For King and Country

by Oliver Ma

  Chapter 5; The War lost

  The first day that I showed up at the council, I found it to be much like father’s old court in St. James. It was located in a small, cozy room, with rich carpets and adequate walls covering. All of father’s chief ministers, generals and favorites were supposed to be there, but I found the room to contain less than 20 men that day. Most of father’s generals are in different parts of England, campaigning. I was immediately welcomed, and soon after the council launched into a semi passionate series of debates about the northern front. It was through these debates that I realized the war was far from won. Indeed the rebels had never been stronger!

  In a surprising gesture of merciless vengeance, the covenanters betrayed father yet again and joined league with London, extending the war to Scotland. Of course, the northern country was not all for betraying the King. Although Argyll has wiped out most of the royalist clans before the Bishop’s war, a fair number still resists the power of the Covenanters. Montrose, who had large holdings in Scotland, was head of the royalist movement, fighting against Argyll. Scotland was engulfed in its own civil war, but unfortunately, as a gesture of Good will, Argyll sent a large army of 10,000 Scottish veterans south to relieve pressure off Parliament.

  These 10,000 veterans, most having fought against father in the bishop’s war and then surviving the bloody civil war with the royalists, was a force to be reckoned with, a horrible dragon on the field of battle. To add a wizard riding the dragon, the Scots were perfectly positioned to strike Cavendish’s theater from the north, which was unprotected and unfortified. Cavendish, who had all his troops in the south, could only watch as the northern Towns fell, one after another. Father ordered him to maintain his attacks on Parliament, as a decisive campaign in 1643, featuring troops from all three theaters, could overwhelm Parliamentarian resistance and capture London. However, when his own home, Newcastle, came after threat, Cavendish apologized to father and led his armies north to protect his fief, giving Parliament the breathing space it so desperately needed.

  Father watched the situation with anger and frustration for several months, attempting to determine if he could capture London without Cavendish’s northern armies. He was about to go ahead and attack, however, when the northern theater again foiled his plans. Cavendish and his army was defeated in a disastrous pitch battle by the combined force of the Scots and Essex’s Army, and he was trapped with about 5,000 men in York. Within days York was surrounded by almost 30,000 Scots and rebels, led by our old friends Alexander Leslie and Thomas Fairfax. Oliver Cromwell, the would be commander of the still forming New Model Army, was also present and in command of the rebel cavalry.

  Back in Oxford, father agonized and agonized, but he could not let the northern theater collapse. Maintaining his court at Oxford, he sent Rupert north with his 6,000 elite cavalry as a relieve force, giving the commander permission to levy royalists along the way. He himself would lead the infantry in defense of Oxford, which was under threat from Essex’s main army. The decisive strike at London was forgotten and even Oxford, father’s wartime capital, lay exposed as our forces shifted north. Thus began the most decisive campaign of the war. If Rupert and Cavendish could defeat the Scots and the Parliamentarians, they can march south; join father’s infantry and strike for London before winter arrives. Should the royalists fail to relieve York, however, the entire northern theater might collapse and fall under London, or Scottish influence.

  I followed Rupert’s campaign with interest, knowing as well as any of father’s minister that this campaign would be decisive. The rebels would probably outnumber Rupert, but I felt confident that Boye would lead the avuncular man to a glorious victory.

  Several month later men began talking about the great battle of Marston Moor. Some said it was a clear Royalist victory, with much of the rebel army was crushed. Others say the rebels carried the field, but both sides were so decimated by the battle that peace would soon result. Still others argued that Rupert was defeated before he even reached the walls of York, himself captured in the progress. London was left in the dark for several months until Rupert himself arrived at Oxford at the head of 5,000 cavalry that we found out what had happened.

