War Game

by Anthony Price

  Mitchell urged his horse into the marshy bottom of the valley, where the Willow Stream meandered sluggishly between barely defined banks which would have been bright with king-cups earlier in the year but which now carried little to betray its treacherous swampiness. It had come as a shock to the advance party that the openness of this approach to the Royalist stronghold was an illusion; they had found out the hard way why every attack but the last one had been delivered up the other side of the defences. And they had laboured mightily all the afternoon to lay corduroys of brushwood to give the assault columns access to the firm ground of the rampart ridge; as no doubt Black Thomas Monson’s engineers had once had to do themselves… .

  The horse plunged and high-stepped frantically for a minute or two in the ooze, sending Mitchell lurching from one side of the saddle to the other. But he held his seat admirably and with a final effort the animal heaved itself out to the boos and yells of the Parliamentary infantry, who had obviously been hoping for an early Royalist setback.

  “What did I miss?” inquired Audley.

  The drums sounded a final elaborate tattoo and then settled down to a steady marching beat—

  Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum.

  Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum—

  Up on the skyline of the old earthwork, as though growing out of the ground, came the battle-flags of the enemy.

  “You left out God,” said Strode. “’By God’s grace’ you should have added.”

  The breeze caught the flags, opening them gaily above the long lines of men who rose out of the earth beneath them: musketeers, pikemen, officers with drawn swords … bright sashes and scarves and the sunflash of polished steel helmet and breast-plate. The opposing hillside was transformed from the parched green of a hot August to a blaze of colour.

  Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum—

  “Of course,” said Audley. “’When I saw the enemy march in gallant order towards us, and we a company of poor ignorant men, I could not forbear but to cry out to God in praise for the assurance of victory, because God would, by those things that are not, bring to naught those things that are’—will that do?”

  Strode laughed. “Bravo! Cromwell at Naseby—almost word for word. You have an excellent memory, Audley.”

  “Yes. Except that Cromwell’s ‘poor ignorant men’ outnumbered the Royalists two to one, I seem to remember.”

  “Very true. Whereas we’re due for a licking today—or tomorrow, to be exact,” admitted Strode. “But it’s a splendid showing, you must admit that. We’ve already got a turn-out of nearly seven hundred—and that’s not counting the Angels and the Royalist camp-followers. And there’ll be more by later this evening when the muster’s complete, so I think we’ll give everyone something to remember Standingham by—wouldn’t you say?”

  Mitchell had wheeled his horse at the foot of the ridge and had trotted to the extreme right of the Parliamentary line. Now he wheeled again and galloped the whole length of it insolently, to a barrage of boos and catcalls, until he was level with the corner bastion on which the Parliamentary standard flew.

  “Yes, I think we might at that,” agreed Audley.

  With a flourish Mitchell produced a large white handkerchief above his head.

  “Parley! Parley” he shouted.

  Strode leaned over the top of the bastion to call to a mounted Roundhead—the same trooper, thought Audley, who had advanced across the bridge at Easingbridge.

  “Galloper!” Strode’s voice was properly military now. “I pray you approach that gentleman and bid him advance under truce, according to the customs and usages of war.”

  The galloper saluted and spurred forward, up the worn side of the counterscarp and down the glacis towards Mitchell.

  Strode turned to the officer on his left, who was busy checking the typed scenario against a very twentieth-century stopwatch.

  “How’s the timing going, Johnny?” he asked.

  “Four and a half minutes extra, crossing the stream. We shall have to allow for that —and it’ll take their footmen longer too.”

  “Very good.” Strode stared down at the two horsemen now approaching.

  “Gentlemen … hats and helmets on, please. This is a full-dress rehearsal, remember.”

  Discipline was as tight in the Double R Society as Superintendent Weston could have wished, thought Audley bitterly as he adjusted the uncomfortable lobster-tailed helmet. Nobody had demurred when Strode had ordered full costume for the afternoon. The general was the general, and that was that; his officers made suggestions, but once an order was given it was obeyed to the letter.

