by Dan Davis
‘This is Weaver of the Vale,’ Smith shouted at his men. ‘She is tougher than any of you. She has the power to control the very earth beneath our feet. So she can take care of herself. But if she gets hurt in any way when she’s out with us, then Cromwell will have our guts for garters. And I will personally see to it that any of you who are at fault will see the rope. Everyone understand?’
There was a chorus of grunts, ayes and snorts.
‘This one is the ugliest and meanest of them all,’ Smith pointed out a bulky, horrible man with a huge bony face under his helmet. ‘This is Sergeant Gore.’
Sergeant Gore had the tiny black eyes of an evil pig and the hands of a giant.
‘Welcome, girl,’ Sergeant Gore said, his voice like the gargling growl of a monstrous dog. When he smiled, his white teeth were like a row of fresh tombstones.
‘If I am ever away,’ Smith said. ‘Sergeant Gore will take care of you.’
‘Great,’ Weaver said.
‘We ride north,’ Smith said. ‘Form up.’
Weaver clung to Smith’s back as the troop thundered across the countryside. It was hard to see in front because Smith was in the way. Around them was mostly just fields, the dozens of hooves kicking up clods of wet earth. The horse troop liked to keep to edges of woodlands and copses and along hedgerows to help hide them from enemy eyes.
‘Not that we expect to see any Cavaliers,’ Smith said over his shoulder. ‘But if we do we want to see them first.’
Of the thirty troopers, around half rode in line in the centre of a formation and the rest spread out over a wide area but within sight of another rider. That way they could cover much more ground.
‘Are you comfortable, Weaver?’ Smith asked her.
She’d barely ever sat on a horse before. Her back ached. Her legs were sore. Her eyes watered from the wind. All she wanted to do was eat some hot dinner and go to bed. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
They cantered along an open field toward a ridge a few hundred yards away. The troopers were spread out across the field and three of the company crested the ridge, highlighted on the horizon.
Almost immediately, they wheeled their horses around and came galloping back down the line shouting. One of the men was the sergeant.
‘Cavaliers!’ Sergeant Gore yelled as he neared Captain Smith. ‘Just the other side of the ridge.’
‘So close?’ The fear in Smith’s voice made Weaver’s heart race. ‘How many?’
‘Sixty? Eighty? A full troop or near enough,’ Sergeant Gore said, his throat grinding like a sharpening wheel. ‘Sorry, sir, I wasn’t expecting them. They saw us up there, clear as day.’
‘I did not expect them, either.’ Smith raised his voice to shout to the rest. ‘We shall pull back. Carbines move up to cover our retreat.’
As Smith was speaking, a dozen horsemen crested the far hill.
‘By the Alchemist’s beard,’ Smith whispered.
‘Orders, sir?’ Gore cried.
‘Our standing orders are to withdraw from engagement where possible, Gore.’
Weaver’s heart hammered in her chest. The men up on the hill looked just like Smith’s horse troop. Some had shining metal helmets. Others had silly wide-brimmed hats. But there was something about them that worried her.
They did not seem afraid.
Even though there were barely a dozen of them, the Cavalier horsemen moved with complete confidence. They drew their carbines from holsters on their saddles and aimed down the hill.
‘Captain Smith, sir,’ Sergeant Gore shouted. ‘Give me an order.’
The Cavaliers’ carbines banged, almost as one. White puffs of smoke shot from the barrels.
Horsemen around her cried out. Some turned and galloped back. Others were pulling their own carbines from saddle holsters and riding onward. One man, right next to her got hit. Blood welled from a long graze on his head.
‘I’m shot!’ a different man cried as he galloped past clutching his shoulder. ‘I’m pulling back.’
‘My horse has been hit,’ Weaver heard someone shouting on the other side. ‘I’ll dismount and ride with you.’
Ten more horsemen appeared on the ridge and fired down towards Smith’s company. More of the Roundheads cried out while others started to return fire. It was a meagre sound compared to the Cavaliers murderous, combined fire from above.
