Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  Sparrow forced himself to keep what was left of his temper in check.

  “I am obliged to her…”

  “A Royalist strumpet.”

  “By virtue of my long association with her father…”

  “That bastard turncoat? You’re talking your way to the gallows tree now,” Gillingfeather raved.

  “He served his apprenticeship with him,” Long Col lied. Well, it was an apprenticeship of sorts. An apprenticeship in artful dodging, with a master instructor.

  “It’s natural he wants to see as no harm’s come to the girl.”

  “I am sure he is most concerned as to her personal welfare,” Gillingfeather simpered.

  “That’s it in a nutshell Gilly,” Long Col reasoned, ignoring the rasping sarcasm. If Sparrow would stop stampeding behind the struggling ensign and grinning musketeer, he might calm the damn fool down.

  “Permission denied. If you step out of this line of march I’ll put you down as deserting in the face of the enemy. You can’t blab your way out now. This army doesn’t put up with rotten apples like you Sparrow, as I think you’ve discovered to your cost,” he added with relish.

  “William,” Long Col warned.

  “William hah! This army’s soft in the head, putting fanatics like him in charge of anything.”

  “Fanatic?”

  “That’s enough now Will. Off you go and get some sleep, you’re out of order now.” Muffet pushed Butcher and Burke, taking the furious sergeant with them.

  “You’ll not stop me Gillingfeather!”

  “Go ahead and desert,” the captain leered. “You’ll be on a charge before breakfast.”

  He strode closer, pulling at his threadbare beard.

  “And while we’re about it, we’ll take a closer look at this damned whore of yours. If she is his wife as you say she is, what’s she doing here, what’s she doing dressing up in one of Rupert’s bluecoats?”

  “She was captured in the camp like the others Gilly,” Long Col reasoned, losing his patience with the strutting turkeycocks.

  “She was trying to get into our camp,” he insinuated.

  “We damn near kicked her to death, she’s not fit to spy on anybody!”

  The moment stretched, tempers stretched to breaking point.

  “Hallo there!”

  A red-faced messenger trotted in to the ring, trying to pick the officer from the crowding troublemakers.

  “Captain Gillingfeather? Is there a Captain Gillingfeather here?”

  The messenger inquired, puzzled by the angry confrontation. Hadn’t the buggers had enough for one day?

  “Captain Gillingfeather?” The breathless runner shouldered his way through the ring of watching soldiers, wiped his mouth and presented the captain with a rolled note.

  “Major Smith’s compliments sir. But you are wanted at regimental headquarters.”

  Gillingfeather snatched the note. It didn’t help that he could barely read it.

  “What does he want?” he glanced up at Sparrow.

  “Want me to read it to you?” Gillingfeather’s narrow face contorted in rage.

  “You’ve not heard the last of this,” he snarled. “I’ve made no charges yet.”

  “What are they going to do, bust me down again? Pikeman? Waterboy? Donkey holder?”

  Gillingfeather frowned, thrust the note into his doublet.

  “See the men are properly rested. I’ll be back within the hour, sergeant.” Gillingfeather turned on his heel and strode off, the messenger capering alongside.

  Sparrow watched him duck down through the doorway.

  “He won’t let it go Will,” Muffet said through the side of his mouth. “And he’ll see you shot before he’s done.”

  Sparrow nodded. “Not if I shoot him first.”

  “That’s dangerous talk and you know it. Old times sake is one thing William, but you step out of rank like that again and he’ll see you pissing when you can’t whistle, God help him.”

  Sparrow jammed his hat on and stalked out, leaving the musketeers gaping at one another.

  Never a dull moment in Hardress Waller’s.

  *************************

  One of them would have to go - there wasn’t room for Gillingfeather and Sparrow in this man’s company.

  Aye, Long Col had that right and all, Sparrow fumed, striding along the lane toward the flickering lanterns and candles pulsing in the village, a crown of glowing embers askew around the army headquarters.

  There would be no going back now, not without a pass.

  New Model troops were squatting against every wall and lying out in ditches and verges.

  Hundreds of them in every enclosure and cabbage patch, stretched out and resting wherever they could.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Sergeant Sparrow. Hardress Waller’s.”

  “Never heard of ‘em.”

  “Pass friend,” some wag called from the nearest hedge.

  “I’m looking for the army ministers. Master Tellling, or Commissioner Eagleton?”

  “Help yourself mate. Up ahead somewhere.”

  Sparrow strode on down Market Harborough’s main street passing lines of steaming horses. Guards puffed on pipes, muskets cradled.

  It was another quarter of an hour and more before he had caught up with the headquarters tent he was looking for.

  A weather stained marquee, favoured by black suited crows busy about God knew who’s business despite the evil hour. Sparrow ducked under the makeshift entrance, blinking in the brightly lit den.

  A number of clerks were busy with their paperwork. By Christ were they writing a book? Nathaniel Eagleton and several of his cronies, black-coated and black-breeked with broad collars starched whiter than bone, looked up from the jumble of paper.

  “Sergeant Sparrow? Praise to God you have survived another battle,” Eagleton squinted down his nose at the stinking brute, noting with distaste the tell-tale dark spots and smears over his fine grey doublet.