  Marston Moor was indeed a bloody battle. Rupert had deployed his men behind a ridge. When the Parliamentarians launched an attack, many of their men were trapped inside the ditch and they were slaughtered en mass by close range musket fire. Meanwhile, Rupert launched a ferocious, simultaneous attack against the rebels, intending to overwhelm their shaken lines. In the middle, our veteran, Royalist infantry, well trained and armed with swords, were able to, for the first time, pushed back the more numerous rebel Pike men. The fight was still bloody, however, and the leader of our infantry, Eythin, was killed. This was extremely unfortunate because only he knew his master plan for the battle, telling his numerous captains only direct, straight forward instructions. As a result our infantry could not be ordered to perform more useful tasks throughout the battle. Meanwhile, Wilmot led the Royal Cavaliers and crushed the left flank of the rebels, but his swashbuckling cavalier made the same mistake they made at Edgehill, riding off after their routed adversary instead of focusing on enemy units that have not yet routed. Wilmot followed them in their jolly pursuit. On the right, Rupert and his elite cavalry charged against the Parliamentarian cavalry, but was held down by Oliver Cromwell’s cavalry for long enough that a few regiments of rebel pike men was able to attack Rupert’s men from behind, decimating his force, marking the first time Rebel cavalry defeated Royalist cavaliers. Rupert himself narrowly avoided capture by taking off his uniform and jumping into a nearby field. He lost his right arm, however, when Boye was shot dead by a rebel musketeer. Nether the less, Rupert’s veterans did not fall without a fight, and Oliver Cromwell, commander of the rebel cavalry was wounded with a pistol shot to the neck. Meanwhile, Fairfax, who led the Rebel center, found his line over whelmed and himself surrounded by father’s men and was lost from his troops. For 2 hours there was no general leading either armies, and as the sun began to set it looked like the battle would turn out to be another big stalemate and the battle hung in balance. Then, Oliver Cromwell, with his wound dressed, assumed command of the entire battle and cut the leaderless royalist army to bits. Cavendish’s white coats, his elite bodyguard of the north, put up a last stand to buy the city of York time, but all was futile and they were blasted apart by rebel artillery. York itself soon surrendered. Cavendish, who had used his lifelong fortune to support father’s cause, fled the north from ship and escaped to France. With his going the North, about a fifth the size of England, collapsed and except for a few isolated castles, surrendered to Parliament!

  Father was furious when he heard the news. The war had been won! A few months back the only question was whether the civil war will end in a royalist victory in 1643 or 1644. Now fortune has rewound the string of destiny so fast, father and his supporters and completely lost in the unpredictable maelstrom. Victory was now not only no longer guaranteed, but also starting to look unlikely.

  I only let the information in, growing more and more numb to it. Another defeat for father. It’s unfortunate, but we should expect little else. God seemed to be turning a blind eye on father. One day a large band of infiltrating rebel cavalry was caught and destroyed just 40 miles from Oxford. Had they slipped past they would have a chance to kidnap father and burn the royal court, effectively ending the war!

  The squadron of men was finally cornered by several regiments of musketeers and royal cavalry, but they still put up a fight. After a short fight the rebels surrendered. By that time there were only 15 of them left, including one young officer who didn’t even have a sword.

  I watched as they were marched through Oxford and jeered at by the civilians. The officer looked extremely familiar. He was a man in his early twenties, and had a long face. His eyes were wild and much like Cary’s the days before he died. At closer examination I gave a jump and found him to be Anthony!

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nbsp; Rushing down to him I lead him out of the parade.

  “Anthony? What has happened to you?” I asked him. His fair skin were wrinkled and cut.

  “You cannot tell?” He asked. “Well, I am not so sure myself.” He said.

  “Free him out of these bonds! I know him!” I ordered the soldiers. They obeyed, but only reluctantly, cutting loose their hard begot captive.

  “Anthony!” I asked him again.

  “Well………the tide has turned so fast since we last met! Now our situation is completely reversed!” He laughed. “I……you were right Charles. I tried to follow the Parliamentarians, but they were….not what my uncle painted them as. They constantly bickered among themselves and forgot about the interest of the people. They were as bad, if not worse, than the King had been.” Anthony sighed.