‘We have no cover, sir, we have to pull the rest of the men back,’ Sergeant Gore said. He did not seem afraid. Just angry.
She felt Smith growl. ‘We will lose men if we don’t cover ourselves.’
‘We’ll lose men if we stay here,’ Gore pointed out.
Someone else got hit and yelled for help.
‘Attack them, Smith,’ Weaver shouted. ‘Charge. Take me toward the enemy and I’ll save you all.’
‘Quiet, girl,’ Smith shouted over his shoulder. ‘This is no game.’
Weaver couldn’t believe how stupid this Smith was. She reached back in the saddle and smacked the horse on the rump.
‘Get on,’ she shouted, as she had heard Smith doing when he wished his horse to go faster. ‘Get on!’
The horse bolted, catching Smith by surprise. ‘Whoa!’ he shouted and struggled to get his balance while the horse galloped at the enemy. Weaver shoved Smith forward as hard as she could so that he did not roll back and squash her.
‘On, on,’ Weaver cried, sticking her heels back into the horse’s flanks. ‘On, go on with you, now.’
‘Whoa!’ Captain Smith yanked on the reins. The horse was confused by the two opposite signals and swerved to the side, tossing its head.
More shots came cracking down towards them. Must have made a perfect target for the Cavaliers up there.
Because they were close to the ridge. Close enough, anyway.
‘What are you doing, girl?’ Smith shouted. ‘You have killed us both.’ He finally got control of the horse and he pulled it to a stop and yanked it around ready to gallop back to his men.
Weaver leapt off the back and fell sprawling in the mud and grass. Shots slapped into the ground near her head, spraying up flecks of black water over her.
She stuck her fists into the cold, welcoming soil and felt her power flow through her and into the ground. She felt it rumble and buckle away from her towards the ridge like a wave, spreading wider and wider the further it went from her.
When the force of her power reached it the ridge rose up, right the way along it a hundred yards wide, bucking like a horse. It threw the riders and horses back down the other side in a cloud of dirt and grass.
The earth fell down onto the ridge again, this time in a looser pile. There were no Cavaliers up there anymore.
She laughed when she saw the shock on Captain Smith’s face when he rode up beside her.
‘It... it is true,’ Smith said. ‘You truly can do it.’
His men were riding up after him. Captain Smith reached down and pulled her up behind him again.
‘After them,’ Smith cried. ‘Up the ridge. See them off.’
They crested the battered ridge. The earth was loose and the horses slipped their way up with short strides, legs sinking and stepping their knees high so that they stood shuddering and exhausted on the top.
On the other side there were dozens of Cavaliers and horse charging away across the fields in complete disarray and total panic and Captain Smith’s company bellowed in triumph at the retreating enemy.
Captain Smith grabbed her hand and held it aloft. ‘Weaver,’ he cried.
The men took up his cry, thrusting their swords and carbines into the air.
‘Weaver! Weaver! Weaver!’
All were chanting her name. All other than Sergeant Gore who stared at her with such hatred that the grin fell from her face for a moment until the Captain leaned back to speak to her.
‘I shall ask Cromwell if you can join my company permanently,’ he said.
She forgot Gore and cheered along with everyone else.
Archer’s C
ompany
Archer knelt, took the paper cartridge from his belt and gripped the lead rifle bullet at the top with his teeth. He ripped the top off with his teeth, still holding the ball in his mouth and poured the gunpowder from the cartridge down inside the rifle barrel. Then he spat the ball down inside after it, crumpled the empty cartridge paper and shoved it in too.
Archer pulled the ramrod from the holders slung under the barrel, placed it down the rifled barrel and shoved the ramrod down hard once to push the paper onto the bullet and the bullet down onto the gunpowder and then he tapped it a couple more times to pack it down tight.
He whipped out the ramrod, slung it back in place, raised the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel at the distant target and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle banged into his shoulder, hard.
‘Bullseye,’ Sergeant Jones cried, his telescope up to his one remaining eye. A black patch covered the other. ‘As if there was every any doubt.’ Jones laughed clapped Archer on the back with a heavy hand, almost knocking him over.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Archer said, staggering to his feet before Jones congratulated him any more vigorously.
