Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  He’d best get used to hard rides, now he’d joined the freewheeling dragoons.

  Sparrow noted the sudden urgency once they had negotiated the crossroads on the downs above Bradford. The road straightened, cutting down the long slopes toward the meandering Avon besides stands of oak and birchwoods. Everything intersected by tall drystone walls. The team was blowing hard as the driver plied his whip.

  God damn Porthcurn, he drove his men hard.

  Sparrow clutched his reins and trotted behind the coach, determined he would match the fiercely scowling Cornishman stride for stride. It seemed to him the coach and its clattering outriders were gathering speed, hurrying him towards a destiny he couldn’t begin to grasp.

  Like the last grains of sand spilling through the neck of an hour glass - his life up until then - and his future, turned upside down.

  There were whistles and shouts up ahead. Porthcurn’s scouts were standing in their stirrups and waving their hats.

  What were they worried about now? They were within a cannon shot of Bath’s walls. Sparrow could spy fresh turfs atop the patched medieval defences. Woolsacks - one of the most effective ways to stop a cannonball, had been prodded and lashed between gabions full of stones and earth. Not very pretty, but the improvised fortifications had served well enough for Massey’s boys at Gloucester.

  He couldn’t see many guards on the walls, not from this side of the river at any rate.

  Porthcurn spurred into Widcombe, an outlying hamlet just across the river from Southgate. A clutch of steeply gabled houses and coaching inns and liveries, curious villagers peering from upstairs windows.

  Another few yards and Sparrow could see why. A mob of soldiers - pikemen and musketeers, were milling about in the main street. He thought at first the garrison had sortied, but nobody was shooting. Yet.

  Muffet and his dragoons reached for their firelocks.

  Porthcurn rode right on in to them as if they were old friends, snatching off his hat and waving the unruly troops aside.

  The driver pulled up, Sparrow’s men taking up posts either side of the whistling, creaking coach. Muffet looked over towards Sparrow, eyebrow raised.

  The captain shrugged.

  Better let Porthcurn sort it out. This was his neck of the woods now.

  Bella popped her bandaged head out of the coach, craned her neck to peer up the road.

  “What’s the hold up now?“ she inquired. “We’re almost there!”

  “Some sort of roadblock. Royalists. I think,” Sparrow reported. Telling climbed down from the running board, bible clamped beneath his elbow.

  More shouting up ahead. Soldiers were hanging on to Porthcurn’s bridle. Porthcurn didn’t look too pleased.

  “They did what?” Sparrow heard Porthcurn’s voice cut above the hubbub. The Cornishman was frantically waving the men aside.

  “What mutiny is this?” Telling wondered, reminded of the chaos in the Royalist baggage camp. Unruly soldiery were as unpredictable this side of the lines as they were back in Northamptonshire. He waved Bella back inside the coach.

  “Best stay in the carriage, my dear,” he advised. Bella did as she was told, still fuming.

  Sparrow tilted his head but couldn’t understand the solders’ excited babble.

  He clicked the sorrel on, fist closing about the hilt of his broadsword.

  Porthcurn swivelled in the saddle, eyed the curious Roundhead.

  Sparrow cast a professional eye over the shouting and shoving company. Newly- raised recruits, straight from the nearest farm by the look of them. Newly-turned pikes, hopelessly tangled apostles clinking about the musketeers’ chests.

  Try sorting that lot out in the middle of a firefight, he thought.

  Bastards were babbling away nineteen to the dozen, pointing over the bridge toward the squat fortifications across the river. He recognised the outlandish tongue at last.

  Welsh. They were all bloody Welsh!

  “Reinforcements for the garrison,” Porthcurn growled. “We rode ahead of them to collect your mob.” The Cornishman’s features were flushed with anger.

  “They won’t let the bastards in,” he added in an undertone.

  It took Sparrow a moment to work out what he was on about.

  “They won‘t let them in?”

  “Plague. There’s plague in Bristol and the garrison are shitting themselves they’ll catch it too.”

  Sparrow almost fell off his horse with laughter. The Bath garrison wouldn’t let their own men into the city? He’d heard it all now.

