Black Tom's Red Army

by Nicholas Carter

  Sparrow paddled backwards as if he was surrounded by starving sharks.

  He upended the sword, thrust the blade into the water this way and that.

  “Where’s he gone?“ Butcher cried, sweeping his firelock over the river.

  “Get out of there Will, he’ll cut you down!” Muffet cried, desperately searching for the fugitive Cornishman.

  Sparrow kicked off, skulled backwards into the fast water under the central span.

  It was dark, he couldn’t see a bloody thing.

  “Will! Grab the bloody rope!” Muffet called, hurling the bucket down into the swirling waters. Sparrow grabbed the bucket, clutching at the wet rope. Muffet and his men hauled him up toward the parapet.

  A moment later they had hauled him out of the water, feet braced against the stonework. They grasped him by the shirt, took hold of his baldrick and hauled the heavyset officer over the parapet onto the safety of the bridge.

  “Christ above Will, what happened? Why didn’t he take quarter?” Muffet exclaimed.

  Sparrow was panting hoarsely, shivering in his soaking shirt.

  It was fully dark, spluttering torches bathing them all in harsh red and orange light.

  Sparrow looked back over the parapet at the black river.

  “Where’s the bastard got to?” Butcher wondered, his sharp eyes fixed on the reedbanks and gleaming mud banks.

  “He’s gone,” Sparrow gasped. “Never mind him now. Get the rest of them over here before the garrison realise what’s happened,” he croaked.

  Muffet hurried off toward the gate. Mobs of musketeers hurried in under the arch, more of them bending over to haul and roll the bodies into the gutters.

  Southgate had fallen.

  By Bath, July 29, 1645

  Prince Rupert’s advance guard had ridden through the night at a furious pace. Lamed horses and cursing riders dropping out.

  Occasional stragglers thinking better of the whole enterprise and slipping away into the darkness. Back to the garrison. Or their own hearths if they were lucky.

  But their commander didn’t care for faint hearts and wantaways. He drove them on up the Bath road, following the line of the river away across the meadows to their right.

  The occasional, moonlit glimmer on still waters framed by pike-stand reeds.

  Thomas Winter had worked his way through the gradually thinning ranks of the lifeguard, keeping pace with the glowering Prince on his night-black charger no matter how hard he rode. Matching his despised hero pace for bloody pace.

  They drew rein at the bridge a few miles further on, the river curving away around a silent, candlelit village. Keynsham. A huddle of steep gabled houses and a lone church. Huts and outbuildings surrounding extensive market gardens.

  The watchmen lifted lanterns at the approaching riders, recognising the dread shape of Rupert, the dark Prince abroad in his element, surrounded by his grinning familiars. They weren’t out after more taxes, not at this time of night?

  The governor leaned over his saddle bow, conferred with their sergeant.

  Winter raised himself in his stirrups and tugged his breeches from the flaming crack of his arse. The Prince glanced over his shoulder just as the youngster grimaced, opened his sore thighs about his saddle skirts.

  “You there. Lieutenant Winter. Take a party forward along the Bath road. The watchmen have had word of stragglers in the meadows. I will bring the main body after you, as soon as the men have caught their breath.”

  Winter tipped his hat. Stragglers? Aye, but from who’s army?

  “Your Highness.” Winter raised his chin a notch, indicated half a dozen of the hard-riding lifeguard. He ignored his cruelly stinging buttocks, clapped his spurs to the bay and cantered on over the bridge.

  *************************

  John Okey had thrown the rest of his dragoons over Southgate, veteran and raw trooper alike picking their way through heaps of rubble and splintered weapons by the light of dozens of torches.

  Every dismounted trooper had cut himself one or two, Okey reckoning the brazenly lit parade might undermine what was left of the garrison - still holed up in the main town further up Southgate Street.

  So much for their brittle honour. They were still refusing to take quarter and dawn wasn’t far off. If they could see how few men Okey had brought to the siege they might resolve to hold out a little longer.