  “So…..wait, why did you come along on this raid then?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I had no hope anymore. Neither side wining was a bright prospect. I thought it better to just die. So when I heard about a near suicide raid deep into the King’s territory, I accepted, hoping to meet my death here.” He sighed. “Alas, I lost my sword before the engagement and your cruel horsemen will not strike down an unarmed man, and they brought me here.”

  “Anthony! You can join us!” I begged.

  “I have thought of it, but I fear I must say no. I hold him at too much hate to ever pledge my loyalty to him.” He said sadly. “I fear there is nothing but death for me.”

  “No, there is another way!” I told him. “My father will die, and then I will be king. You will pledge your loyalty to me, no?” I asked him hopefully.

  He stopped, thought about it, and nodded a slight bit.

  “Perhaps….if you will listen to my ideas, perhaps.” He said, then hung his head in frustration.

  “But it is all hopeless. The King is only in his late forties. King James lived till he was eighty. If I wait for you to become king I may have to wait Thirty Years, or more!” He whined.

  I was at loss of words, for his point was valid, but I quickly attempted to press what we’ve just said.

  “But do not die!” I begged. “Death is total defeat. If you hang on you have only retreated, and you can still win.” I told him, and then uttered a loud umm, again at loss of words. I looked down at Anthony’s shirt and saw a dragon. The dragon of wales. Dragons, Norse mythology. Norse…Germany. Continental Europe! I had it!

  “Anthony! England is not the only nation in Europe; Charles is not the only king! Why not go to the continent, and endure with the French, or the Italians, until things in England proceed to your liking? Then you can always come back!” I beseeched him.

  Anthony grew thoughtful again. Gradually his eyes cleared.

  “Thank you my friend.” He said, cupping my hands in his. “I own you a great favor…I own you my life, which I was ready to throw away. You have shown me the wiser course. You will be a good king, Charles. Should your father win this war, and you eventually become king you will have my pledge of loyalty.” He swore.

  “You sound as if the war is already lost for the King.” I laughed a bit.

  “It is.” Anthony said sadly. “Marston Moor is only the beginning. Parliament will keep on improving its army, improving its officers until its army overwhelms the King’s.” He said gravely. I shuddered.

  From Anthony we learned several crucial facts about Parliament. The good news was that there is increasing tension within the house, as it separates into three rival factions. One group advocates peace with the King, claiming the war has dragged on long enough. These include Fairfax, Essex, and several leading Rebel commander. Another group advocates continuous war until the King is dead or captured. This group was led by Cromwell, the brilliant cavalry commander at Marston Moor. The last group is in the middle between the other two groups. They want to compromise with the King, immediately after Marston Moor, when the rebels have a strong bargaining position. This group was led by Pym and Hampden, the men who father originally wanted to arrest.

  The bad news was the New Model Army had gotten a lot stronger. Cromwell and his cavalry, which beat Rupert at Marston Moor, would merge with the New Model Army, which was always drafting more and more men, becoming bigger, more disciplined and better equipped. This new army would be under the direct control of Parliament instead of under father’s old retinue like Essex and Fairfax, but it will be led by Oliver Cromwell in battle. It is disheartening to know that the secondary Parliamentarian army was able to defeat the Royalist Army, while the main Rebel army, the army with the most potential did not even engage us yet.

  The war was now once again heating up. With the north lost, northern Wales was soon subjected to frequent raids. By the last months of 1644, Parliament had stepped into the offensive. Cromwell led parts of his New Model Army south, and with the help of Essex’s army, decisively defeated Hopton, forcing him all the way back to Wessex, where he had started in 1642. Rupert, however, has also been busy. With much of the cavaliers under Wilmot surviving Marston Moor, Rupert still had an effective core for his army, which he quickly reinforced with fresh recruits. Near the marshes of Lostwithiel, Rupert surprised Essex’s army and dispersed it, almost capturing Essex in the process. Now, there were only two armies left on the field of the Civil War. Cromwell’s new, but disciplined New Model Army, and Rupert’s diverse army of veteran soldiers and part time militia, many of whom constantly leave their posts to visit their families. The two armies met for a decisive engagement at Nasby, in early 1645. I was 16.