  Their fighting cock officer was doing his best to explain in heavily accented English.

  “We’ve been stuck by ‘ere all day. Be off, be off, we’ll have no Welshmen here,” he impersonated.

  “Did you call the governor to the wall?”

  “Aye, but he wouldn’t gainsay his troops sir. Stood there iffing and buttin’ but wouldn’t raise his voice to ‘em sir. Damned shower sir, damned shower! It’s all I’ve been able to do to hang on to the boys sir, they wanted to march back on Bristol.”

  Porthcurn listened to the report like a demon from the underworld come topside to collect his dues.

  “Plague sir, they said we’d brought plague to ’em sir.”

  “I’ll give ’em plague right enough,” Porthcurn vowed.

  “They’ve a saker and a couple of robinets tucked in that half moon by the gate sir, and I’d vow they meant to use ‘em on us too,” the excitable officer reported.

  “Alright Price. Get your men into line. I’ll talk to them.”

  Sparrow was chuckling to himself. Didn’t do provoking this Cornish bastard - he had a bloody temper on him.

  Maybe the Royalist rank and file were getting ideas above their station them same as their colleagues in the New Model. They needed Cromwell and his cronies over here, they would sort them out pretty quick!

  Wasn’t any bugger obeying orders these days?

  Porthcurn’s lip curled back from his teeth as Sparrow tried to keep a straight face.

  “Aye. They’ll regret it, the moment I get in there,” Porthcurn vowed.

  Price bustled off kicking and shoving his countrymen into their ranks and files.

  Villagers were beginning to appear at their doorways to see what the fuss was about. Innkeepers and traders in stained aprons wondering whether to risk opening up their boarded shops.

  A mob of horse and foot would have been a welcome sight back in Roundhead territory. A tidy few shillings worth of beer and a platter of pease pudding all round.

  But the presence of the noisy company in Widcombe meant free quarter for all. And never a penny of money for the locals.

  “Take that Roundhead!”

  Sparrow looked down, watched a red cheeked goodwife scamper after an excited child, busily brandishing a toy sword at the intruders. Her father looked rather more alarmed, tucked in behind her keeping a wary eye on the noisy Welshmen.

  Sparrow paused, turned his head to take a closer look at the newcomers.

  Good Christ.

  “Hallo, hallo William! By the Saints Mary, look who it is!”

  Porthcurn swivelled in his saddle, recognised merchant Morrison.

  The woman had hurried past the waiting riders, desperately hanging on to the hooting toddler.

  “Take that and that and that!“ Sparrow turned and watched her tugging the child’s reins, steering the little tearaway toward the nearest alley.

  She thrust the boy into the pass, stepped across to block his path and then looked up at the intruders, tucking a hank of dark hair back beneath her bonnet.

  Mary Keziah?

  Sir Gilbert Morrison had snatched off his hat and was gesturing furiously at the horsemen.

  “Mary! Mary you daft ‘appworth. It’s William! Here to make good look!” the merchant called, shoving a couple of undernourished pikemen aside and taking his drop-jawed servant by the arm. He steered her in front of the horsemen as if he was a slave trader offering the girl up for a shi
lling or two.

  Mary Keziah peered up at the bunched riders, desperately trying to identify her absent lover. They all looked so high and mighty - where was William?

  “William?” She covered her mouth with her hand.

  Porthcurn frowned.

  “Have a care madam,” he mumbled, jerking his thumb at the perplexed captain turning a bewildered carracole behind him.

  “Mary?” Sparrow curbed his horse, snatched off his hat. She recognised him then. Almost. By God he’d lost pounds since the last time she’d seen him. His familiar features drawn and worn by sun and rain and constant worry, by the looks of him.

  The youthful features lined with care, dark eyes standing out from his rather leaner cheeks.

  Handsome is as handsome does, Mary Keziah thought, but he wasn’t the man she remembered. Not in thousand years, let alone two.

  He climbed down from his horse, passed his reins to Porthcurn, who breathed out very slowly.

  Sparrow stood in the street, awkward as the gangling Welsh farm boys trying to impress their frowning officers. She’d put on weight, but looked well on it. Rosy- cheeked, white teeth, not sure how to welcome him in front of his terrifyingly well-armed companions.