‘And you’re now reloading as quick as any salty old musketeer, honest to goodness you are.’ Sergeant Jones slung a grin across his face and chuckled.
Archer had been practising shooting with Jones and the other sharpshooters in his company every evening for almost a week.
Cromwell had heard that Archer had used a bow and arrow, until the bow got broken. People in the army assumed he was named Archer by Bede, in the same way that Keeper was the keeper of the dragon and Weaver had been Bede’s weaver of cloth. But Archer was what his family had called him for years because of how much he loved shooting arrows. Since his bow had broken, he had felt like he was missing a limb. He’d go to reach for it sometimes and stop halfway, remembering he didn’t have it any more.
‘Don’t have bows and arrows, these days, Archer,’ Cromwell had said. ‘But we have the next best thing. New alchemist invention that we call a rifle. It’s just like a musket, but accurate. And it’s shorter. Lighter. Perfect, in fact, for you.’
Cromwell had handed him off to Sergeant Jones who commanded a small company of sharpshooters because they hadn’t found an officer who would take the job.
Normal musketeers in the army stood shoulder to shoulder in long lines, stood up, and fired together at the enemy musketeers. The twenty men in Sergeant Jones’ company used a new type of weapon and their job was instead to sneak close and hide and shoot at important enemy targets like officers and especially alchemists. That was why they wore green jackets and black trousers, so that they would blend in with the trees, grass and bushes that they would be hiding in during battles. The sharpshooters did not wear heavy, shiny steel helmets either but instead sported light, floppy green caps that kept their heads warm and helped to hide the shape of their heads when peering up over cover.
Every evening after the army stopped to make camp after walking a few short miles across country, the sharpshooters would set up a couple of targets at the edge of the camp and take turns in practising shooting. Two men shooting while the others cleaned their rifles and discussed techniques for improving accuracy or reloading speed.
The new weapon, the rifle, wasn’t just smaller and lighter. Spiralling grooves called rifling inside the barrel made the ball spin as it left the barrel. In fact, the ball was also special. It was more of a tube-shape with a rounded front and they called it a bullet. The spinning of that bullet made it fly straighter than any musketball ever could. Muskets could fire a ball for a distance of maybe three hundred yards but were accurate to a mere fifty, at the most. The new rifles were accurate at three hundred yards.
Added to that was the cartridge system where everything needed to fire a shot was contained in a single package which sped up reloading immensely.
‘You want to try another shot?’ Sergeant Jones asked. He and his men wore green coats, unlike the musketeers who wore red ones. ‘I know you don’t need the practice but I just like watching you shoot.’
‘As do I,’ a loud voice bellowed and Archer spun round.
It was Cromwell himself.
The great man approached on foot with a handful of officers and attendants gathered about him.
Cromwell was a big, burly fellow. Tall and broad and big-faced and with a loud, rough voice. He wore a thick coat and had a high, white collar up to his jaw. As usual, he had a battered old floppy hat shoved onto his head.
His gaggle of attendants were themselves important men. They were Captains and Generals in their own right and Archer knew their power and authority intimidated the men of the sharpshooter company.
In Cromwell’s group was the brave and clever General Ireton, solid General Skipton, the quick-thinking Colonel Okey. Watson was the master of the army Scouts, the men who ranged far and wide, even in front of the advanced horse companies.
Cromwell waved his officers back without even glancing at them and strode up to Archer and Jones. ‘How’s he doing, Sergeant?’
‘Same as always, General sir,’ Jones said, pulling off his floppy green cap. ‘Never missed the bullseye, not once in over a hundred shots fired, sir.’
Cromwell nodded his big head. ‘And how many times can your scoundrels do the same?’
‘Tom’s our best shot, as you know, General. At three hundred yards, he can hit the bullseye twice out of ten times, sometimes more. Well, the rest of the lads say that they never seen anything like Archer, sir, not even in their tall stories. Old Wicks, who was a gamekeeper, said there’s never been a sniper like Archer.’