  Sparrow snatched off his hat and clutched it to his chest. Nodding at his very own nemesis.

  This was the bastard that had busted him down the ranks. Major to sergeant. He’s used and discarded him without a moment’s hesitation, Sparrow thought coldly. He wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. Eagleton left as many victims behind him as Rupert.

  “I’m obliged to you sir,” Sparrow said , “and wondered if I could take time to mention a certain matter, of some delicacy,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially.

  He would have to be more specific. They were already dealing with a number of ‘delicate matters’.

  The King’s entire cabinet, all his preciously catalogued papers for one. The commissioners were already going over his letters and files.

  The camp was alive with whispered details. The whole coach had been captured with all the enemy baggage, bound with ropes and hauled off directly to army headquarters. Word had it they had discovered all of the King’s letters, his shopping lists and love notes to his wretched foreign queen.

  The army command was going over the choicest cuts even now.

  Eagleton didn’t have time for Sparrow’s foolishness. He took a deep breath, glanced at the black clad jackdaws shuffling papers and swilling inkpots behind him.

  He waved the hulking sergeant forward.

  “What can I do for you now Sparrow?” he asked warily. No doubt he had dropped by to tell Eagleton all about his good service. He had no argument with that. Sparrow had served the cause well enough.

  When he wasn’t fornicating with serving wenches, Eagleton thought sourly.

  The sergeant stepped closer, studying the overworked clerks, busy listing casualties, itemising powder expended, counting cannon balls. Stepping from one foot to the other as he wondered how to approach the frowning clerk. Eagleton didn’t have all night.

  “I have told you before Sparrow, your previous service with Sir William Waller, though no doubt honourable in itself, will not…”


  Sparrow was shaking his head.

  “No sir, I haven’t come to talk about my captaincy.” Not this time, he thought.

  “There is another matter I would appreciate your help with. Sir.”

  Eagleton paused.

  “Go on.”

  “You may have heard about the men running riot in the Royalist camp, after the battle,” Sparrow began.

  Eagleton winced. An unnecessary diversion. A bloody stain on their victory, even if the victims had been cursing witches, the worst whores and assorted camp-following trash.

  Nobody would be losing any sleep over them, he thought. Would they?

  “I recognised one of the victims. An acquaintance from Bristol.”

  “And?”

  “She was badly hurt in the disorders. And was helped from the field by one of your assistants. Minister Telling. I wondered if I might have a word with him, as to her condition and whereabouts.”

  Well he was welcome to try. Several hundred wounded had been carried off to Northampton. Skippon had been taken to Brixton, one of London’s leading surgeons called in to see to the serious wound in his side.

  Ireton badly hurt alongside half a hundred majors and captains. God knew about the rank and file.

  Every church, barn and manor house between here and Leicester commandeered as an infirmary for the badly injured of both sides. He wondered how many had already died.

  Eagleton frowned. Had Telling followed this woman to some hostelry for treatment?

  “Go on.”

  “Well Sir, I was wondering if you could help me locate her. Make sure she is all right. I am duty bound to try and…”

  Eagleton looked bemused, his bird-like features flicked and flecked in the smoky candlelight.

  “And who is this woman? What would Telling want with her?” Eagleton inquired.

  “Bella..that is Miss Morrison. Is married to his brother.”

  Eagleton pinched his nose, wondering what the fool was blabbering about.

  “His brother’s wife…he is serving in the Royalist army?”

  “Precisely. Hugo Telling.”

  “I thought you said Miss Morrison? Were they married or not?”

  “I believe so. I always knew her as Miss Morrison,“ Sparrow explained. Eagleton could imagine he did.

  “Is Telling with her now?” Eagleton wondered aloud, wary of the implications.

  “I have no idea sir. I was just wondering if you would grant me a pass, so I can tour the camp, track her down among the wounded.”

  “Oh is that all?” Eagleton crowed, wondering what festering rat’s nest the blundering oaf had uncovered.

  “I presume you know of this woman - from before the war?”

  “Exactly that sir. Back in Bristol, I grew up with her sir.”

  “Bristol. Morrison. Sir Gilbert Morrison’s daughter?” Eagleton inquired, an arched eyebrow betraying his momentary interest in Sparrow’s wearisome private life.

  “Just so sir,” Sparrow nodded. “As commanded the Chipping Marleward trained band.”

  Eagleton sucked his teeth. That Morrison. A notorious turncoat. He had been sent a chest of money to raise and equip a regiment for Parliament two years before, but had immediately absconded to raise troops for the King instead. He owed the Parliament the best part of a thousand pounds. And there was a warrant out for his arrest.

  And his daughter had been caught up in the riots in the camp?

  Eagleton’s busy mind digested Sparrow’s bewildering intelligence, pondering the implications. Miss Morrison might make a useful bargaining point, when it came to discussing Sir Gilbert’s endless misdemeanours.

  Perhaps her presence, once established, could persuade the merchant to re-consider his previous delinquency. He stroked his beard. An old habit when he was thinking something through.

  “We are talking about the same individual? The turncoat merchant, Sir Gilbert Morrison? Lately reported to be advancing the King’s cause in Bristol?”

