Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  Sparrow took another draught of his beer.

  “The Royalist army,” he pointed out. Mary Keziah wasn’t having any of it.

  “It wasn’t the Royalist army as smashed her jaw and damn near broke her arm,” she said curtly.

  Sparrow paused, wondering what his wife was getting at.

  “You’d rather stay here? Or go back to Bristol?”

  “I’ll not follow the army like Bella did, Will. I’d not see harm come to Callum. She said they killed babes in arms, Will. Babes in arms? What harm had they done to anyone?”

  Sparrow nodded slowly.

  “Aye. They did. They said the women were Irish, and they all had knives.”

  “Bella said they were mostly Welsh. And the knives were for cutting their meat.” She held hers up as if in evidence.

  “We had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t any of our boys,” Sparrow exclaimed. Did Mary Keziah imagine he had taken part in those piggeries?

  He’d helped escort the survivors to safety...seen them on the right road out of Leicester. With Lady Caroline’s help of course.

  But he didn’t relish explaining the finer points of those arrangements to his new wife. She had already looked at him askance when they had made love. Wondered at the way he had pushed her legs up, pressing her knees up and into his chest to receive him.

  He hadn’t learnt that from a book. She knew it, he knew it.

  But she hadn’t asked the obvious question, not yet at any rate.

  “The soldiers did it. It doesn’t matter what side they were on,” Mary said flatly, as if half guessing the direction of his train of thought. “And I’ll not risk his life,” she slid her eyes sideways at the busily chewing child, “Running around behind any army, whatever cause they serve.”

  Sparrow digested his meal in silence.

  “I’ve not suggested you should,” he replied at length. “But after all this time, I don’t want to leave you like that again.”

  Mary nodded. But she had thought it through. Further than he had at any rate.

  “I want to go home Will,” she explained. “I want to take Callum back to Bristol. Until the war’s all done.”

  Sparrow chewed, stumped by his wife’s inescapable logic. They had only just wed and she wanted to go back with Turncoat Morrison? He had known all the long she was a strong-minded and sensible girl, but this took sensibility too far for his liking.

  “I know you’d come with me, if you could,” she offered. Sparrow was shaking his head.

  “You know I can’t do that and yet you still ask,” he replied, hurt.

  “No, I know you can’t and I’m just telling you. Callum and I will be safer back with Sir Gilbert.”

  He felt a stab of jealousy, to think of Morrison in charge of his wife and child all over again. While his harebrained antics about England had left him unfit for such a duty.

  By God Morrison had looked - and played - his part, running his merry little household while he risked life and limb without. And Mary hadn’t done badly on it either.

  His wife placed her hand on his.

  “We mustn’t fall out over it Will. Bristol’s our home now. It’s all Callum’s ever known. I’ll not drag him away from that.”

  Sparrow turned his food with his spoon, knowing in his bones she was right.

  All his soldiering, all his grasping after promotion, all his dealings with Eagleton, and he had nothing better to offer his wife and son than more of the same.

  A cosy life looking after Morrison’s cosy household.

  Mary in Bristol, Sparrow following the New Model wherever it may be.

  “Eat you bacon, it’s getting cold,” Mary advised.

  *************************

  It hadn’t particularly bothered Scipio Porthcurn that the Reverend had proved such poor company. The two had barely exchanged a word since leaving Bristol, Telling riding a gunpowder grey dragoon cob borrowed from one of Morrison’s livery yards by Canon’s Marsh.

  The Roundhead bounced and glowered as if he was in purgatory. Porthcurn supposed in a way he was.

  They arrived in Keynsham, crossing the river by the old stone bridge.

  Porthcurn and Telling trotted across, hooves clattering sparks from the worn flags.

  Four troopers - all that could be spared now - riding escort a length or two behind.

  A dozen and more foot - all that could be spared - traipsing along behind them.

  Porthcurn didn’t feel in the mood for conversation.

