Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  How was it every rogue in the Royalist army had ended up out here in the wilds of the west? They didn’t have to take orders, that’s why. Especially from the demonic Prince Rupert. Out here, they were free to do what the hell they liked, when they liked.

  The King had more men out West now than in the north or the midlands together.

  And yet what had they achieved? Taunton, Poole, Lyme, Portsmouth and Plymouth all held out for Parliament.

  Leaving the Royalist armies to scour the countryside like locusts, desperate to find enough coin to hold their easy come easy go forces together for another week or two.

  The general frowned, wondering how he could play the dismal hand he had been dealt. He lapsed into silence, staring over the sluggishly flowing river at the host drawn up on the lower slopes opposite.

  He had reports Fairfax had dispatched a few thousand horse after Porter but he still had ten thousand men and more across the stream there.

  They seemed welded together by divine force, brooking no argument, obeying every order. He shivered to think of such a beastly congregation. Wondered how the rabble behind him would ever hope to stop such colossal, unshakeable force.

  “We have word that Fairfax swallowed your bait. He sent Massey after you with the Western horse. This,” he pointed the glass across the river, “Is the New Model.”

  Porter stared at the vast host, aghast their insolent enemy could bring so many men to this field. That field, and every other bloody field between here and Bristol.

  They could hear them singing psalms, as if building themselves up for action.

  Porter replaced his hat, climbed back into the saddle.

  “He’d never risk an attack here,” Porter counselled, apparently overlooking the evil eye Goring had turned in his direction.

  “He couldn’t get more than two men to ride abreast, up that lane.”

  “Even so. Have your men reform behind those hedges on my lifeguard, just in case Fairfax risks a charge,” Goring ordered.

  He was certain Fairfax would be reluctant to gamble his men in such a narrow attack, across a deep, wide river in the face of several hundred musketeers, behind good cover.

  But you never knew with these fellows.

  Fairfax hadn’t hesitated to attack at Marston Moor. Although Goring’s counter-charge had turned and run the rebel horse off the field. Fairfax had been forced to snatch off his helmet and ride around the massed armies to rejoin Cromwell on the far side of the battle.

  But the dark eyed commander hadn’t been put off the fight like so many of his fellows. He had turned and charged again. And again.

  The rest, as they say, bloody history.

  Cromwell and his Ironsides, backed by troop after troop of Scots lancers, had rolled up the Royalist horse opposite them and turned their attention on to the rear of the Royalist army, undoing what had been a promising advance.

  According to all reports, the very same sequence of events had unfolded at Naseby just over a year later - or as near as made no odds.

  The general sighed, took a pull from the bottle he had been handed by another worried retainer. Maybe with Massey’s horse away chasing Porter’s remnants Fairfax would hold off until late afternoon, or early evening?

  Goring waved up the last of his musketeers, sent them behind the hedges to either side of the little hump backed bridge, the only way Fairfax could possibly cross without getting his feet wet.

  The Roundheads couldn’t turn his right now - not with the river Yeo anchoring his flank.

  The rough lane - Wagg Drove - turned sharply around scattered outcrops of reed and willow before following the slope, up and over the hill toward Langport. The pass was deep and narrow, overlooked by hedges and willows to both flanks. The sunken track was scattered with sheep droppings.

  It was a death trap, hopefully Fairfax would recognise it as such.

  The enclosed pastures either side of the drove were pooled with water and studded with outcrops of coarse grass and furze. Pissbury Bottom, the locals called it, with good reason.

  It was a virtual bog the foot would have difficulty negotiating, let alone any horsemen straying from the lane. The marshes stretched either side of the Wagg Rhyne all the way back to the Yeo.

  A mile or so behind him lay the small town of Langport, where the bulk of his carriages, coaches, baggage and guns were presently hopelessly snarled.

  They would need the rest of the day to get clear.

  So all Goring had to do now was sit and wait it out.

  Until nightfall.