  “William. I knew it was you,” she said, smiling, glancing up at his scowling colleague.

  And that meant…

  “Take that Roundhead!” the curly-mopped toddler evaded Mary’s distracted grasp and thrust his wooden sabre into William’s groin.

  “Ah! What in God’s name!” William whistled, doubling up clutching his genitals as Mary hoisted the boy into her arms.

  “Callum! I told you to leave that at home!” Mary Keziah exclaimed. “I’m sorry Will!”

  Porthcurn was grinning now.

  “Ah, I like a lad with spirit. That’s it boy, don’t hold back!”

  William was sucking breath through gritted teeth as the watching troops grinned and pointed.

  “We need that lad signed on with the garrison, might put some backbone in ‘em!”

  Telling gave the woman a disdainful examination. So this was Mary Keziah, the serving wench who had stolen Sparrow’s easily transported wits.

  A saucy looking girl with dark eyes and a bold stare. Mind you, she’d been maid to Bella Morrison since they’d been children. Not likely she’d be counted among the more silent sort.

  “Madam, I am Reverend Edward Telling, Montagu’s Regiment of foot, New Model Army. I have brought your husband here,” he nodded at the still wincing Sparrow, “to make immediate amends. To correct your present predicament.”

  Predicament? Mary had been stuck in this predicament for going on two years. William had ridden off before Roundway, and she hadn’t seen him since.

  Didn’t they feed them in this New Model Army she’d heard tell of?

  William was trying to say something, flapping his hand as if he could pump the words from his contorted mouth. Callum was glaring fearfully at him.

  “Give me a moment,” Sparrow gasped.

  “He picked you out right enough Sparrow,” Porthcurn told him, grinning.

  The Welsh officer scurried up and bowed his head.

  “The men are formed sir, awaiting your orders.”

  Porthcurn handed the reins back to Sparrow.

  “Buck up captain. Follow us on to the Southgate, it’ll be dark soon and I don’t plan to spend the entire night overseeing your domestics.”

  He yanked his horse around and spurred on up the street. The Royalist company had formed up as best they could in the narrow pass, pikes clanking above their heads. Apostles clinked and rattled. Coughing and sneezing. What a damned crew.

  “Sorry about that Will, you alright there?” Mary Keziah inquired, concerned Callum hadn‘t dealt her wayward lover a fatal blow.

  Sparrow straightened, red-faced. He eyed his bride and the suddenly bashful youngster.

  A round face framed by a mop of unruly auburn curls, he looked more than half a Cavalier. The boy’s bright green eyes studied him intently.

  “Is this Callum?” William asked at last. Mary Keziah boosted the boy toward him.

  “Callum, this is your father, here William, take him.” By Christ she’d waited long enough for this moment.

  Bella had climbed down from the coach, made her way through the throng, refusing to sit inside while the men put everything on earth to rights.

  Mary Keziah spotted her, tried to conceal her shock behind a wide smile.

  Good God in Heaven what had they done to her? Bella held out her arms, Mary transferred Callum to William and rushed into her former mistress’s arms. Both of them were instantly in tears.

  “March on!”

  “Hurry up Mary, we don’t want to be left here all night. Where’s my Bella?” Morrison inquired, pushing past the awkward tableau toward the coach.

  “Go steady Mary you’ll squeeze the life out of her!” The merchant opened his arms as Mary Keziah released her.

  Morrison’s round red face fell like a cannonball though a tub of butter.

  “Bella?” he inquired, not sure he could trust his eyes. Was it Bella, or some sort of haphazardly stitched dressmaker’s doll? “Bella?”

  “It’s me father,” Bella sobbed. Mary Keziah clung on to her, felt Bella’s thin frame vibrating with unrepressed emotion.

  “Don’t you recognise your own daughter?” Bella exclaimed.

  “Of course I do my dear, of course I do!” But for once Gilbert Morrison was lost for words.

  What had they done to her? His treasure, his golden child? The flippertygibbet who had charmed and danced and fluttered like a butterfly through all their lives.