  A glum council of war that morning had resulted in messengers being dispatched to Bridgwater to discover the extent of the disaster which had befallen Goring’s army. Survivors had arrived throughout the day, bringing fresh details.

  All Porter’s brigade lost or taken. Maybe a thousand, fifteen hundred foot cooped up in Bridgwater. No dispatch from the general himself.

  Porthcurn had delayed his departure as long as he dared, in case the Prince ordered them out to rescue the mercurial Goring.

  Telling spurred his horse on as if anxious to cover the last six miles to Bath.

  What was the hurry all of a sudden? Porthcurn wondered if he had picked up some intelligence about the battle the Prince and his officers had missed.

  What could he know that his Parliamentarian masters didn’t? It had been Fairfax’s army which had thrashed Goring. He didn’t imagine they would need to be told about their victory. That left Bristol itself. But the city was a hive of activity, with a reasonable garrison and as much gear of war as they could possibly find use for now.

  Had he discovered some unguessed chink in Bristol’s armour?

  “You seem in something of a hurry, Reverend.”

  Telling ignored him.

  “Have you remembered some business in...”

  “You have been instructed to escort me to the wall. I have your pass sir, granting me passage back to our lines.”

  Wherever they may be.

  “I do not imagine even you could devise any further reason for delaying our departure.”

  Porthcurn bristled.

  “There is a war on sir, a war..”

  “Don’t talk to me about war Porthcurn,” Telling roared, making the skittish grey buck and swerve. The chaplain curbed the gelding with a savage twist of his reins. Porthcurn rode alongside him, astonished at Telling’s foul mood.

  “What ails you Telling,” he inquired. “I would have thought the news from the West...”

  “I don’t give a fig for your news Porthcurn,” Telling snarled, turning his heavy red features on the drop-jawed Cavalier. “I saw you!”

  Porthcurn rode on, eyes flickering from the familiar road and back to the apparently furious clergyman.

  “I saw you and Bella - in the Queen’s Bath,” he explained. The truth had already dawned on the Cornishman.

  Ah, so that was it. Porthcurn’s wide grin fell away.

  “So, a self-confessed peeping tom, in addition to your vomit-inducing hypocrisy,” he observed with relish.

  Telling’s flushed features paled at the accusation.

  “I almost walked in on you both, in the small bath,” Telling responded. “I hadn’t expected to see you and her...”

  “Fucking? Aye, fucking like demons, if you want the truth of it!” Porthcurn exclaimed. “And I’ll make no apology to the likes of you either, you hand-wringing hypocrite!”

  The escorting troopers exchanged looks, astonished at the furious argument breaking out before them.

  “I don’t know what you mean, I returned to the baths and I...”

  “I’m not talking about the baths I’m talking about you! You’ve been fucking her in here,” he tapped his dark temple “since you first set eyes on her. Sparrow said so, although he’s not much better than you on that account. At least he doesn’t try and deny the fact he worships the ground she walks on! I saw the way you looked at her,” he leered.

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Bollocks you didn’t! I fell for her, I’ll a
dmit it, there! Sparrow has been mooning over her since they were children. You though, you stood there with your precious bible thinking exactly the same as Sparrow and I - only you don’t have the balls to admit it!”

  Telling flung his fist sideways, narrowly missing the Cavalier’s jaw. Porthcurn slung himself so far back in the saddle that his horse bolted.

  The escorting troopers spurred forward, brandishing pistols. Porthcurn recovered his saddle, turned his horse across Telling’s and grabbed his bridle.

  His sword was hovering in front of the Reverend’s nose in a blink.

  Both men pulled up, Telling an inch away from death.

  “I could stick you with this and rid myself of one problem, at least,” Porthcurn growled.

  “Then do it!” Telling roared.

  Porthcurn paused, startled by the Reverend’s furious, eye-popping challenge.

  “Admit it. You love her, you want her!”

  “I want her,” Telling agreed. “And if it wasn’t for you and your paired pistols and bloody sword, I would have had her. But I would have had her properly. As man and wife. Not rutting like beasts.”

