Traitor's Field

by Robert Wilton

  Sir,

  Cromwell has marched north from Dublin to Drogheda and now has that place in siege, most impatient and hasty to secure another harbour for his supplies and to quit the open field before winter comes on. Drogheda is well-held under old Aston, known for a good stubborn man and of course a veteran of all of the wars in Poland and Sweden and Germany and not easily frit. Cromwell is said to have offered terms for surrender, seeking speedy resolution before the weather full turns, and no dout desirous of husbanding his force for the long conquest to come, but Drogheda may put him off a while yet, knowing that Ormonde is coming up to their relief.

  T. M.

  [SS C/S/49/133]

  The great hall which the Government had commandeered for Thomas Scot and his platoon of clerks looked out, from the windows of one of its long sides, on Cornhill. In the morning the sun from the great thoroughfare would bleach the men hunched at their papers. In the evening, torches would flicker weird through the glass. And always the smells of the city creeping in. The other three sides of the building were marked by the back alleyways of London: at one end, inaccessible from Cornhill, a closed courtyard where the rubbish of decades of building work had collected and where animals slunk to die. This was the exterior of the blank, fireplace end of the hall. At the other end, under a minstrels’ gallery, Scot had his cubicle and other storerooms and offices huddled together, with rarely used windows opening onto the warren that spread from Cornhill away into the darker districts of the city.

  After his experiences at Nottingham Castle, and Pontefract, and London fortress Thurloe had found that he was in the habit of exploring and understanding the obscurer details of his surroundings. After his experiences at Doncaster and here in London, rattling between the evasions of Scot and Tarrant and Lyle, he had found himself increasingly frustrated.

  This morning was passing as had become routine, the subdued murmuring and careful bustle of the young men at their work, the scratching of pens and papers, the transit of the sun across the benches, until a blast of thunder hammered at the blank end of the hall and had the young men leaping startled to their feet and gaping in surprise. Thomas Scot hurried in a moment later, staring anxious at his shaken world. Everyone was watching the other end of the hall, where the explosion – had it been an explosion? – had happened. There were cracks in the plasterwork over the fireplace, and plaster dust drifting down, and shards of glass on the floor where one small window high in the corner had shattered.

  Scot gasped, hoarse: ‘Assassins!’ and stared around himself.

  Tarrant had grabbed his arm. ‘Out – now!’ Scot hesitated, resisted on instinct. ‘We must get you to safety, Master Scot!’

  ‘Fire! There’s a fire!’ Now, from a room against the back wall of the building, under the gallery and next to Scot’s cubicle, thick smoke was beginning to drift. One intrepid spirit pushed at the door, and flames were visible.

  ‘Move, sir!’ Scot let himself be pulled towards the main door, then began flapping an arm towards his cubicle. ‘You must away, Master Scot!’ And Tarrant was still pulling him out into Cornhill, leading the way with knife drawn.

  Scot was still gaping around as he left. ‘Papers!’ he called, shrill, to anyone. ‘You must be careful!’ But it wasn’t clear to anyone whether the papers should be taken with them as they fled or left where they were; or perhaps Scot had been addressing his beloved papers directly. With the smoke still gusting in, the hall emptied with coughs and hurrying feet.

  The empty hall, and the smoke, and then solitary movement. From the room of flames, John Thurloe emerged, a cloth held over his face and eyes straining for sight. Three steps took him to Scot’s cubicle. A breath, hissed in through teeth and the muffling cloth, a final glance to see that he was alone, and in.

  Who am I become? The ledger was on the desk, as always, exactly centred and open. How many minutes? He was around the desk and clutching at the ledger with both hands. How many minutes? Surely not many. Five. He’d allowed five. Once it was clear that there was no more threat and no more fire, they would – his hands were still clamped at the two sides of the ledger – Concentrate!