  I had excused myself from the battle, hoping to avoid another Gloucester or Edgehill, but my caution was fruitless. Peasants fleeing the advancing rebels brought news of the battle even before father’s defeated army fled back to Oxford. Apparently, the battle had started well for father. His infantry charged and broke the first line of Parliamentarian infantry and began pushing back the second line. However, Rupert’s Cavaliers collapsed under the heavy strikes of Cromwell’s iron sides, and Cromwell turned around and struck the back of the exposed royalist lines, routing it and completely annihilating father’s veteran army. Of the 7,000 royalist present at the battle, 4,000 was captured, 2,500 killed and 500 men managed to escape, most with wounds.

  As soon as father arrived at Oxford, my brother James and I were ordered to pack our belongings and prepare to leave England. We were to join a fleet sailing for the isle of Scilly, off the coast of western England. Father, stubborn as he always was, would not accept the war as lost quite yet, but he knew Oxford would soon be under siege. The risks of losing me, his crown prince, to a random cannon ball was probably too great for him the bear. Secretly, one night, Digby, Hyde, several Ministers, Anthony, and a small force of retainers escorted James, Mary and I out of Oxford and west towards the sea. The trip was very trying for me. Seeing the beautiful Welsh country side, knowing they had belonged to father, and to me, but in a few days’ time rebels would desecrate these lands…..I felt horrible. As we rode Digby drew his sword. I looked at him, terrified, hoping he hadn’t seen any Parliamentarians. His face was sweaty and his hair matted his head. His eyes were sharp and squinted and he stared right at me.

  “Digby!” I screamed at him, horrified.

  “You are nothing, you stupid little boy!” Digby screamed. “I thought you were my chance to glory and riches! I served you and bit down my curses, I served your father and bit down my curses, but I served the wrong men! You are nothing now. The war is lost! Even the King knows, but you will still be my ladder to riches. I will bring your head and surrender to Parliament!” Digby screamed, riding for me. My horse, terrified, galloped faster. Digby’s first swing missed. I looked around, desperate. The very thought of that cruel steel burying into my flesh! To my joy, all the rest of the company looked equally scared as I was. To my disappointment, however, none of them had swords!

  Digby charged again, cutting for my head. I ducked down, and his sword nicked off the ear of my charger. The frightened horse reared up, and I alm
ost fell off. I had the gold cross, hanging on a chain from my neck, of course, a cross that can also be used as a dagger. I drew it out, but it was the size of my pinky and I knew it would do little against Digby armed with a sword. I wished Verney had not been slain at Edgehill.

  “Stop! Digby, there is still a chance for the King!” Hyde said, holding his hands up in his effort to calm down the traitor.

  “A chance, a chance!” Digby laughed. “Fools mockery. I may be lacking in the arts of war, but even I know a nation without an army will fall quickly to a nation with 50,000 men in its army!” Digby laughed.

  “You leave me with no choice then!” Screamed Wilmot, charging from his horse. Digby wheeled around quickly to react to this new threat. Wilmot, however, had made a calculated attack. Digby had expected Wilmot to dart upon him, sword swinging, but Wilmot instead wheeled his horse away from Digby and sliced at the leg of Digby’s horse. The beast likewise panicked, and Digby, with only one hand gripping his sword, failed and fell off.

  “Run!” Wilmot shouted. “Let’s go! If he gets back up he will slaughter us!” Wilmot said as he rode his charger over Digby, who was crawling up from the dust. We all slapped our horses, and rode toward the port.