  “Ah, you were in on it then, with the turncoat merchant? Wrapping her up like a piece of cod ready for market.”

  “I was in on no such thing. Morrison had his own plans, within plans within plans.”

  Porthcurn could believe that at least.

  He lowered the sword a notch, temper cooling.

  “Go. Get out of my sight. You’re near enough as makes no odds now. Go.”

  Telling eyed him, as if fearing he would be shot down while trying to escape. They had arrived at a crossroads a few miles short of the city. The main London road ran straight on along the flood meadows toward the distant spires of Bath, framed by a wooded valley. The road to the south climbed up and over the steep downs which undulated away to a green then grey horizon.

  Porthcurn pointed his sword toward the heights.

  “Your friends are outside Bridgwater. Follow the Norton road south, you’ll bump into the buggers sooner or later.”

  Telling still looked unsure.

  “You have your pass. We’ve nothing worth mentioning between here and Taunton. You’ll be safe enough.”

  “Aye. Safely out of your way,” Telling accused.

  Porthcurn’s challenging smile slipped.

  “Don’t push your luck Telling. You wouldn’t want to go up against me, sword in hand.” The warning was clear enough.

  Telling had never imagined he would. He thought for a moment of reaching down and making a grab for Porthcurn’s pistol. But he knew the Cornishman would have skewered him in a blink.

  He raised his chin, clicked his heels and turned the gunpowder grey cob for the hills.

  Porthcurn watched him ride off like a sack of turnips strapped to a three-legged donkey.

  Good fucking riddance, he thought, leaning out of his saddle to spit on the road.

  *************************

  Porthcurn reckoned Sir Thomas Bridges was even more agitated that afternoon than he had been when he had left him four days before.

  He had hurried out to Southgate, met the colonel’s party in the guardroom.

  Bridges looked as if he had taken the weight of the war onto his own shoulders, his narrow features creased with doubt and worry.

  “The townsfolk won’t serve, the trained band hasn’t mustered more than a few hundred men. The whole place is riddled with mischief and rumour,” Bridges fretted.

  “With respect,” where he meant none at all, “there are matters of greater import to concern us now. Fairfax has beaten Goring in Somerset. That frees him to march south or swing north and tip at Bristol. If I was him, I’d try for Bristol.”

  Bridges digested this intelligence, shaking his careworn head.

  “Can we not rid ourselves of these damned rebels now? I have half my men on duty guarding them. And the other half looking for these damned grave robbers.”

  Porthcurn marvelled to think the governor had nothing better to do than seek out some fly-by-night thieves?

  “We have had reports of cloaked intruders disappearing down blocked alleys. Clambering up drainpipes like monkeys! Capering over the rooftops, Porthcurn. What are they about?”

  “Thieves, vagabonds. They attend every army. No doubt some of them have tired of marching and have come in search of easier pickings here,” Porthcurn suggested.

  Bridges wasn’t so sure. Petty thefts and break ins, goods lifted and clothing snatched from washing lines. Cooling pies disappearing from windowsills. They could have done without the unexpected crime wave, with all their other troubles and all.

  It was as if a plague of locusts had settled on the town, further undermining its brittle courage.

  “And your prisoners are secure?”

  “Sparrow and his wife are in the guest rooms, complaining about the food. His men are in the Bridewell, where you left them,” the governor replied distractedly.

  “And no sign of any accomplices? Could they have communicated with their people outside the walls in any way?

  ““We have kept half the garrison on them at all times,” Bridges shook his head. “I can’t see they could have guided or advised any further reconnaissance.”

  Porthcurn couldn’t see a connection either.

  “And you have ordered checks on all visitors and tradesmen?“ Bridges pursed his lips.

  “There are dozens coming in every day Colonel. We haven’t had time to organise a proper check.”

  Which made Porthcurn even more suspicious. Sparrow had organised some kind of stratagem. But what? How? With whom?

  Bridges didn’t seem inclined to pursue the matter any further.

