Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles

by Michael Arnold

  It was a single, hopeful shot that punched through the hedge, whistling harmlessly across the encampment. But then it was joined by a brace more, then half a dozen, then too many to count, crackling in a sporadic volley along the enemy’s side of the deep obstacle, turning leaves and branches to flying mulch, vomiting a new, dirty smoke cloud to overwhelm the mist.

  Stryker, like many officers all the way down the Royalist line, began barking frantic orders at his men. There was no cover on the common, save a few sandy dunes, and he quickly understood that his options were limited. Fight or run.

  But they could not give up the ground so easily, for if the Parliamentarians held the flat terrain between Bude and Stratton, Hopton’s proposed attack would be over before it began, so he stepped forward, knowing that a lump of lead could burst through the hedge at any moment and hammer the life from him, and began snarling at his men to return fire. A line of wide-eyed musketeers in the red coats of Sir Edmund Mowbray shuffled up on his command, and he berated them for their sluggishness as he set about preparing his own weapon.

  Loading the cumbersome long-arm with powder, ball, and wadding may have been a slow process, but it was mercifully uncomplicated. Some drill manuals Stryker had seen would teach up to four-dozen postures, and these would often be taught ad nauseam to raw recruits, but they were designed to show the mechanical prowess of a company. In reality, when a man stood in line with his comrades and was ordered to spit very hell at the enemy, any musketeer worth his salt would know how to prepare and fire his weapon without the need for postures or drill sergeants. He would know – as a matter of pride and of instinct – how to load and prime his piece, to blow on his match till it glowed red, to pick a target and pull the trigger. Anything more complex was unnecessary, and would likely see a man finish the day in a cold pit, dusted with lime. Sure enough, the musketeers arranged to his right and left began offering regular fire. They slammed bullets straight into the hedge, never knowing if the shots found flesh, but always aware of the enemy scuttling this way and that behind the clawing curtain.

  It was a strange fight. Muskets were not accurate at the best of times, but here the redcoats could not even take aim. There was nothing for it but to level the barrel at the hedge, ease back the trigger, and hope a Parliament man was unlucky enough to be standing in the ball’s path. The odd disembodied scream told them a toll was being taken. But men fell on the Royalist side too.

  Stryker shouldered his musket, trained his eye along the length of the barrel. Blood rushed in his ears, and he felt a thick pulse appear somewhere below the broad mess of scar tissue that cast mottled shapes over the left half of his face.

  There it was. Movement. Fleeting but certain on the far side. He let the shot fly, never to know if it had found its elusive mark.

  Scores were involved now. Perhaps even hundreds. The musketeers of Devon and Cornwall pouring fire through the hedgerows in a skirmish of pure attrition. The air, so fresh just moments earlier, now stank of sulphur as more and more powder charges ignited to throw lead forth with tongues of flame. It might have been impossible to pick out a definite target through the accidental breastwork, but men died nonetheless, plucked back by shot as it shredded the dense foliage in a shower of greens and browns.

  Stryker reloaded his musket, wincing as the air felt suddenly hot beside his cheek. There was no protection here, only the hope that a ball would strike the man next to you, and Stryker tried not to flinch as more bullets spat low and high. Two hit the grass barely more than three paces away, another went clean between his legs and a fourth clanged on the billhook of a halberd wielded by a man some distance to the rear. The pole-arm skittered from the fellow’s grip, bounced as it hit the ground, and he scurried to retrieve it, only to take a musket-ball in the rump. He screamed. No one listened.

  Stryker fired his weapon, blinking quickly as his eye was spattered with grit. When his vision cleared, he saw that the huge Royalist line was falling back on the command of bawling officers. He followed suit, drawing his redcoats back so that the range was not deadly, and called for his pikemen to form up into solid blocks. They would charge the hedgerows, slash gaps through which the hard men of Cornwall would stream, and force the rebels back to their looming hill. And then they would follow, surging up the western face in their great columns, cutting the Devon army to bloody pieces and throwing the survivors into the sea.

  The Battle of Stratton had begun.

  CHAPTER 21

  Stratton, Cornwall, 16 May 1643

  On the flat summit of the formidable Parliamentarian position, Major-General James Chudleigh, de facto commander of the day’s rebel forces, listened to the distant sounds of musketry from atop his skewbald gelding. It was a surreal experience, to be positioned on the huge vantage point, surrounded by thousands of fresh troops, and clothed in full battle regalia. For the crackling exchange of fire was shrouded by mist and trees, and only a dark pall of gun smoke could be seen to pinpoint the bitter skirmish. It was like being within the battle and yet outside of it. Part of him yearned to be down below, on the unseen common, bloodying his blade as a leader should. He said as much to an aide reining in at his right hand.