  ‘1038. Dublin (Army) – 29th August 1649 – summary of attitudes and practices among soldiers during. . .’ As he’d thought, each page was a summary of an intelligence report. ‘1039. Cicero – 29th August 1649 the reformed Parliament is not minded to. . .’ Looking for August 1648. Preston. 17th August. He had to focus on two narrow windows only. There was no time. Hands scrabbling at the pages, pulling them over in clumps. 1648 – April – the King believes – June – in Scotland it is

  threats – the Army wants – July – the King is – surely a minute gone already – August – brushing at the pages with his palm, one at a time and clutching for meaning – Scottish – army – south – rumours of – direction of march will – a courier was – it is certain that. . . He snapped back – the courier – and dashed through Scot’s meticulous script. ‘427. Doncaster – 15th August 1648 – presumed Royalist agent or courier, contrary to their usual routines, observed and pursued as far as Leek, where lost, believed wounded.’ Contrary to their usual routines? There was nothing here. He knew all this. Another minute gone – concentrate! Again his hands gliding over the pages. Rainsborough: Rainsborough died on 30th October. Scottish stragglers seen – acts of revenge by – Duke of – In Newport it is – captured today – Rainsborough – He clutched at the page. ‘582. Doncaster – 30th October –’ the report of Rainsborough’s assassination. But nothing new in this. Lyle’s immediate investigation of the death, presumably. Had a copy of his own report come here to be summarized? Another minute: two minutes left. Thurloe’s head lifted instinctively and he strained to hear. What am I even looking for now? His fingers began to turn the pages into November. No – not after – the history of that incident is in what came before. Now his left hand brushing wildly at the pages, back into October, eyes staring for references to Pontefract and Doncaster. What was going on in those towns in those strange weeks? What was going between them?

  In Cornhill, a crowd had gathered around Scot and his clerks, inflating and elaborating the story with every question and suggestion, and making the old man increasingly uncomfortable. ‘That’ll teach you to ban the lads’ games!’ a voice called, and Tarrant turned and glared at the crowd. ‘Damn your taxes!’ someone else added.

  ‘Powder – it was powder.’ A clerk emerging from an alley and hurrying up to Tarrant and Scot. ‘You can see by the scorching on the wall.’

  Tarrant: ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘I didn’t – I didn’t see any.’

  ‘Check, man! You two as well.’

  ‘Tarrant, may we not re-enter? There is surely no more danger.’

  ‘In a moment, Master Scot.’

  550 was a report on conditions inside Pontefract. 551 recorded the progress of the siege and Cromwell’s intentions. 554 summarized attitudes in Doncaster. 559 reported a forthcoming sally by Pontefract’s defenders against a forward battery. 561 was Doncaster again – news reaching Pontefract of Cromwell’s army – not the usual – presumably Reverend Beaumont at work, 562 – One minute. I must leave in one minute. 562 – Something unusual? Eyes hurrying down the lines of 561 again. Military details being sent to the Royalist garrison in Pontefract, from Doncaster, and not by the usual hands. What does any of this mean? 562 was from the Scilly Isles, 563 was from Scotland. 564 gossip from Parliament, 567 progress of the siege and Cromwell’s intentions again, 568— And suddenly the sound of voices and boots. Move!

  567? Surely – checking the sequence of numbers, fingers scrabbling in the crease, finding the faint ridge, all that was left of the absent page. Move!

  Tarrant led the way back into the building, ready for a new threat but certain that there was no other door by which it could come. Thomas Scot was quickly pushing past him and hurrying back into his cubicle, hands stretching to touch and check papers and heart sighing as it saw the ledger, open and unmoved, in i
ts proper place on the table. 1039. Cicero.

  Tarrant had moved on to explore the adjacent room, and was quickly out, as the first of the clerks began to drift in from the street. ‘Remains of a powder barrel in there,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Misfired, maybe.’ Scot was in front of him now, and anxious. ‘Burned a few papers. Not much. I can’t see how it made all that smoke.’

  Nor would he. A bucket had been abandoned in the slime of the back alleys, showing little trace of the wet straw that had burned in it. Among the crowd of returning clerks came John Thurloe, curious like the rest.

