by Smith, Skye
"Danny, you mad bugger," Anso called softly from the bow. "Agree to it and lets be gone. At least we've saved Lilburne from this noose, and we have delayed the prince from pushing across the bridge. It is enough."
"We are agreed," Daniel called back to the prince. "Remove his noose and we will slide your friend feet first into the water." He wasn't watching what was happening with the noose, for he was busy gauging the turn of the boat. He cocked the flint dog on the four-pounder and took up the trigger cord. Any second now the gun would be pointing at the devil prince. True, many men around the prince may also be killed including Lilburne, but it would be worth it to send the demon back to the underworld where he belonged.
He pulled the cord, the spring pushed, the dog arched, the flint sparked, and ... nothing. The horses that had been milling around the launch must have splashed water onto the flash pan. He cursed his own stupidity for not remembering to refresh the flash pan, but excused himself a little because he was used to using more modern guns with covered pans. Even while he was thinking this, the cannon was no longer pointing at the prince. He was motioning to Uve to reverse the spin of the launch, when there came the popping sound of renewed fighting from up river. Not just the random shots from around the bridge as had been happening for the whole time of this stand off. This was the sound of organized volleys, again, and again, and again, as six rows of trained musketeers were laying down a withering fire at some other poor sods.
"You are too late my prince," Lilburne cried out. "Flee, flee for you life. Those shots mark the arrival of John Hampden and his Berkshire Greenjackets. They will be coming down the Uxbridge road to cut you off. Flee my prince, while you still can."
The prince reached over and removed the noose from the mans neck and the man knelt down in prayer. Anso gently eased the German down over the bow and into the water, and one of the other cavalryers rode in close to grab him and take him to shore. As he did so the mounted man told the freed man in German, "Did you hear that Manfred? John Hampden has arrived. We will earn the prince's thousand marks yet. Grab hold of the saddle, man, we have a man to hunt."
Daniel wailed in frustration. The five black cloaked cavalryers were the crows from his visions. The crows that had been pecking out John Hampden's eyes. He hissed at Uve to hurry up and reverse the spin of the launch and then got busy pouring fresh powder into his cannon's pan and re-cock the flint. By the time the cannon was aligned again, it was too late. Before the gun had come around far enough, all he could see of the crows were their black cloaks billowing between the trees as they raced away.
"Pull away lads, and be fast about it," Anso yelled at his crew. "They come to their senses in a moment and then there will be fifty musket balls flying towards us." He kept hounding them to hurry until they were once again out of the Brent and behind its bar and rushing out into the Thames between the three grounded barges. None of the barges had any men left aboard them. That was a good thing, a wise thing, what with the powder barge so close, but it did mean that there was no one left to man the poles on their own barge of cannons. Without the help of men with poles, there was no way that this one launch could free her from the suck of the mud bottom.
"We were so close," Anso complained as they swept passed their own barge and left behind its cargo of cannons. A half mile ahead to towards London he could now see the other barges floating beside the Old Brentford quay. "What evil luck." At that moment he almost fell overboard because Daniel pushed the tiller hard over so the launch would not hit a floating mass of bodies. Anso held onto his cannon until he had found his balance again, and then looked down at the bodies floating by. "Still, it could have been worse," he added as he sent a warriors prayer up to Freyja's angels of the battlefield, the Valkyries, to come and collect these men's souls.
* * * * *
Although the timely arrival of Hampden's Berkshire Greenjackets kept Rupert's flying army busy while Holles's London Redcoats retreated from the bridge to join Lord Brooke's London Purplejackets in Old Brentford, eventually they all had to retreat even further east along the Great West Road. The London lads had lost many brothers-in-arms, were exhausted, hungry, dirty and generally demoralized. The best they could do was to slow the agile flying army down. Twice Daniel and his crews moved the barges closer to London, and eventually they tied them up at a small abandoned quay near the village of Chiswick.
It wasn't the hard pressed militia that forced the flying army to fall back, but the early coming of dark. The land where the militia had made their latest stand was a patchwork of tiny fields that centuries of farmers had separated from each other with hedges and piles of stone. It was perfect terrain for the militia infantry to defend and set traps, and it was the worst of all possible terrain for an advancing cavalry. The devil prince decided not to risk the lives of the king's gentlemen any more that day. Instead, the flying army regrouped inside the towns of Brentford where they could find good shelter for the cold night and wait for the rest of the King's army to catch up to them.
The king's gentlemen looked for more than simple in the town's houses. They rampaged through everything, every building, every room, and every cellar taking anything of value and destroying what they couldn't carry away. To cavalryers this was their due, their spoils, and their sport. Out in the fields the one time defenders slept in the fields, cold and hungry with no shelter. They knew what was happening in Brentford by the occasional roof that caught fire and lit up the sky, and by the screams of agony as men were tortured into revealing their hiding places, and by the screams of the women as their hiding places were found out.
In truth, the screams from the town were barely noticeable over the screams and moans of the wounded and dying militiamen. It was all very disturbing on that cold November night, so Daniel and his clansmen did not camp in the safety of the fields with the militia, but on the riverbank close to where their launch was tied up beside the three remaining barges and their tugs. It was a bad place to make a camp for men who so badly needed rest and sleep, because the barges were a beehive of activity all the night long.