  *************************

  But Fairfax wasn’t minded to wait until nightfall. Goring watched the New Model horse regiments pulse and blossom, troops of Ironsides wheeling off and reforming as the enemy rolled out their guns.

  Half a dozen sakers and a couple of culverins - more than enough to smash the pair of drakes he had planted at the top of the pass. He had to ride back personally to ensure the gunners didn’t run in the face of such overwhelming firepower. They had observed the terrifying preparations the same as he had.

  Goring drew his sword, gathered his officers and rode across the field to his waiting cavalry, just as the New Model’s cannon pealed into life.

  Hell’s bells summoning their doom.

  The gunners took cover as cannon balls tore through hedges and smashed carts, vicious splinters scything down the terrified musketeers. The raw recruits behind the hedges took cover behind the earth banks, holding their hats on as red hot balls ploughed horrible lanes through Goring’s centre. Wood, muscle, metal, flesh.

  Musketeers bent double and retreated further up the lane. Wounded crawled. Others lay in the ditches, cowering and bleeding.

  Goring stood in his stirrups, watched the enemy forlorn hope double across the enclosures and fields on the far side of the river. A great mass of musketeers urged on by a hardcore of mounted officers and ensigns brandishing great yellow, red and white banners.

  Goring’s musketeers opened fire, dropping men here and there in the rushes and shallows. But the enemy ducked and dived, the front ranks kneeling as successive waves trotted forward and fired over their heads.

  The red-coated rollers poured around the little bridge, funnelled over the rhyne and began flushing out Goring’s musketeers from their hidey-holes in the hedges.

  His own guns only managed to get off one or two ill-aimed shots before the gunners were cut down or ran for their lives. Choking smoke began to blow across the ridge, the bad egg stink of powder catching in a thousand throats.

  The general caught one last glimpse of enemy horsemen galloping toward the bridge before Pissbury Bottom was enveloped in white smoke. His guns had been smashed, waggons burning. Powder barrels exploded in great arcs of fire and brimstone, turned lazy cartwheels over the carnage at the top of the lane.

  Musketeers ran for their lives, their officers unable to hold them as the first Ironsides crashed through the smoke and ruin. Four riders, knees locked together, waving their swords. Four more galloped left, four more galloped right.

  Without waiting to deploy the enemy cavalry careered out of the smoke-choked lane and charged across the field at the nearest Cavalier horse.

  Slingsby’s men hardly had time to trot forward to meet them before the buff coated avengers crashed into them, scattering horse and riders.

  Guidons snapped and fell, pistols dropped from dazed fingers as the Roundhead horse intertwined with Goring’s horsemen.

  Horses reared and toppled sideways. Riders were thrown into the turf or trotted on clutching wounds they hadn’t even realised they had received.

  The Ironsides boiled out of the lane like lead from some satanic ldle, an irresistible force which sent Slingsby’s regiment bowling back over the top of the ridge in a tangle of thrashing hooves and plunging horses.

  Goring waved his sword, turned in his saddle to encourage the wavering rogues behind him.

  “Are you with me? Charge!”

  *********************
****

  Sir Thomas Fairfax stood in his stirrups, trying to pick out what was happening at the top of the lane. He could see troop after troop of New Model horse cantering down to the bridge, passing over two at a time to be swallowed up in the crashing, banging, burning murk further up the lane.

  Rainsborough’s musketeers were bounding forward along the hedge lines, pausing to snipe at opponents hidden in the shrouding smokes. Re-loading and advancing again. Small parties finding what cover they could in the sucking swamp.

  Others were hobbling back the way they had come, using their muskets as crutches or boosting badly wounded comrades back to the safety of their lines.

  He saw green coats and blue coats, grey coats and white coats - Royalist prisoners dazed by the hellish offensive, being hurried back down the ridge at sword point.

  Behind him, horse, foot and more horse. Each troop or company waiting their turn, tanned faces lit up with excitement.