  In fact he had already made the interesting discovery that a heavy leather buff-coat, with or without breast-plate, wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected: once a man started to sweat in it (which was within two minutes of putting it on) it trapped the sweat and delayed the dehydration a thin shirt would have accelerated. So even though the salt tablets which the Angels of Mercy had brought round were necessary, the discomfort was endurable.

  But the lobster-tailed helmet was purgatory, especially since the hinged face-bars (which refused to stay up in the raised position) made him feel as though he was looking out at the world through the bars of a prison window. Paul Mitchell could just as correctly have provided him with a black wide-brimmed hat like the one Strode was wearing—it was more than likely that Mitchell had deliberately chosen the helmet, therefore. But all he could do was thank heaven that it was the half-armoured Civil War and not the fully-armoured Wars of the Roses which had taken this generation’s fancy.

  The horsemen checked on the lip of the counterscarp, almost at the same height as the bastion. Mitchell quietened his horse with a caress and swept off his plumed hat.

  “Sirs—I give you good day,” he called across the ditch.

  Sir Edmund Steyning’s hat remained on his head.

  “Sir—say thou what thou camest to say. And then get you gone to the place whence you are come,” he called back in a loud, harsh voice obviously designed to carry to the battle-line.

  “Sir—I will.” Mitchell raised his voice to match Steyning’s.

  The drumming on the hillside had stopped and the murmur of conversation among the Roundheads hushed. Even the wind seemed to have caught the sense of occasion, dying down so that the flags dropped on their poles.

  “I am sent—“ the voice rose to a shout “—to summon you … to deliver into the hands of the Lord General appointed by his Gracious Majesty … the House wherein you are, and your ammunition, with all things else therein … together with your persons, to be disposed of as the Lord General shall appoint … the same to receive fair quarter, save only those officers of quality who shall surrender to mercy… . Which, if you refuse to do, you are to expect the utmost extremity of war.”

  The twentieth-century had slipped away unnoticed, dying with the breeze. On this very ground the English had killed the English, and if that had been the original summons then killing had been the intention, for “surrender to mercy” was only a hair’s breadth away from “no quarter”.

  Audley felt the sweat cold inside his buff-coat. This was what Civil War meant; brother against brother, neighbour against neighbour, north against south, you against me.

  Steyning took a pace forward, to the edge of the crumbling parapet, and pointed at the horseman. “Thy master hath shown himself to be—truly—the Beast of the Abomination … and thou art but the serpent’s tongue that spits the venom.” He paused. “I for my part shall abide by the Lord God, by true religion and by the just cause of Parliament unto my life’s end.”

  The horseman turned in a full circle, sweeping his hat to cover the Parliamentary line.

  “Then these men shall perish by thy means—as thou art prodigal of thy blood, so thou art prodigal of theirs. For God shall give you all into our hands, and we will not spare a man of you when we put you to the storm.”

  Steyning lent forward. “Then shall men say—‘Your storm—your shame; our fall —our fame’. Depar
t, thou accursed!”

  The horseman waved his plumed hat, jerked at his bridle and galloped back down the slope, the hooves throwing up gobbets of earth. As he passed between two of the Parliamentary regiments he let out a wild shrill cry—an obscene mixture of triumph and glee and menace.

  Christ! thought Audley, shocked out of his trance: he had heard the famous Confederate yell in a peaceful English valley. But maybe it was no anachronism at that, for Prince Rupert’s cavaliers and Jeb Stuart’s cavalry had ridden the same path down history into legend.

  “I hope the young bugger falls arse over tip,” said one of Strode’s officers vehemently. “He wasn’t fooling then.”

  Audley watched Mitchell struggle through the mud, praying for that very disaster. But the man and the horse had both required only the one lesson.

  “Quicker that time,” said the stopwatch man, clicking the button with his thumb and noting the time on his scenario. “But I’ll allow four extra minutes to be on the safe side.”

  A stocky young man in a loose white shirt, a curious tasselled forage cap on his head, appeared on the edge of the counterscarp where Mitchell had been. He swept off the cap and bowed to Strode.