  ‘There’ll be plenty opportunity for that, I fear, General,’ the aide replied dourly. ‘The enemy advances o’er the scrubland to the west.’

  Chudleigh stared at the drifting smoke. ‘We have men out there, do we not?’

  ‘Aye, sir, that we do,’ the aide agreed, ‘but not enough to hold them. Our musketeers have fought well, but the malignants deployed pikes to cut through the hedges and simply overwhelm us. The musketeers fall back even now.’

  ‘Then Hopton comes.’

  ‘He does, sir.’

  ‘It is a brave thing.’

  ‘A stupid thing, sir.’

  Chudleigh hoped so. Prayed so. His position was certainly formidable, demanding that the Royalists fight uphill, carrying pike and musket along the steep, wooded lanes to face the waiting Roundhead ranks on the summit. But the Cornish were a strange breed: one step away from savagery, and ever relishing a fight. He removed his helmet, propping it on his lap, and glanced at the aide. ‘How does Hopton proceed, Cripps?’

  Cripps pursed his lips as he totted numbers in his head. ‘Four divisions of foot, sir, each p’raps six hundred strong. A mix of pike and shot. Each appears to have a brace of brass cannon.’ He wrinkled a nose that was crooked from an adolescent break. ‘Nothing to concern us.’

  ‘Horse?’

  ‘Seems they’ll loiter in the rear. They’re useless against this hill, so one can only presume Hopton has ’em watching for Sir George.’

  Chudleigh nodded gravely. ‘Pray God my father returns swiftly.’ He twisted, saddle creaking, and scanned the land to the south and east. ‘And where is the earl, by Jesu’s wounds?’

  Cripps visibly winced. ‘I know not, sir.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Chudleigh muttered gruffly when he read the discomfort on his aide’s face. ‘You are of the Puritan thought, are you not? Then I will curtail my oaths.’

  Just then a rider Chudleigh recognized as one of Stamford’s servants spurred on to the summit from the direction of Stratton, slashing at men with his whip if they stepped into his path. The major-general wheeled his mount round to greet the newcomer. ‘My lord Stamford arrives?’

  The servant hauled his grey steed to a snorting halt, doffing his cap. ‘He will be here soon, sir. He is indisposed.’

  Chudleigh thumped a fist against the crown of his helmet, making his own mount whinny in complaint. ‘Indisposed? Christ, but he has an escort of seven-score seasoned harquebusiers. I would have them on the field.’

  The horseman grimaced. ‘It is the gout, sir.’

  Chudleigh spat. ‘A pox on that, sir.’ He patted his right thigh. ‘We all have gout.’

  ‘But he says to inform you, sir, that he will be on the field in a matter of hours.’

  ‘Hours?’ Chudleigh exclaimed incredulously. He cupped a hand to h
is ear, turning the skewbald back to face the west. ‘Do you hear that, you blithering dolt? Musket fire out on the common. The enemy advances now. Not tomorrow, not even this afternoon. Now.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Be gone with you,’ Chudleigh ordered with a derisive wave, ‘back to your gouty master. Go on! Get out of my sight, sir! Lest I hand you a musket and send you down there!’

  Lord Stamford’s servant followed Chudleigh’s outstretched finger to gaze upon the mist-smothered common where small bursts of light flared a fraction of a second at a time within the miasma. For a while he simply stared, unable to tear his gaze away from the strange scene, knowing a battle raged beneath the white blanket. But then he looked back at Chudleigh, nodded briskly, wrenched hard on his mount’s bridle, and kicked for the south-east.

  Chudleigh shook his head scornfully. ‘There is nothing for it. I will assume command.’ He bent to snatch a small flask from his saddlebag, twisted open the cap and tilted back his head to take a lingering draught. The wine, good-quality claret he had taken from Okehampton, brought instant warmth to his throat, reinvigorating him like a mythical elixir. ‘Now, let us prepare to receive these Pope-turds, eh?’

  Cripps grinned. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Fetch Northcote. I want a goodly number of his best muskets down on the low ground. Tell him to harry the enemy where they are forced to funnel into the lanes. It will be the easiest of pickings.’

  Cripps offered a crisp bow. ‘If it please you, Major-General.’

  ‘And carry a message to the rest of the staff. Tell them I want two lines across the summit, like so.’ He swept an arm from left to right, indicating a front of approximately nine hundred yards. ‘Best troops in the first; Northcote’s boys, and Merrick’s greycoats. Trained Bands to form the second line. Wouldn’t want them facing the bloody Cornish unnecessarily.’

