, and to fools who bear with God!’

  ‘Amen,’ said I. ‘A-fucking-men.’

  With Lauder aboard, we now had a complete crew and for a time the pickings were good. My men were kept fat, but I never let them forget they were soldiers, for among thieves success breeds enmity while among soldiers it breeds unity. They could take their discharge when they wished (save if a battle were imminent) which a few did as their wealth grew, but most stayed on, though still talking round the campfire of the businesses they would found and the girls they would impress with their new riches. I smiled to hear them. I had heard such talk in a dozen different languages across the face of Europe these thirty years.

  The only complaint came from Nob Parkin who assevered that he no longer found it possible to achieve his orgasm unless one of his brothers stood by, beating his buttocks with a sword and crying, ‘Make haste! Make haste!’

  I talked with many of the men about their experiences – it is ever a common topic among soldiers – but none seemed to undergo a sensation like mine. While my trumpets sounded less frequently now, their call was still as strong and the discretion with which I ensured the men satisfied their needs could not apply to me. I was taken up once more with a country squire’s wife near St Albans who, though her husband was a nobody, herself had powerful if distant connections, and once more it was only Essex’s intercession that saved me from the rope.

  I saw him near Basingstoke soon after – for the last time though I did not realize it then. I expected sermons and reproaches, instead I found him abstracted and inward-looking.

  ‘Carlo, Carlo,’ he said, shaking his head, but this was all the reproach I had of him. He went on to talk most gloomily about the progress of the war. His concern seemed to be as much with the strength of his fellow leaders in the Parliamentary armies as with the enemy.

  ‘There are mines beneath my feet,’ he said. ‘Who is there to trust?’

  ‘Nay, sir,’ I protested. ‘The men love you and fight for you as much as for a cause.’

  Normally any suggestion that the soldiers in his army were not inspired solely by a sense of God’s purpose would fill him with anger. Now he merely smiled sadly and said, ‘Aye, Carlo, had I a thousand Fantom Troops, what might I not do for my country?’

  My mind boggled at the thought. What indeed!

  ‘You have one, sir,’ I answered promptly, ‘whose loyalty shall serve for a thousand.’

  He took my hand then and I saw there were tears in his eyes. I was filled with alarm. When a sober Puritan like Essex started putting his trust in the likes of me, the time perhaps had come to leave.

  I returned to my troop, but did not speak of my misgivings yet! Things were in a balance – against the heady victory at Marston Moor in July had to be set the ignominy of Essex’s defeat and flight out of Cornwall in August. The present engagement on Speen Heath between Newbury an
d Donnington seemed to me to be decisive. It was not just a matter of who won. Essex, Waller, Manchester, and Cromwell were all taking part and I knew that in any victory there is only room for one victor in the public eye. Naturally I was all for Essex – I could see no protection coming from any of the others. But I suspected from my interview with him that his star was declining.

  Well, as it turned out the problem for the Parliamentary leaders was not who to honour for victory but who to blame for its absence. It was a confused and misdirected business and though the Fantom troop fought with the customary skill and courage, my nose and ears told me that nothing good was coming out of this diffuse and disorganized battle. In the end we were left hanging around Donnington Castle (I will not call it a siege!) while the King’s army relaxed and fêted themselves in Oxford. Prince Rupert, we heard, had been proclaimed Lieutenant-General, which, with the young Prince of Wales as so-called Commander-in-Chief, meant that control was effectively in Rupert’s hands.

  Early in November they returned to Donnington, recovered the artillery which they had left in the Castle, and marched away again, almost unopposed.

  In the weeks following the most serious fighting that was done took place in the Council of War, the Committee of Both Kingdoms, and ultimately Parliament itself. There comes a time in the life of every soldier when he realizes that, fight he ne’er so bravely, it is politicians who in the end will rule the world. I followed the arguments with keen attention and when in December at Cromwell’s prompting the Self-Denying Ordinance was laid before the House, I summoned my own council.