Colonel Robert Greville, who in parliament was Lord Brooke, had taken command of the three barges and had put his regiment to work unloading the powder from the small barge and the munitions from the other two. His plan was to quickly unload these barges and then use them to carry the wounded down stream to London where they could be better taken care of. It was a good plan, an obvious plan, and many men were working feverishly to do the work.
Once that work was well under way, Greville wandered over to join the clansmen around their small fire, a fire just large enough to heat some gruel, and throw some light around the circle of men, but not large enough to be mistaken for a signal fire. He came to find out about Syon House, the cannons, and the contents of the lost barges.
He was expecting to stay for a quick report, but he got caught up in the story telling, for this crew of seamen had many good tales to tell and knew the art of making them interesting. He had a another colonel with him, a German with a great disliking for the devil prince, so occasionally the crew would have to explain the punch lines in their cobbled together German.
Greville was listening to how they had been foiled in their attempt to blow up the Brent River bridge and had just complained loudly at the treatment of his Captain Lilburne, when a moan and a weak cry came from the river. There was a tiny coracle boat bobbing along in the current, so the crew threw out a line and pulled it in to shore. In it was lying a big man, and in his arms were lying a woman with a babe, both obviously dead. The big man was holding the woman and sobbing uncontrollably.
The crew helped him to shore and offered him some gruel to warm him, but they left the corpses in the coracle. They had been horribly cut, and they were afraid that if they moved them, parts of them may fall off. The heat of the gruel revived the man and he told his story. It was the story of what was this night happening in Brentford.
"I am William Dunn the butcher of New Brentford Market," the
man told them. "The prince's Germans are stealing or destroying everything in town," he sobbed. They are even ripping open our beds and the feathers are flying everywhere."
The German colonel put on his best English and told them, "In Germany many folk sleep on their valuables to keep them safe. Was it just the Germans that were doing this."
"Nay, it is all of them, but the Germans are leading them. Every woman has been defiled, many times defiled. Many folk have been killed just for sport." Dunn began to sob again. "They, ... they snatched my baby son out of my wife's arms and smashed his head against the wall. Then they, they... in front of me while I was tied to a post. They cleaved her with their cocks and when they were all finished with her, they cleaved her with their sabres in the same place. She wouldn't let me stop the bleeding. I doubt I could have anyway. She wanted to die." He couldn't go on.
Greville face turned fiery red as he looked across the sputtering flames at the river pilot from Kingston. "You are the pilot, yes, and yours is the small launch? I want you to take Mister Dunn here into London. Take him now, tonight. Him and his wife and child. Go and get your launch ready." He then turned to the sobbing butcher and handed him his purse. "Mister Dunn, I want you to take your wife and child to London and tell the folk there what is happening in Brentford. There is five pounds in this purse for you if you tell them all of the gory details. Do you agree."
The butcher was no fool despite his overwhelming grief. He snatched at the purse and nodded his head. When the pilot returned he was told, "Take them to quay at the mouth of the Fleet River, and help him to tell his story of what is happening in Brentford. I especially want him to tell it to the men along the Fleet who work through the night to print up the scandal sheets that the common folk are so fond of. Do you understand? When you bring the butcher back home to Brentford, you will find me generous."
The pilot nodded and with the help of his own oarsmen loaded the pitiful corpses into his launch and then made the grieving butch comfortable along side them. Within moments the launch was out of sight beyond the barges and on its way to London.
When it was gone Uve said, "Five pounds. That's good pay for one grisly story. I've got some that should be worth a few coin."
"It was well worth the five pounds to have that story reach London tonight. I've already sent some Captains to rouse the new trainbands, the ones that Robert Rich has been equipping. On the morrow after the scandal sheets have spread the story of Brentford across the City, the recruitment should be simplicity." With that, Greville and his German colonel left them to return to the barges and check on the loading of the wounded.
"Get some sleep lads," Anso told the crew. "Tomorrow early we'll see if we can float our barge. I have a feeling that the prince may be a bit too busy to bother with guarding it."
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Pistoleer - Brentford by Skye Smith Copyright 2014
Chapter 16 - Sightseers on the Great West Road in November 1642
Morning came much earlier than the sun. It came with the noise and furor of horses and carriages arriving at the barges. They were now crammed with wounded men and waiting for enough light to be towed out into the channel. The carriages carried General Devereux, who in parliament was the Earl of Essex, and some of his fawning, but well bred officers. They were taking their time getting down from the luxury of their carriages while they stretched their legs and cleared their noses of the stench of wounded men with their snuff boxes. All that is except for one. Denzil Holles was with them, and he pushed through Essex's fawning fools to climb aboard the closest barge to see for himself what exactly had happened to his regiment.
"I'd better go tell him," Daniel told Anso. "You know, about the drowned men."
"Rather you than me," Anso replied without stirring out from under his winter cloak. He wasn't going to give up his hard gained warmth so easily, not even to go and pee. Oh how he needed to pee.