‘Indeed? You truly are a marvel, master Archer,’ Cromwell said. ‘Come and walk with me.’ He marched away on his long legs. Archer handed his rifle to Sergeant Jones and hurried to catch up.
Cromwell walked along the avenue dividing the camp. Everywhere about, men sat round fires in their companies and battalions and regiments. Some were eating, others telling stories. Many were polishing boots or mending their kit.
‘You’ve been with us a few days now,’ Cromwell said as they walked. ‘And it seems you have already found respect among the group of the biggest ruffians and villains in this entire army, and that’s saying something. Did you know that many of the men in Sergeant Jones’ company were poachers? Criminals, in fact.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Archer said.
Cromwell had warts dotted all over his face and Archer found it hard not to stare at them.
‘And that does not bother you? Do you not feel threatened by them? Does their coarseness and violent nature not intimidate you?’ Cromwell peered down at him.
Archer barely had to think about it for a moment. ‘Well, sir, I’m more powerful than any of them. I have my powers and many of them are afraid of anything magical. It frightens them because they don’t understand it but they respect it because it has value. But they respect shooting more than anything else in the world. And because I can out-shoot any of them they sort of look up to me, even though I’m just a boy.’ It was strange but it was true, Archer thought.
Cromwell was looking at him. ‘You have a very insightful mind. I think you must enjoy understanding how other people think.’
Archer shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I recognise it in you because I am the same way,’ Cromwell said. ‘I believe it to be a trait common to leaders.’
Archer knew Cromwell was giving him a compliment and that he was building up to ask Archer for something. ‘Thank you, General.’
‘I have been thinking about how best to use you and your friends in the battle to come. So what would you say if I made you an honorary captain and gave you command of the sharpshooter company?’
‘What about Sergeant Jones?’ Archer asked.
‘A good man,’ Cromwell said. ‘Dependable. But he is a Sergeant through and through. A company need a Captain, a man to lead through inspiring courage and thinking tactically.’
<
br /> Archer scratched his chin. ‘I don’t understand. I’m just a boy. I’m not even a soldier.’
‘I had rather have a young Captain that knows what he fights for and loves what he knows, than what you call a soldier and is nothing else. And anyway, you’re a soldier if I say you’re a soldier,’ Cromwell said, quite harshly. ‘I’ll commission you as an officer and pay you the normal rate. You’re unusually young, I agree. But you do not truly believe yourself to be just a boy, do you?’
‘I have this power,’ Archer said. ‘A power that make me useful in a fight. But that doesn’t mean I know how to be an officer. A few weeks ago, I didn’t even know what an army was. I’ve only been marching with you for a week and I don’t know barely anything about how it works.’ In truth, Archer did want to be an officer. He was flattered. But he was afraid. He was not sure what he was afraid of, exactly.
Cromwell shook his head, as if he was overcome with sadness. ‘Modesty is all very well, Archer. In fact, it is most becoming in a young man when in society. But this is war. I want no false modesty from my officers here on campaign. A few honest men are better than numbers. I have been watching you and when you speak, people listen. Your friends, my soldiers, even officers. You are a leader. You know this to be true. But do you want to lead?’
Archer opened his mouth to answer but Cromwell wasn’t actually asking him to speak.
‘If you do, I am offering you the chance. You will command a small company of sharpshooters in the coming battle. It is my hope that your powers will help to protect your company. That has informed my decision but it is your character that I need. What say you?’
Archer knew there was only ever one answer he could give. ‘I say yes. Sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Very well. I give you joy of your new command.’ Cromwell seemed suddenly uninterested and spun on his heel and marched back the way that they had come. Archer hurried to catch up. ‘I have every confidence in you, Captain,’ Cromwell said. ‘But as a piece of advice, I suggest you listen to Sergeant Jones in all things. You do not need to do what he thinks you should do because the ultimate decision will be yours but Jones’ experience will make up for your inexperience. So, listen to him.’