  “On you go! They’ll never hold now!” he called, waving the reinforcements forward toward the rolling inferno at the top of the lane. Fairfax could see horsemen galloping over the open fields at the top of the ridge.

  Great blocks of buff coated Ironsides disgorging from the lane to outflank every successive body Goring threw into the fight. Fairfax threw all he had up the lane. Goring threw in all he had to try and halt their reckless charge.

  The guns had fallen silent now, the gunners shielding their eyes trying to peer through the broiling smokes that belched and blossomed over the lane.

  Prisoners, wounded and malingerers were making their way back now, dividing about the bridge as still more Roundhead horsemen cantered up the lane. Dead horses, dead bodies. A broken drum rolled and tumbled down the slope, bounced off the bridge and landed in the rhyne.

  Dozens of troops appeared to be advancing or retreating, up to their chests in the livid green water.

  Sir Thomas waved more troops forward, then more musketeers. Then more horse, knowing in his bones the day was his. The hot shriek of battle rolling away over the hill like slowing distancing thunder.

  He could sense the enemy was ready to break, the crescendo of battle moving further off, away over the slopes and out of his sight. Fairfax turned to his second in command, his red face glowing hot as a cannonball behind the triple-barred helmet.

  “Oliver, keep your regiment at the closest order. Do not allow them to reform. There is your quarry sir!” Fairfax pointed his sword toward the top of the ridge.

  Cromwell raised his sword, hilt to his helmet bars, and spurred off toward the bridge.

  *************************

  Goring’s horsemen hacked and gouged and fought and died but they couldn’t hold the onrushing army. His cavalry peeled away in ones and twos and then by the troop, turning their horses and galloping off the hilltop toward the town.

  The last of the foot ran for their lives - hareing off in all directions.

  Goring, bruised and bloodied from the hack and gallop along the ridge, had turned his horse and cantered back toward Langport with what little was left of his officers and lifeguard.

  A breathless few moments later he found himself negotiating the obstacle course in the narrow high street, turning his head this way and that to try and get his bearings.

  Waggons and carts had been abandoned and overturned. Sacks and chests, bales of wool and stacked barrels. A bright blue gown thrashed this way and that by boots and hooves. The fugitives had grabbed what they could but abandoned their loot the moment the cavalry had caught up with them.

  Some of the narrow hovels were already afire.

  “Fetch torches, set those waggons alight!” Goring yelled, his frantic troopers rushing around to obey his last orders. Torches sailed through windows, doors were kicked in. “Block the street! Musketeers to the windows!”

  Stray horses careered past knocking would be arsonists aside.

  But before the Royalist fire starters could complete their work, Cromwell’s Ironsides were upon them.

  Hacking and slashing at the fugitives, backing screaming musketeers against burning walls. The thatched hovels caught fire at last, roaring flames gobbling up the cottages in moments. Screams and shrieks as terrified townsfolk ran for their lives, caught up in the smoke-choked stampede.

  Goring gathered what he could, but the veteran commander knew it was a lost cause.

  He turned his horse for Bridgwater, hoping to God their stand on the ridge had bought sufficient time to get the majority of his guns and baggage away.

  How long had they stalled the New Model? An hour or two?

  His men had fought hard enough, aye, with every advantage of ground, but the New Model had driven through their position with hardly a second thought. Charging up that narrow pass four abreast?

  Goring had never seen anything like it. The defeat had broken his army like a worn out pot. Conversely, the Roundheads would no doubt gain further inspiration from this apparently God-given victory.

  He knew in his brandy-soaked bones they would never stand a chance of holding the New Model again.

  *************************

  Rupert received the news long after midnight. A wild-eyed straggler who had flogged his horse half way across Somerset. The animal had collapsed outside Redcliffe gate, a posse of townsfolk appearing from the alleys and taverns, lurking like vultures around the sweat-foamed carcass.

  He had been hurried into the Prince’s quarters to deliver details of the disaster.