  In time for Rupert to launch some sortie from Bristol and take his inexperienced outriders in the open.

  He had dispatched Rich’s regiment on a wide circuit to the west, in the event the Prince was minded to march the Bristol garrison to the aid of their near neighbour.

  Whole squads of dismounted dragoons had been detailed to clear the approaches. They had hauled corpses into the gutters along the bridge parapet, herded a dozen prisoners back to the Widcombe bank.

  Sparrow had followed behind the bewildered party as best he could, chilled to his liver by his late night dunking.

  His stockings and hose trailed behind, reduced to rags by the tangled undergrowth and riverbed litter. He had wrapped his arms about himself, shirt clinging to his chest. Snow and the rest of his squad were full of it, shouting and cackling, hallooing at their reinforcements or whistling after the prisoners. Careless as to the mortal dangers they had faced.

  Sparrow wished to Christ he could cultivate the same carefree attitude.

  He thought too much, that was his trouble.

  Old Archie had said so.

  He was naught but a great havering Sassenach, according to his red-haired mentor.

  Sparrow wondered for a moment where McNabb had got to. Somewhere up north - Gloucester, Evesham. And what he would have made of Sparrow’s performance beneath Bath bridge.

  The prisoners looked miserably relieved to be out of it, although the large army they had imagined they were facing had turned out to be little more than a few companies of ragged-arsed raiders.

  There was no sign of Porthcurn.

  Sparrow, teeth chattering and sick to the stomach through sheer nervous exhaustion, barely had the energy left to worry as to his whereabouts.

  Drowned, probably. The river was broad, a challenging swim at the best of times let alone for a wounded man weighed down by doublet and hose and as many weapons as a scrofulous hound had ticks.

  Muffet and Butcher had taken the Applebys on over the bridge for a cautious reconnaissance of the deserted half moon.

  The works had been abandoned. A dead officer, drilled through the ear by an unlucky shot from the Widcombe bank. The rest of the gunners and the handful of musketeers who had been defending the entrenchment hadn’t waited around to dispute the crossing any further.

  They had retreated back into the town, joined the garrison around and about the main town gate.

  They hadn’t given in yet, but the loss of the bridge had dealt the garrison a mortal blow, allowing the attackers to find their own ways into the town by back alley and over kitchen garden. A mile and more of wall - they were bound to find a deserted post somewhere along the line.

  The loss of the bridge had opened up the approaches around the meadows to the south and west of Bath and the neat orchards and fishponds to the east. Turf-topped walls, dozens of cottages and outbuildings, barns and sties where the townsfolk kept their livestock.

  Plenty of cover for the cunning rebels to infiltrate the turf-topped walls, to winkle out new routes through the barely manned defences.

  Despite that sobering proposition, the entire garrison - or what was left of it - were standing to on the parapets and barricades. Match burning, pikes laid flat on the stonework.

  Huddled officers arguing and gesticulating. No sign of the governor.

  What cannon they had left had been trundled forward and loaded.

  The King’s men watched and waited as the enemy forces pulsed over the bridge, company by company. They could see more horsemen across the other side of the river, patrolling the Bristol road.

  The bridge had been
lost, and to make matters worse Bridges appeared to have lost himself too.

  Where was the governor?

  *************************

  Sparrow trudged back to Widcombe, gratefully retrieved his doublet from the cottage by the bridge approaches. Godspeace Lamb and a squad of his clubmen volunteers had been detailed to escort their prisoners to the rear. The school master’s features looked shade-pale in the moonlight.

  Or had the sight of a dozen dead soldiers stolen his newfound store of courage?

  The rest of the regiment had already crossed over the bridge to reinforce the siege lines. Sparrow dug amongst the baggage and found a brandy bottle, gulped at the fiery liquid to take the sour taste from his mouth. He passed the bottle to Snow, who took a good glug and handed it on to his shivering comrades.