  Some of the others were slow to see the significance of this proposal which would make it impossible for any member of the Lords or Commons to hold military command while the war lasted.

  ‘It seems to me a good measure, inspired by the Lord,’ said Jem Croft. ‘It will put command of the army where it belongs, in the hands of a soldier, under God.’

  ‘Ay, ay,’ growled Nob Parkin who spoke as usual for his two equally brutal but more inarticulate brothers. ‘Let Parliament parley, while true soldiers get on with the bloodshed.’

  It was a not ineloquently stated point of view. Tom Turner, my cornet, who notched the staff which bore our colours each time he slayed a man (it felt now like an Ethiop’s backbone, and many mornings after we had lain peaceful all night in our own quarters I noticed new notches) offered a different view of things.

  ‘It may mean the Presbyterians and the Independents will fight each other which will give an opportunity for more killing. And more booty,’ he added as a concession to our base material lusts.

  ‘What say you, Quartermaster?’ I said to Lauder.

  He took a long pull of brandy and said reflectively, ‘Peers may not resign from being peers.’

  The others looked at him in puzzlement, not taking his point for a moment.

  Nob Parkin, sharp witted for three, saw it first.

  ‘Then Lord Essex and Manchester must give up their commands,’ he said slowly.

  ‘But Cromwell need not,’ said Tom Turner. ‘There is blood in this.’

  ‘I think Cromwell would find a way to stay both a member and a general,’ I said. ‘But certes, the Ordinance has no teeth for him.’

  ‘But the House of Lords will not pass it!’ declared Jem.

  ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘There are many who might be happy not to fight by law.’

  I saw Lauder observing me quizzically. He saw which way my thoughts were tending and knew why. With Essex gone, my shield was gone and where should I seek another? Not in Cromwell, certainly; nor in Waller. Who then? The only person of distinction on whom I could make any call was the man whose star was now reaching its zenith – Prince Rupert.

  But my own personal feelings would not be sufficient to carry with me the whole of my troop into the King’s camp. There needed to be better reasons.

  Lauder came to my rescue.

  ‘Methinks we have served this army well,’ he said musingly. Everyone nodded except Jem who was beginning to catch the drift.

  ‘And our wages are grossly in arrears,’ continued Lauder.

  ‘Ay, ay!’ agreed the Parkin brothers with nods to emphasize their sense of being badly done to, though if each did not average in a day what your ordinary trooper earned in a week, he believed himself cozened.

  ‘For my part, I have no interest in their quarrels. I do my duty as a professional and when my work is ended, then I seek a new contract – or a new master.’

  There, it was spoken.

  ‘Go to the King?’ said Nob Parkin incredulously.

  ‘To the King?’ echoed his brothers.

  ‘Go to the King?’ repeated Nob, but this time with the note of incredulity modulating into one of reflection.

  ‘Nay!’ protested Jem. ‘This cannot be! How shall it be answered before the Throne of the Most High?’

  I looked at him sympathetically. I could see his point. None had worked harder than he at establishing our religious credentials and in his dress, manner and physical appearance he was their epitome.

  But once the idea had been broached, support for it flowed thick and strong.

  ‘The King’s party looks set fair to win,’ I declared. ‘The wise soldier fights for the winning side.’

  ‘Our stores are low,’ said Lauder. ‘A change of master gives us new crops to reap.’

  ‘Ay!’ laughed Nob. ‘And we know where the richest grain lies.’

  ‘And there are those of our own side at present I should dearly love to kill,’ murmured Tom.

  ‘Stay!’ said Jem. ‘The Ordinance is not yet passed. I say the Lords will reject it.’

  ‘They might indeed. Once, perhaps even twice. But I see Cromwell as the coming man,’ I answered grimly. ‘He has the gift of victory which Essex has lost if he ever had it. And I know for a fact that Cromwell has plans to reorganize the army on lines which would make life intolerable for the Fantom troop.’

  I was guessing, of course, but it was not time for vagueness.

  Jem made one last try.