  TO MR I. S., AT THE ANGEL, IN DONCASTER

  Sir,

  I find on reflection that I am right grateful for your letter, however evil were the tidings therein. My instinct on learning of the low death of that high mind, the Reverend, made me almost to throw the letter into the fire with the rest unread. And I do confess that the hints that you yourself are closer in affinity to the Parliamentary interest made you in my eyes no better than he who put the rope around the Reverend’s neck, and like to be damned for it equally, for there was never so base a deed, whatever the cause.

  But Beaumont himself taught me to understand that honesty may be more worthy than rightness. Your words betray a thoughtful, questing intellect, and for that I honour you. If his death were somehow to move us closer to the point when men of character should be brought in closer connexion regardless of their politics, then it would be a blessing indeed out of that crime. So I must repent me of some of my early curses, and again give you thanks for your discretion and human feeling.

  You will I think know as much as I about the events of these days. My more excitable friends of the King’s interest are much seized of the prospects for Ormonde’s campaign in Ireland. But in truth I think they see Ireland as a mere distraction and temptation for Master Cromwell and his armies, for what good will success in Ireland do for the King without there is a change in the arrangements of power in England? I suspect accordingly that their real hope is with a splitting of the Army itself. There are agitators at work among the soldiers, and one man at least of my acquaintance is spending large sums in attempts to corrupt them. Meanwhile emissaries are sent to certain officers to find those who would lead their men in a direction more congenial to the Royal interest than to the present leadership in Army and Parliament.

  I wish I could remember the name of my young Levelling acquaintance in the Army in Doncaster. His given name was certainly Ralph, but I realise that you will make little of that. He had been also in Colchester, at the siege of that place – I recall he spoke with distaste that his work was all sieges. I cannot say that I wish all of his schemes well, but I hope that somewhere the lad is living and learning wisdom.

  And you, sir, I trust that you are well. Knowing nothing of you or your inclinations, I do not know to wish you success, but I wish you peace and the knowledge of God, and tender you my respects.

  [SS C/T/49/46]

  In the monstrous madness of battle, there is no difference between a shout and a scream.

  By 11th September the artillery of the English Parliamentary Army had knocked breaches in the south and east walls of Drogheda, and late in the afternoon Cromwell sent his regiments thundering in to seize them. The gut-lurching moment of doubt, the treacherous jolt of sense that questions the stupidity of what you’re about to do, the sick glances to left and right for sympathy, the ominous inevitable shoulders immediately in front, muscle-knotted and shuddering and denying the reassurance or release that a face could, denying the humanity. Around you the sobbing breaths, the muttering and the silly boasts and the pissing, and the loneliness that creeps insidious into the crowd, and then from another world the whistle or the trumpet of command, and then one shout and then everyone is shouting and if you shout your body must explode with the same energy and so if the implacable back in front of you starts forward you must go with it, shouting like a madman because only by madness can you justify what you are doing.

  A scream is the body’s complaint at the breaching of nature, an animal’s futile protest that something has gone grotesquely wrong. So is the shout of the men in the charge.

  Your head rings with pure empty noise, and this is what madness must sound like, and so the madness around you is normal. The head-clanging shouting and screaming, and the world is the jostle of arms and shoulders and pikes around you, metal and leather and wood and hats and straps and coats in the scrum, the thumping of boots on the earth and the lurching trot over ground that rises and drops step by clumsy step and still you scream because if you take even the smallest breath the spell might be broken and all this might be real. Ahead the smoke, the cannon mouths, the muskets of the defenders, the pikes, the violence and it doesn’t matter because all sensation is a storm where nothing is felt normally any more, and the smoke billows and roars and swallows you in and the noise rises and soars and you are gone.

  Wars belong to politicians and planners. Fighting is this: that there is no limit of soul or sense to the stupid destructive bravado of young men gathered together. And it is no more than this. To the south the attackers pushed enough men into the breach that they created a defensive position of their own, holding the defenders with pike and sword among the rubble before the defenders summoned a new charge and threw them back, until more men could be flung forward and again the breach was captured. To the east a futile battering against the defenders, lines of red and brown coats clambering up the stones and flung back down by musket balls and the vicious scything of chain-shot artillery, falling and dying by tens and twenties, and Cromwell sent more regiments into the furnace.