Daniel found Holles sitting at the side of man whose shoulder had been ripped open by a sabre cut. The man was feverish and shaking. Holles looked up at Daniel and gave him the smallest nod of recognition. "What am I to tell their mothers, their wives, their lovers, their trades masters? Twelve hundred I recruited. Twelve hundred apprentices. Mostly butchers and dyers and fullers. A third of them were killed at Edgehill, and now another third may be dead. The rest are wounded or taken prisoner. My entire regiment wiped out in two battles. What will I tell the women? What will happen to their women?"
"When you've finished here, I've got more to show you," Daniel said, and that was all that he said. The man did not want company and certainly he didn't want to tell him about the drowned men within the hearing of these wounded brothers-in-arms. He wandered down the gang plank and one of the tug tillermen gave him a shout and a wave. The man had secured the tow line and was trying to usher the general away from the barge so he could be away to London. John Hampden was standing near to the general, so Daniel decided to walk over and warn him about the prince's hired crows.
When he reached the officers, Hampden was spouting impatient words at the general. "And I say that while we keep the king's army busy on theses fields, that the regiment we have in Kingston should sweep down behind them and retake Brentford and hold the Brent river and the bridge so that there is no escape for the king. We have 3,000 men sitting in Kingston doing nothing. Lets put them to work cutting off the king's only way to retreat. By tonight bloody Charlie will have no choice but to agree to our peace on our terms."
Essex was listening and nodding his head, which caused Greville's German colonel to interrupt Hampden. "Nein, this is a bad idea. Too risky. If it goes wrong, then the king's army will not just retreat from us, but will swarm over the bridge at Kingston and then their will be nothing between them and Southwark and London Bridge. Kent favours the king, and they will rally to him on the south bank. This is much too risky. Leave the 3,000 in Kingston to defend the bridge, or better yet, withdraw them to Southwark to defend London Bridge."
Essex dithered as was usual for him. "I will make that decision once I see how our armies line up against the king's. Colonel Skippon has promised me to have the army here and in formation before noon."
"Noon," Hampden was clearly frustrated by the dithering. "If we don't send the message to Kingston right now, then they won't have time to march all the way to Brentford."
"Exactly," the German argued. "and if they don't make it all the way to the Brent river in time, then what? They may be caught on the open road by Rupert's Cavalryers and cut to pieces. Instead the message should send them to Southwark to make sure they are rested and ready to fight in case the king attacks London Bridge."
Daniel didn't stop to hear more. Every time he watched Essex dither he had a very strong urge to kick him in the ass. If only Essex would get shot, then Lord Brooke would take over command and this war would be over within the month ... today even. It came to him that this was probably the reason why the other side never seemed to try to capture or kill Essex. The king's men wanted him in charge of parliament's army. It balanced the fact that their own leader, Charlie, was also a ditherer.
"Danny," the call came from behind him. "were you looking for me?" It was Hampden.
"I just wanted to warn you once again about Prince Rupert's German lifeguard. They are definitely hunting you."
"I'm sure you are just imagining it," Hamden replied.
"There are five of them, all well mounted and in black armour with black cloaks. Their leader is called Manfred and the prince has offered him a thousand marks to get rid of you permanently."
Hampden stood in shocked silence at the detail of this information. "How do you know all this?"
"Because this morning I had Manfred's belly stretched over one of my canons while I was negotiating with Rupert for the life of John Lilburne."
Hampden's mouth fell open. "You wonderful bloody maniac. Why didn't you shoot the prince?"
"The gun's flash powder was wet."
&nb
sp; The two men walked away from Essex and his bum sniffers and followed a slippery path up to the high point along the river bank. From here they could see all around and up and down the Great West Road. It was full daylight now, and the first of Essex's army could be seen marching towards them from London. When the officers leading them were close enough to recognize Hampden, they turned their horses up the rise to join him. One of them was Essex's 'do-for' Colonel Philip Skippon, who was continually expected to do the real work that the earl should be doing himself. With him was another do-for, Colonel Ashfield.
"So what do you think John? Where should I line them up." Skippon asked of Hampden. Hampden had one of the finest minds in the kingdom even if his experience with wars and armies was limited to the events of the last six months. Besides which, Hampden had already scouted these fields to place his own regiment's defensive line.
"As usual, the only danger to us is Prince Rupert's flying army," Hampden replied. "I suggest you go no further. This chessboard of fields with all their hedges, walls and ditches will serve us better than any fortress against Rupert's cavalry charges."
Skippon looked all around. Hampden was right as usual and not just about this land looking like a chessboard. There was no open space large enough to allow a full cavalry charge. "What do they call this place?"
"Well the town smoking ahead of us is Brentford. It has a fordable river with a bridge over it. The bridge is still intact despite Danny's efforts. I'm sorry, have you met Captain Vanderus before? He is Warwick's man." Hampden grinned at Daniel's sour look. Daniel hated to be known as anyone's man. "Anyway, Rupert sacked Brentford last night, and it seems he was right vicious about it. You know what he is like when he doesn't get his own way, and these fields helped us to stop him in his tracks. The shoreline over there in the loop of the river is known as Chiswick, and that cops of woods to the north is known as Acton, and all the chess boards in between them is known as Turnham."