  “Sir. The ordnance awaits your pleasure,” he said.

  “Another five minutes,” murmured the stop-watch man. “Their guns aren’t in position yet.”

  Strode nodded. “Patiently, Master Rodgers. Do thou await our signal.” He smiled again at Audley. “Billy Rodgers always likes to get off the first shot against the Malignants,” he confided.

  “We go down to the field now,” prompted the stop-watch man.

  “Gentlemen—“ Strode gestured to the left and the right “—in God’s name let us look to the ordering of the battle.”

  Audley lifted the lace at his wrist to check his illegal wristwatch. It was time at last for him to look to the ordering of his own battle too.

  He touched Strode’s arm. “Mr. Strode, I must speak to Charles Ratcliffe now—at once.”

  Strode ran his eye along the battle line. “He’s down there on the right with his regiment, Dr. Audley.”

  “But I must speak to him up here, alone.” Audley pointed along the ramparts towards the Great Bastion. “There, say— on the redoubt by the big gun.”

  Strode frowned. “The bastion’s off limits, Audley.”

  “I know. That means we won’t be disturbed. It’s vitally important I speak to him.”

  Strode looked from Audley to the battle line, then to the roped-off area of the redoubt, and finally back to Audley again. “Oh—very well, Audley. You’ve called your dogs off, so I owe you the other side of the bargain, I suppose… . Galloper!”

  The Roundhead horseman, who had remained on the counter-scarp in readiness for further orders, raised his hand in salute. “Sir!”

  Strode pointed towards the right of the line. “I pray you, carry my compliments to Colonel Ratcliffe together with this strict order: I charge him to repair with the utmost despatch on this instant to the Great Bastion, there to receive of one of my officers further intelligence concerning my will and pleasure.”

  “Sir!” The galloper wheeled away down the slope.

  Strode turned back to Audley. “But don’t keep him too long. He’s in command of the right wing, and although we’re not actually fighting today I do want him down there to see that angry brigade of his obeys orders—they’re a damned quarrelsome lot.”

  Audley saluted. “I shalln’t keep him long, sir. And then, by your leave, I shall strictly attend your grace once more upon the field of battle.”

  There was a puff of smoke and a bang from the ridge opposite. The first of the Royalist guns had been brought into action ahead of the scenario’s schedule.

  Audley put his telescope to his eye and focused on the Roundhead guns just in time to see Billy Rodgers shaking his fist first at the enemy, and then at his own general.

  Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum—

  The Royalist musketeers were advancing towards the stream, pacing themselves with their musket rests, their ammunition bandoliers dancing. Now the whole elaborate ritual of the seventeenth-century fire-fight was about to begin, with the rival sergeants intoning the long sequence of orders—“Blow off your coal”, “Cock your match”, “Guard, blow and open your pan” and so on—which preceded each volley, and which according to Strode was an enormous favourite with the watching crowds.

  Now too there was movement in the Roundhead ranks as their musketeers detached themselves to the sound of drum-and-fife—

  Tumpty-tum, tumpty-tum, tumpty-tum—

  Charlie Ratcliffe was coming up the hillside, from the right. Audley swept the telescope to the far left, where the militia regiments were lined up in the shadow of the trees, next to the guard ropes which would keep the spectators off the battlefield tomorrow.

  Superintendent Weston was watching him like a hawk.

  He snapped the telescope shut and started along the rampart towards the Great Bastion. He could just make out the top of the red powder-tent in the crater behind it.

  Red for danger.

  Tum, tum, tum-tum-tum—

  Charlie Ratcliffe was there ahead of him, scrambling up the half-ruined rampart wall with the agility of a monkey and ducking under the restraining rope.

  DANGER!

  Authorised persons only may proceed beyond this point

  Under the broad-brimmed black hat the face was shadowy, but as Audley approached him he lifted it off and shook his fair hair free in the fitful breeze.

  Fair hair, blue eyes, high colour—the English subaltern face par excellence, like a million others which stared out of group photographs on the walls of school studies and regimental messes, betraying nothing except self-confidence.