  In the storm of smoke, bodies begin to float and tumble, collapsing forward and rearing up and cartwheeling, and the storm is colours and coats and the stumbling is now a slippery clamber over leather backs and a tripping on fallen pikes, and now the bodies are part of the rubble of the wall and you climb the backs and boulders into the roaring black cloud of the breach and, such is the all-swallowing numbing trancing chaos of the world of shouts and screams, that for an extra second you do not feel the pain.

  Finally there is Cromwell, dismounting at the edge of the carnage, horse and man dusty and muddy and sweating with the day’s fury. The battle is won now; Drogheda’s defenders have broken and flee through the streets, or barricade themselves in strongpoints, or scrabble panicked through ditches and bushes in the hope of a way out of the ruined town. Cromwell stands still and fierce at the eastern breach, staring grim at the bodies of his men around him. He walks towards the breach, and the scattered bodies become a carpet, and then a wall. Up the slope of rubble the dead have piled two or three thick, broken sprawling bodies tangled among each other. His men have died in heaps, and as he stands among them his unblinking stare absorbs the great volume of destruction and also its little details: broken pikes and scattered clothing and shot-severed limbs.

  Part of his mind is accounting the strategic: winter hurrying nearer, and Ormonde as well, a town that refused a fairly given invitation to surrender, precious days lost, towns unconquered and defiant and pagan ahead of him. Another part is gazing at the white faces of the men on the ground, battered or shocked or contorted or mewing fitfully, his Godly Englishmen, pious and well-drilled and far from home, come from counties like his own to die in this heretic island in this unnecessary war. The whole ground seems to writhe at him, red and brown and slicked with gore and moaning its wounds, as if the earth itself were in pain.

  A man is near him now, a Colonel – he thinks he recognizes him. ‘General, we—’

  ‘No quarter.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Oliver Cromwell is a solid man, a rock strapped and wrapped in leather and armour, and the heaviest darkest thing about him as he turns are his eyes. The two words rumble low and hard again. ‘No. Quarter.’

  And so it begins.

  Cavalrymen guard the outskirts of the town to prevent escapes. Men are executed at close range with muskets. Men are stabbed to
death with swords by other men, or hacked. Priests are treated as soldiers and killed. Throats are cut. St Peter’s Church is burned, and more die in the flames. The heads of sixteen Royalist officers are cut off and will be stuck up on spikes outside Dublin. Many men are beaten to death.

  The beating of a man to death: the first blow from club or musket butt does not kill – it stupefies, and knocks only the fortunate ones unconscious; the second blow, to the man crawling and shuddering spasmodically on the ground, is sure to crack the skull if the first has not, and will begin to savage the flesh and organs of the face; even the third will probably not kill, but the recipient will no longer know it, the brain and its awareness being delicate and easily dulled; it takes four or five goodly blows with a club or other stout weapon to kill a man.

  Drogheda rings with shouts and screams. In the monstrous madness of battle, there is no difference between exultation and anger and pain.

  Sir, this day in a different part of the Palace was found the royal [assume crown, from context and consistency] of King Henry [assume Tudor], the Seventh of that name, having for some cause unknown been kept apart from those others previously discovered here. We expect imminently an order for its transfer to the Tower.

  [SS C/S/49/158 (LATER DECYPHERING)]

  The town of Wexford: notorious stronghold of Catholics and Royalists; the haven for a fleet of pirates who plunder English ships and thereby fund the royal alliance in Ireland.

  Cromwell and his Army have had the town surrounded for more than a week: thousands of men, and among them mighty siege guns that will shatter masonry. Already fresh food is impossible to find. The flow of supplies into the city has shrivelled. There are uneasy fears about the water; people are falling sick. The daily thunderstorm of artillery was first terrifying, then the rallying call for a fragile pride, and only now do people start to see, in staring sleeplessness and silly habits and quarrels and tears, the permanent damage it has done to their nerves. The artillery has smashed two holes in the castle walls.