  “That’s him sir. Although I didn’t serve under his command for more than a few weeks…”

  “And his daughter - married to Telling’s Royalist brother, is missing around the camp? Here and now?”

  “I believe so. They can’t have got far sir.”

  “No, indeed.” Eagleton snatched up a pass from the table, looked around for a pen.

  “You are right. She must be found. Amends must be made,” he said, dipping his pen and scrawling his signature on the scrap of paper.

  Sparrow eyed the scrap of paper, astonished at Eagleton’s eagerness to assist his search.

  “Bristol, you say.”

  “Aye sir. And Chipping Marleward, just down the road. We used to…”

  “Find her, bring her back to headquarters as soon as possible. Nothing more, nothing less. Am I understood?”

  “Of course sir. Thank you sir.”

  Sparrow took the note, tucked it in to his doublet, congratulating himself on his powers of persuasion.

  “Keep me informed as to your inquiries. As you say, she can’t have got far.”

  Eagleton was pacing the tent now, as if energised by Sparrow’s childhood reminiscences.

  “You spent some considerable time in Bristol? With this Miss Morrison?”

  “Yes sir. Working for her father, Greesham’s the printer before that.”

  “You know the city well?”

  “Like the back of my hand.”

  Eagleton’s features hardened.

  Perhaps he could find a use for the brute after all.

  “Indeed. Thank you Sparrow, off you go. Bring the woman back here to me. It’s important, that we make amends, for the misbehaviour of a small minority of our troops,” he explained distractedly.

  “I will sir,” Sparrow promised, bowing his head and then thinking better of it.

  *************************

  An hour after he had sent Sparrow on his way, Eagleton found himself summoned to army headquarters.

  He had less to say here, among the chiefs of men. Time to listen, plan, interpret, construct. Easy enough for Nathaniel Eagleton.

  There was Cromwell. Bleary eyed, fleshy features pale with exhaustion yet his lips and fingers trembled with nervous tension. Holding forth, as was his wont.

  “That is to say, a piece has been removed from the board this day. The King. Knights, bishops, pawns and all,” he declared, warming to his theme.

  “The victory this day has opened a number of squares, suggesting moves not necessarily considered up until now.”

  Fairfax listened in silence as Cromwell raged on. Exhausted and unequal to deciding courses and consequences at this hour. His lean body sagged beside the table as if he would fall flat on his face.

  “The King has escaped the field, and must be pursued before he can conjour further mischiefs.”

  “God’s mercy, has placed us in uncharted waters.”

  Uncharted waters? Fairfax tugged his beard. According to some of the hotheads they would send the King into exile and set up some kind of buff-coated republic.

  He had heard some of the men talking around the campfires, waxing lyrical over the political and religious utopia that was waiting just around the corner. It was rather startling to hear the same from the officers. God knew their applications and nominations had been picked over for weeks by various Parliamentary committees.

  Some of the more politically active officers had been given entire regiments. Some regiments had even elected their own representative committees to liaise with their superiors! He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen as much with his own eyes.

  Sheepish colonels having to explain their troops had petitioned them to raise some point with the Lord General himself.

  Fairfax, always thinking ahead, was hideously aware that one day, one day, there would be a reckoning.

  The frenzied recruitment over the spring seemed to have succeeded in concentrating the ranters and zealots within the ranks of his new army - while milder, moderat
e men had simply drifted off home or remained with Parliament’s more peripheral forces.

  Parliament’s new-forged sword was missing at least a third of its foot. But the diehards and ranters had remained with the colours. And it wasn’t just the rank and file. Some of the officers showed their men’s wild-eyed enthusiasms, but were better marginally able to control their tongues in mixed company.

  Black Tom was a God-fearing Yorkshireman and remained very wary of those who spent more time conversing with God than they did their own men.

  He looked up, studied the candlelit faces around him. Drawn and quartered with fatigue, some of them still bearing weeping cuts and bruises from the battle.

  The tent was packed with officers and ministers, black suited commissioners. Half a dozen gloomy looking crows were passing parchments and scraps between them.

  Fairfax didn’t approve of the impromptu conference. Discussing matters of state before a set of rascals he barely recognised. Cromwell was reading the summary the commissioners had put before them, nodding his head, lips framing every word.

  Eagleton waited in silence, allowing them to digest the apocalyptic implications of those letters. He had a small trunk cradled in his arms with more of the same, if they remained unconvinced as to Charles Stewart’s guilt.

  “My lords, it is as has been described to you, a God-given gift. Sure this is a prize worth more to our cause than all the fine horses and arms we have taken,” he suggested at length.

  “His Majesty’s correspondence, cast about like ale house journals,” Fairfax complained, his strong northern accent sounding harsh against Eagleton’s smoothly modulated tones.

  “It’s not right,” he declared. Cromwell was shaking his head.

  “His Majesty has forfeited such delicate consideration my Lord. This will undo him, aye, quicker than all our guns and arms.”

  He placed the paper on the table, placed his fleshy hands over the incriminating scrap.

  As if the documents they had found in the King’s cabinets threatened to burst into flames of their own volition.