  ‘If Cromwell has this gift, what do we then if he should finally prevail against the King?’

  ‘Why then, Jem,’ I answered gaily. ‘We change back again!’

  The Parkin brothers undertook to sound out the men as they lay in quarters that night, offering honourable discharge to any who were prevented by conscience from joining us and dishonourable death to any who might be pricked by conscience to betray us. These may seem strange precautions, but conscience is a vegetable which can oft best grow on a dungheap.

  Yet it should not be thought that what we proposed was unique. In wars civil the shift of loyalties, creeds, interests – call them what you will – is common and inevitable. Earlier that same year Sir Richard Grenvile, a man of spirit and intellect, had abandoned William Waller and offered his services to the King along with thirty troopers and more than five hundred pounds of Parliamentary cash. He now prospered in his new position and though he would do well not to be captured by the enemy, he looked to have made a wise choice, for his disorders would not long have been tolerated by the Parliamentarians.

  Nob Parkin came to me to say that all the men were firm; where I led them, they would follow. I was moved despite myself by this declaration though I knew it was based on self-interest and nothing more. I trusted my family of horses more, and of those it was only Luke’s love that I was absolutely certain of. But at least none of them would ever betray me for wealth or advancement.

  We made no move yet for it was the dead of winter and the various campaigns proceeded only fitfully. The King feasted at Oxford and the Parliamentarians tried and executed a string of ‘traitors’ to entertain the mob and menace the vacillating. The sight merely confirmed me in my desire to be away. These were an uncivilized race.

  Even the rejection of the Self-Denying Ordinance by the Lords was no incentive to stay, though Jem Croft took it as such. The pressures on the much depleted Upper House were powerful and increasing.
Essex would be out by the spring, and I felt that one or two of my superiors who did not love me (I know not why) were regarding me speculatively as though thinking, were it not a good idea to take up Fantom now and let his trial move slowly so that by the time of sentence Essex might be out? Perhaps I imagined this but it gave spurs to my intent and when early in March troop movements began to accelerate in preparation for the inevitable spring offensive, I rode out of London at the head of my men with such a variety of forged orders in my cloak that, had I been challenged, I doubt if I could have easily produced the forgery to support the chosen lie! But no one stood in our way, and we made such a brave show that many passers-by in the London streets stopped and cheered us. We made our way carefully west, taking our time, and avoiding contact with other units of either side. When at last we came within sight of Oxford, I ordered a halt and from our baggage horses we unpacked several large bales which contained short cloaks of gold lined with green silk and plumes of green and gold for the men to fit on to their helmets. The officers too put on new gear of the same colour and by the time we were finished, even Jem Croft looked gay enough for a cavalier, though the shortness of his hair (by this time a rare sight, for practically all officers of the Parliamentary side wore their locks down to their shoulders) was a deficiency which only a wig would correct, and this he refused most scornfully. But I was pleased to see he joined in the laughter when our banner was unfurled, unchanged except that the figure under the horse’s hooves was now completely bald and in profile looked not unlike Jem.

  So we made an even braver show as we rode into Oxford than we had as we left London. But I was glad when we were arrested at the first ring of defence posts, for had we been able to penetrate the city on no better authority than our finery, then others less honest in their intentions might have done the same.

  I introduced myself to the officer of the guard who appeared to be a good professional man, so I saved the flowery speeches I had prepared about seeing the light and divine motivation, and said merely that I and my troop wished to transfer our allegiance to the King. He recognized my name and talked of one or two common acquaintance for a while, then suggested that my men should disarm and wait here while he awaited instructions. I demurred politely, acknowledging his intentions to be honourable but pointing out that at this stage in the transfer my men were extremely sensitive to any slur on their own honour. I suggested instead that my men should picket their horses and prepare their meal – which was the equivalent of a fierce dog rolling on its back in an attitude of friendliness, but without any muzzle being placed round his savage jaws. Meanwhile, perhaps, word of my arrival could be taken to the Lieutenant-General, Prince Rupert, with whom I had some previous acquaintance?