  We depart for Scilly on a fleet of eight ships. Seven were trading cogs: large, bulky, and lightly armed. The one my entourage will be on is a heavily armed, mercenary ship of the line, the Reminiscent, boasting of over 40 guns. If the powerful rebel navy confronts our fleet, (as they probably will) the cogs will put up a fight while the Reminiscent will set sail and flee. Our best hope for a safe passage across the channel would be to take small jumps from island to Island until we get across to France, where my mother lived with the French Royal Family.

  I sat, quiet, on the deck, near one of the cannons for most of the trip. It was boring, watching the sea churn by slowly, taking me farther and farther away from father, from England. When we were halfway to Scilly, one of the last ships messaged the admiral that he saw something behind us. Squinting at the object the admiral discerned it to be another fleet. This was surprising news, for merchant fleets are usually much slower. This fleet appeared to be catching up to us, and thus it must be a war fleet. The strange thing is, other than in England there were no wars going on at the time, so there is no reason why a fleet of warships will be about.

  For the next two hours they continuously closed in on us, until the flag on top of each of their ships was clear. The flag of Parliament. Panic spread among the men. We may have a fleet of ships, but the royal navy consists only of captured ships with mercenary crew. The rebels acquired all of father’s finest ships and best trained crews. In a naval engagement we would stand little chance.

  The chase continued until the rebels were within cannon range, and they began firing shots at us. Our stern chaser guns fired back, but both sides largely missed. Those shots that connected did little damage to the thick oak contour of the ships. It was like this that we persisted until we reached the shores of Scilly, where the Parliamentarians gave up their pursuit in fear of onshore artillery. I got off, breathing a sigh of relief. That was the second time that my life was endangered in the same day!

  From Scilly we sailed to Jersey, dogged by the Parliamentarian fleet. Our mercenary ships cut through the green water like the old Viking dragon ships of the old, but the Parliamentary fleet had been built at tremendous cost (by father) and consisted of some of the most innovative ship building technology. Thus, they glided over the water like swans, their great, blooming white sails glinting under the sun. Halfway across the channel, they had caught up to the last ship of our column and had opened fire upon it, and I was ready to throw myself into the water rather than risk capture. At this crucial point however, from the south sailed another fleet, deployed in one line. I counted only four ships, but they were all huge ships of the line. As they drew closer I saw the familiar blue flag with Fleur de lis waving proudly on top of a tall mast. The French navy!

  Everyone on the ships were jubilant. The French navy was not very big, and it was sailing against the wind and deployed in a poor formation. Had our foe wanted they could have still defeated our combined fleet. To my elation however the rebels peeled off from the pursuit, and everyone sighed at the relief. The rebels may be winning the war in England, but if they attacked the French fleet they will find themselves pitted against the 30,000 men strong French Royal army, veteran by the fierce Thirty Years War in Europe. This war was one that even the wizard Cromwell cannot win.

  We arrived almost triumphantly in France owned Jersey, escorted by the French Fleet. A polite, painted admiral escorted us onto another ship that will sail us all the way to Paris. I was on my way to the court of my first cousin, 9 years old King Louis XIV.

  Unit Three

  It struck me, again and again, how much my life has changed. The real obvious is that I am now living in France instead of merry England. Other, smaller things also started to surface.

  Digby’s words had hurt, not only because it was a was mean to say, but also because it was true to some degree. I was no body. My life in England before the war had seemed a dream, lived by a different little boy, one extremely naïve and self-centered. Now I am nothing but an outcast, an exile, living the life of a nobleman only by the will of my young Cousin Louis. Still, I felt, ready, strong, the way one feels when they get up from bed in the morning, ready to take on the world. I was now 16, standing at the height of 6 foot 4, and very sharp. I had quite a few influential friends and I felt prepared, both mentally and physically to take on whatever life hurled at me, whether it be making a new life for myself and eventually rejoining father in England. Many people has put themselves in danger or even sacrificed themselves so that I can be here, safe, in France, and I intend to make the most out of it.