  “I will escort them out with my men. You will need to identify quarters for the foot company I have brought in.

  “Bridges grimaced at that and all. Welshmen, straight off the boat. More damned expense.

  “In the meantime, I would appreciate a dozen or so of your horse, just to make sure they haven’t planned some ambusade beyond the walls. Sparrow knows these parts better than I do.”

  “Whatever you say. I’ll be glad to see the back of them.”

  *************************

  Early afternoon and Porthcurn watched Sparrow stride out of the Guildhall carrying his young son. His wife followed, cloaked and bonneted against the brisk wind.

  Porthcurn eyed the alleys and rooftops, wondering if the Roundheads had somehow managed to penetrate Bath’s custard-skin defences.

  Bridges was fiddling and fretting, a dozen or so of his poorly equipped horsemen waiting in the High Street. More attending to the horses. A further dozen of Porthcurn’s own men, looking rather more formidable with paired pistols and carbines. At least he could rely on them. To a point.

  Sparrow kissed the boy’s head and passed him back to his mother. He leaned closer and pecked his wife on the cheek.

  Porthcurn raised his chin questioningly.

  “My wife has elected to stay here, and return to Sir Gilbert’s house in Bristol,” Sparrow reported. “I have informed the governor, who will see to her transport as soon as he may.”

  Aye. For a small fee.

  Porthcurn frowned, wondering when he might be able to get back to the damned war.

  “Where are our weapons? You don’t mean to turn us out without arms?” Sparrow inquired. Porthcurn slapped the sack he had strapped behind his saddle.

  “All here. You are your men will get theirs, when we’ve escorted you a safe distance beyond the walls.”

  Sparrow frowned, turned to speak to his wife. The boy clung to her neck, bewildered.

  “We haven’t got all day Sparrow,” Porthcurn called. He looked up sharply. His dark eyes caught movement, up on the roofline. He glanced up, saw something duck back behind a chimney above one of the garrets overlooking the majestic guildhall.

  A crow, most probably. That roof looked lethal, bowing in the middle, tiles slipping. The chimneys didn’t l
ook too clever either.

  Sparrow was busy fussing over his family. Either he was supremely confident of their unguessed ambuscade or he hadn’t a clue what was going on.

  Probably the latter. He wouldn’t have his men shooting down at them, with the boy so close, would he?

  “Have a care. Let’s get cracking Captain Sparrow.”

  The livery lads had appeared with their horses. Sparrow selected his fancy sorrel, adjusted the stirrups and hauled himself up into the saddle.

  Porthcurn looked over his right shoulder, scanned the narrow leaded windows and peaked beams of the tall houses opposite the Guildhall.

  A spider’s eye cluster of leaded panes reflecting the sunlight.

  He looked along the rooflines, stared at the closely ordered chimney breasts.

  “What’s the matter with you, touch too much sun?” Sparrow inquired, turning his horse alongside the Cornishman’s.

  “I’ve spent too much time with the governor. I keep seeing things,” Porthcurn reported, watching the Roundhead’s open features for any sign of complicity.

  “Those damned blackamoors, running amok over the rooftops again.”

  Sparrow’s head jerked up as if he’d just been hurled from a gallows. Searching the rooftops. For something.

  “Friends of yours?” Sparrow concealed his surprise behind an unconvincing shrug.

  “What are they after this time, the tiles or the lead off the church roof?” he inquired.

  “You tell me,” Porthcurn replied. Sparrow looked perplexed.

  “I’ve been locked up for three days and more. The only contact we’ve had with the outside world has been with the kitchen boys from the Three Tuns. I don’t know what you’re imagining Porthcurn, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

  The Cornishman bristled again. Sparrow was leaving his wife and child behind. After all this time? Telling, Bella and Sparrow set on converging paths, suddenly set loose to all points of the compass. Devilishly disconnected.

  And he’d welcomed the whole damned crew with open arms.

  “We’re off to the Bridewell to collect your men. Then we’ll escort you as far as Old Sodbury.”