  “Collect your arms, they need everybody we can get on the far bank,” Sparrow ordered, feeling the brandy re-ignite his frozen limbs, fingers and toes.

  He sat down, tugged on his boots as best he could as the dragoons rooted through their the heap of doublets and coats and carefully stacked weapons.

  “Haven’t we done enough?” Snow cried, his thin shoulders racked by shivers.

  “We blew the bloody gatehouse down. Let the whole regiment in,” he went on, warming to his theme.

  “We blew up a privvy,“ Sparrow countered. “We covered ourselves in shit, not glory. Besides, the town’s stacked to the rafters with all kinds of,” he narrowed his eyes, caught Snow’s sudden flicker of interest, “military stores.”

  Loot, he meant. They hadn’t found much since Naseby, that was for sure.

  Sparrow pinched his nose between his fingers, wished he hadn’t.

  The lot of them had been sprinkled, doused or rubbed in excrement. Not even his extended dip in the river had removed the clinging reek.

  He barely dared think about his fight in the shallows. Porthcurn sneering, pressing him back into the deeper water like some leering butcher cornering a truculent steer.

  But he had stood and fought, hadn’t he? He had given the bastard a damn good cut to remember him by and all.

  Even if he had backed away from the brute. Backed away from certain death, if he had stuck around to exchange blows with a master swordsman in the Avon shallows.

  He’d be there still, face down in shit, if he hadn’t given ground, he reasoned. Wishing to God he could convince himself of the right of it.

  Sparrow wondered again what had become of his piratical adversary. Had he survived to face him again, crawled up the Bath bank and rejoined the main garrison? Was he waiting there on the next gate, vowing vengeance?

  He couldn’t think Porthcurn would fall for his clumsy thrust a second time.

  And the Cornishman would relish another meeting. A chance to settle their account once and for all.

  Snow rubbed his arms around his chilled frame, eyed the morose officer.

  “What is it? We’ve taken the bloody gate haven’t we?”

  “Aye. Collect your kit. Bring the horses up, we’ll ride on over and join the regiment.”

  The brandy bottle did the rounds, came back empty. Sparrow weighed it in his fist and then hurled it against the wall.

  Porthcurn could go to hell, if he hadn’t done so already.

  *************************

  Porthcurn hadn’t gone to hell.

  He was lying across a tumbling weir, a mile or two downstream outside Saltford.

  The Avon had widened and slowed, depositing ridges of pebbles and carefully graded, moss-covered stones.

  Porthcurn had come to when the length of timber he had sprawled over had been carried into the shallows with a series of sharp thunks.

  The Cornishman had come to at last, light-headed and numbed by cold.

  He pushed himself away from the broken timber - part of the guardhouse he wouldn’t wonder - and prised himself upright trying to get his bearings.

  A broad, steep-sided valley. Heavy woods to one flank, open meadows as far as he could make out to the opposite flank.

  The river flowed between banks of reeds and gravel. Toward Bristol.

  The Cornishman climbed to his feet and cursed as his leg wounds pulsed into agonising life.

  He couldn’t recall tearing his belt and breeches off. Or dropping his sword.

  He lifted his bare leg as far as he was able, picked out half a dozen oozing holes where the grenade blast had caught him. He could see thin trails of blood in the moonlight.

  Porthcurn gritted his teeth and half crawled, half hobbled along the greasy weir to the left bank. Every clumsy step set off alarm bells of agony racing along his leg into his gut and on up to his fiercely-pounding head.

  His teeth were chattering. How far had he floated? He paused, propped himself up on his haunches and looked back the way he had come.

  The skyline was alive with bursting, flaring, spark-spewing flames. As he stared he became aware of the distant crackle of musketry.

  So Bath had still not fallen. Bridges and his men had held on through the night.

  Porthcurn could barely believe it possible.