  “What’s all this then?”

  “Master Ratcliffe? Master Charles Neville Steyning-Ratcliffe? Or should I say Colonel Ratcliffe?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Colonel Hog, you might call me, if I’m to call you Colonel Ratcliffe.” Audley felt a trickle of perspiration run down the side of his face inside his cheek-guard. “Hog would be your seventeenth-century name for me.”

  “Hog?” The blue eyes were bright with intelligence, but just a shade too close together. “I see! ‘Hog’ in the seventeenth century, so presumably ‘Pig’ in the twentieth—is that it?”

  “Very good! I can see we’re going to understand each other very nicely. But I’m a special breed of Pig, just as you are an unusual variety of Rat. And we do have one or two very important things in common which should help us to understand each other.”

  “You don’t say?” A good education had taught Charlie Ratcliffe the art of being insolent without trying. “Such as what?”

  “Gold, for one thing.”

  Charlie Ratcliffe cocked his head on one side. “Do we have that in common? Well, that’s news to me. I didn’t think it was gold that pigs wallowed in, you know.”

  A sudden ragged volley of musketry burst out below them in the valley.

  “Ah! Now the battle’s starting,” murmured Audley, looking at his watch. “And not more than five minutes behind schedule, too… . Yes, gold is one thing —see those fellows down there?” He took a casual step sideways and caught Ratcliffe’s left arm in a tight grip just above the elbow. “I think it would be as well if we pretended to watch them.”

  Ratcliffe tried to move his arm, wincing as the grip bit. “You’re hurting my arm,” he said in a surprised voice.

  “Yes, I know I am. But the pain will help to concentrate your mind on what I’m saying—please don’t struggle, you’ll only hurt yourself more.”

  Charlie Ratcliffe graduated quickly from surprise to incredulity. “You’re a fucking madman—ouch!”

  “No I’m not. But I am very strong, and if you don’t relax and listen I’ll cripple you.” Audley pointed with the telescope in his free hand. “Now—see those pikemen with the blue flag? They make a brave show, don’t they?” He increased the pressure. �
�Don’t they?”

  “Yes—bloody hell!—yes.”

  “Good. First gold, as I was saying. Then treason. Then murder. And then gold again. That’s what we’ve got in common, Charlie lad.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Next time you say that I’m going to hurt you a lot, Charlie. So just look to the front and listen. What I have to say is very much in your interest, I promise you that.”

  Charlie gritted his teeth. “You have to be joking.”

  “Joking is the very last thing I’m doing. I don’t like you, lad—but I need your help. And you need mine—look to the front!”

  Charlie made the start of a sound and the first twitch of a movement, and then thought better of both. It was beginning to occur to him that if this was madness he was dealing with there might be method in it.

  “Your gold first. I know all about it, from A to Z. I know where it came from, and how it was planted—understand?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Madrid - Cartagena - Tunis - Odessa -Moscow… . Standingham.”

  Ratcliffe still managed to register a proper mystification, but he couldn’t control the muscles in his arm.

  “I know how you set up Nayler, and I know about the Dawlish letter. And about the Paris meeting, and the other little side-trips—I know about them.”

  The muscles were like whipcord now, tensed under his hand so that he had to tighten his grip to hold them.

  “And I know about Swine Brook Field —that was my old friend Tokaev I presume—and about the Ferryhill Industrial Estate … which was a very much better organised operation—the police haven’t tumbled to it, I can tell you that. And you did me a good turn there too, getting rid of that nosey Special Branch man—I’m grateful for that.”

  The musketeers’ fire-fight was reaching it’s climax, with the dead being carried away behind the clumps of pikemen to recover surreptitiously and rejoin their regiments as reinforcements. Death in the early stages of a Double R Society battle was clearly a tidy and economical business.

  “But I’m not going to bore you with what you already know, lad. Your treason doesn’t interest me any more—nor the murders you’ve ordered either. It’s my treason that interests me now—and the next killing. And my gold.”