  A few weeks with these New Model maniacs and they had reduced her to this!

  By God above, what fiends were these?

  Hair shorn, jaw discoloured like a mouldy joint, eyes puddled and rimed with lurid black, purple and green rings. His beauty, his inexpertly caged goldfinch.

  By Christ, he’d seen healthier creatures back in Bristol’s bloody morgue.

  Mary Keziah flashed him a look as Bella smiled vacantly.

  “Am I that bad?” she asked wanly.

  “Bad? Badly hurt, yes, you have been, yes but you’re in one piece my dear,” Morrison encouraged, taking his daughter by the arm and boosting her upright. “You’re in one piece!”

  She was in one piece.

  *************************

  According to the furious Cornishman the Bath garrison were little more than a pack of spineless sprats. But the spineless sprats were sticking to the guns.

  “No Welsh here! We don’t want your damned plagues!” Soldiers and townspeople alike had crowded around Southgate, brandishing muskets, pikes and improvised weapons from every tool shed in town. The gunners had lit their match, the acrid stink drifting across the walls and riverbank.

  Oh ho, they’d dare fire on him would they?

  Porthcurn’s features were contorted, black with anger as the governor and garrison bid him defiance from their hastily reinforced barricades.

  “Prince Rupert has sent these men to strengthen the garrison, they’ve not got the plague!”

  “They’ll not have them sir, they’ll not have Welshmen in here,” the distracted governor called from his perch above the main gate.

  Sparrow studied the packed fortifications, which looked fairly formidable.

  The huge oak gate was ribbed and studded with iron. They had drilled loopholes for their muskets to cover the bridge approaches.

  The gate had been built over the Widcombe end of the bridge. A squat stone structure with battlemented parapet. Arrow slits to either side of the gate. Buttressed to either flank by a half-wall.

  He ran his eyes over the structure, determined to memorise every stone and lump of mortar ready to make a full report to Eagleton.

  No sally ports, it wasn’t big enough for that. He raised his chin, peered over the parapet. There was a small barred gate at the foot of the structure’s left hand bastion. Some kind o
f drain, probably the gatehouse privy.

  The Avon flowed by in the gloaming, twenty yards broad and too deep to attempt.

  So it was the bridge or find another crossing and another way over the circuit walls.

  Porthcurn strode away cursing. Price was shaking his fist at the defenders, who returned some richly inventive suggestions as to what he and his pals could do.

  The Cornishman was eyeing his company, wondering if it was worth storming the gate and its covering outwork. One look at the wide eyed recruits gave him his answer.

  “Alright, alright,” he scowled at Sparrow. “Wait here.” He stomped back over the bridge and tore his hat off. The governor had ordered lanterns and torches brought to the walls.

  “Sir Thomas, I beseech you to think what you do. Refusing to admit the reinforcements you yourself requested, is a matter you can take up with his highness Prince Rupert at his convenience. I am sure he will be thrilled by your explanations,” Porthcurn called.

  The hapless governor opened his mouth but Porthcurn waved his gauntleted fist to silence him. “But think on this. These emissaries are sent by Parliament, again with his highness Prince Rupert’s blessing, to deliver the bodies of our fallen officers lately slain at Naseby field back to their home. As you can see, the emissaries are from the north, not from Bristol.”

  “Aye, well?” the governor called.

  “Well then. I suggest you do what you can to appease his highness by admitting these emissaries, at least.”

  The jeering had died down a little, the governor conferring with his aides - most of whom appeared to be civilians.

  “They’re out from Parliament? You’d see the city handed over to the enemy?”

  Porthcurn’s frayed temper stretched to breaking point.

  “Of course not. I will attend with my escort. The foot will march back to Bristol tomorrow morning.”

  Porthcurn waited while the governor debated the matter with the crowd up on the gate.

  “Aye. They’ll grant you that. You may bring the carriage and your mounted escort, but the foot must remain on the Widcombe side of the river.”

  Porthcurn turned, gave Sparrow a ghastly smile.

  “You heard them, bring the carriage across,” he ordered. “And woe betide those rabbit-scuts when I get in there,“ he vowed.