  A few brave men had stood beside him, tried to hold the line. The rest had followed the spineless governor, hurried back to the comfort of their homes. And no doubt fished out the orange sashes and favours they had hidden away two years since.

  Damn them all to hell, Porthcurn fumed.

  Porthcurn remembered Sparrow and their fight in the shallows. He grabbed his arm, leapt back as he felt the pulsing rent in his saturated doublet.

  He eased the coat off his shoulders, saw his shirt was dark with blood. He tore the shirt aside, grimaced as he realised his forearm was cut almost to the bone.

  Thin blood and dark, livid muscle.

  Porthcurn cursed, tore the sleeve away and worked the bandage about his forearm above the throbbing wound. The grubby tourniquet would have to do. It was that or bleed out in the shallows.

  God’s wounds, how much more damage had he taken?

  He began to worry he had lost too much blood. He wasn’t thinking straight.

  Porthcurn looked up, tilted his head.

  The bloody musketry had stopped. Like a door being slammed shut in a rowdy classroom. Either the Roundheads had given up their efforts, or the town had fallen.

  He cursed under his breath, the river-washed wounds in his legs throbbing back into focus.

  Porthcurn listened again. He felt sure he had heard hooves.

  Up on the road. The Bristol road.

  He shouted out. Hallooed with all his remaining might.

  The Cornishman pulled the tourniquet tighter, gritted his teeth and took another few paces toward the bank.

  “Hoy there! Give us a hand here, for Christ’s sake!” he bawled, dimly aware he was nearing the end of his resistance.

  He would either get help or he would die here.

  “Oy! Over here! Have a care!” he bawled. “It’s me, Scipio Porthcurn. Colonel!”

  He stumbled, knees folding into the mud. He collapsed sideways into the shallows.

  *************************

  Which was where Thomas Winter found him a few moments later, praying on his knees like some demented Old Testament prophet.

  Winter realised it was one of their officers - the Cornishman with the black beard he had seen striding about the garrison. He hadn’t seen him for a few days.

  He scrambled down from his horse and leapt down the bank beside the dozing brute.

  A Christian soldier, showing all the scars of having been fed to the lions. Half a dozen times.

  “Colonel, colonel, you’re hurt,” Winter observed, trying without success to haul the big man under his armpit.

  “Ah you’ve noticed,” Porthcurn growled, opening one bloodshot eye to peer at the intruder. A Cavalier, barely out of his teens by the look of him.

  Were they sending boys out now, to do the King’s dirty work?

  “Get me out of here, I need to make my report,” Porthcurn ordered
, trying to stand up. Winter threw his arm over his shoulders, winced at the deadweight. “The Southgate’s fallen. Trickery, treachery or both,” he gasped.

  “The firing’s stopped,“ Winter reported. “They’ve taken quarter!”

  Porthcurn felt what was left of his rage ebb back into the shallows. He drew a deep, horribly fragrant breath.

  “We need to get you back to the road,” Winter exclaimed.

  “Aye, we do,” the Cornishman agreed. They stood there in the mud and the dark, and wondered how on earth they would find their way back to the road.

  TO BE CONTINUED

  Copyright

  Black Tom’s Red Army

  By Nicholas Carter

  Shadow on the Crown Book Six

  ISBN (Kindle) 9781910089200

  First Edition published by Tangent Books 2015

  Tangent Books, Unit 5.15 Paintworks, Bristol BS4 3EH

  Tel: 0117 972 0645

  Email: richard@tangentbooks.co.uk

  Ebook production: Thomas Rasche thomas.rasche@bristolebooks.co.uk

  Cover photograph: John Beardsworth www.beardsworth.co.uk/tag/portraits/

  Nicholas Carter has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written in a newspaper or magazine or broadcast on television, radio or on the internet

  www.tangentbooks.co.uk

  Black Tom’s Red Army is the sixth book in the Shadow of the Crown series.

  Previous titles:

  Turncoat’s Drum

  Storming Party

  King’s Men Crow

  Harvest of Swords