  Goring’s army smashed, his horse scattered, his foot broken or taken. A few thousand or so had barricaded themselves up in Bridgwater.

  The New Model Army triumphant. Again.

  The last hope, the last chance to put an army into the field capable of resisting the enemy on anywhere near equal terms, thrown away in an afternoon.

  For once, there were no dissenting voices around his council table, no misplaced optimism, no silver clouds. Just stunned silence.

  Rupert lifted the white knight from the table and threw it in the fire.

  By Bath, July 12, 1645

  The Governor had given permission for Sparrow to order their dinners from the Three Tuns. On condition he paid for all meals and drink out of his own pocket, of course. Sparrow’s purse was becoming lighter by the day.

  The glowering captain had stood by the door, peering into the hallway as one of the scullery lads ducked under the guards’ crossed muskets brandishing a tray of boiled bacon and turnips. Half a loaf and a jug of small beer completed the scant dinner.

  Not much but enough to persuade Sparrow to postpone his dramatic bid for freedom. For now.

  The scullery lad had taken up his role in the endlessly extended mummery with enthusiasm and wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face - presumably to ensure he wouldn’t catch the plague from the unwanted visitors.

  “How much do we owe you?”

  The lad rather spoiled the pretence, tugging the scarf aside to reply.

  “A shilling and six pence, sir.”

  How much? Who did they think he was, Lord Saye and Sele?

  Sparrow frowned, emptied the coins from his purse into the lad’s upturned hand.

  “Keep the change,” he quipped. The lad examined his palm, tipped the spare tuppence into his breeches.

  Stingy Roundhead bastard.

  A couple of bored musketeers peered in, then closed the door behind the departing scullery lad. Sparrow held the tray as Mary lifted the napkin, examined the frugal supper.

  Callum was as usual busy attacking the bedpost with his sword. He had certainly mastered more moves with it than his father ever had.

  Sparrow couldn’t blame him being bored. A day and a half they’d been stuck in there.

  Mary Keziah tore a chunk of bread and ladled some of the bacon and turnips into a trencher. Callum dropped the sword and took his place at the table.

  “You feed him Will. I’ll get ours.”

  His wife was clearly used to running a household, and had
n’t protested about the unexpected honeymoon at the Guildhall. They had the use of the four poster - while they had brought in a crib for the youngster. The evenings and night-time had been rather more to his satisfaction, the daylight hours had dragged on.

  And on.

  Sparrow supposed he couldn’t complain about being cooped up in the plump and comfortable surroundings of the Guildhall. It wasn’t the most trying imprisonment he had endured in the past three years, that was for sure.

  The unaccustomed inactivity hadn’t suited Mary Keziah however. She had been out of sorts all day.

  He drew up his chair beside his son, began scraping pink meat from the large bone which seemed to form the main ingredient of their dinner.

  Mary watched him mash the bacon and turnip into a paste and offer the spoon toward Callum. The boy seemed uncertain, but was too hungry to worry about the hulking stranger who had been thrust into his life like a cannonball down a culverin.

  Satisfied he was doing his parental duty, Mary placed their bowls on the table and served her husband the lion’s share of what was left.

  She chewed the bread, which was at least fairly fresh.

  “What are you thinking?” Sparrow asked, noting the far away look in his wife’s eyes.

  “I was just wondering, how long they’ll keep us cooped up in here,” she replied.

  “Porthcurn said days.”

  “Followed by an escort to Marlborough.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, I mean, what then? Where do we go after that?” Mary Keziah asked.

  Sparrow munched his bacon, aimed another spoonful at Callum.

  “Back to the army, I suppose.” Mary’s mouth contracted. The bacon wasn’t that bad. “Why do you ask?”

  His wife pushed scraps of food about her dish.

  “Bella’s been away with the army for two years,” she remarked.

  “Yes. And?”

  “She was used to it, following armies from one end of the country to another.”