  Lord, he thought, but he did not wish those craven bastards to face the mad Cornish at all. Northcote’s twelve-hundred-strong Devon regiment were as tough as they came, and Merrick’s greys were a useful and seasoned force. But the Trained Bands were reliable only as a reserve. He prayed they would not be needed this day.

  ‘Should I bring the men back from the north, sir?’

  Chudleigh nodded. The gentlest slope was that to the north of the hill, and he had been concerned that the enemy would somehow work their way on to that front. ‘That horse has bolted. They’re committed now. We look west.’

  ‘The ordnance, sir?’ Cripps was saying. ‘Should they remain in position?’

  Chudleigh peered down at the open grassland that swathed the upper half of the hill. At the lower part of the incline, immediately above the wooded lanes, his thirteen fieldpieces had already been positioned at regular intervals. He nodded. ‘Aye, we will leave the cannon in place. If the buggers are hardy enough to push beyond the lanes, we’ll make them a gift of iron.’ His cheek began to twitch.

  ‘No word, sir?’ Sergeant William Skellen asked of his captain as the red-coated company filed across the last of the common’s rough ground and into the first stand of trees. There were more copses along the track that took them east, becoming thicker and more frequent until, in about a hundred paces, they finally came together in a small forest. Beyond that forest, climbing towards the sliding clouds, stood Stratton Hill.

  ‘None,’ Stryker replied as he kept a rapid pace for his men to follow.

  Skellen sniffed at his side. ‘Ballocks.’

  Stryker looked up at the lanky sergeant. ‘My sentiment exactly. Mister Burton left hours ago.’

  ‘Think he’s been taken?’

  Stryker shrugged. ‘It’s daylight now. If he’s still in Stratton, he’ll be in a deal of danger.’ He slapped the butt of his musket. ‘Foolish boy.’

  ‘Maybe he came back,’ Skellen said hopefully, ‘but lost us in the fight at the common.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s in a rebel cell,’ Stryker answered sourly. ‘Nothing we can do now, Sergeant. We’re at the muster point.’

  The four Royalist infantry divisions gathered at the south and west of the hill. They could not see the summit, for the view was clogged with the leafy boughs of huge oaks and gnarled beech, but their commanders announced that they had reached the foot of the escarpment and that the rest would be akin to a morning stroll. The reality, of course, was not so simple, for rebel musketeers, repelled from the sandy common by sheer weight of numbers, had secreted themselves within the trees, moving in squads, firing from behind broad, shielding trunks. Even General Hopton’s most fresh-faced novice would know that this was to be a hard fight.

  Captain Innocent Stryker marched at the head of his company of redcoats and they, in turn, were positioned a short way behind the vanguard of the large column of pikemen and musketeers led by Sir Bevil Grenville. To their right, down towards the southern tip of the hill, Hopton himself led another column, while to their left two more began their own grim march, commanded respectively by Sir Nicholas Slanning and Sir Thomas Basset.

  ‘Shoot that fucker!’ a sallow-faced sergeant bawled somewhere ahead of Stryker. He saw a musket-wielding teenager step out of rank, prop his long-arm on a rest that he drove into the soft earth, and pick out the enemy marksman that had drawn the sergeant’s attention. The range was about forty paces, and the shot probably missed, but the Roundhead vanished into the tree line all the same.

  And then the drums began. They beat a rapid rhythm that ordered the advance, a deep thrum reverberating around the lanes of the lower part of the slope, telling the waiting rebels that the king’s men were on the march. The sound shook Stryker’s bones like a perpetual cannon blast, rolling its way up from his toes to his skull, making his chest shiver and his spine tingle and his pulse quicken. His guts churned, his eye focussed, and his hearing sharpened. He felt terrified in that moment. But, by God, he felt alive.

  Sir Bevil Grenville stepped out in front. He wore a silver-laced buff-coat, tall, black boots, and a wide-brimmed hat from which sprouted a huge feather of deepest green. He drew his big sword with a gloved hand and held it aloft for all to see, tracing tight circles with the fine tip. His gigantic manservant, Anthony Payne, was there too, ever at his side, the colonel’s own personal titan. The Cornish cheered them. They bellowed jeers at Parliament, at Puritanism, at the Earl of Stamford and at the men of Devon. They blew gently on smouldering matches, tightened spare lengths of cord that were wound around wrists and waists, and shook hands with their mates for perhaps a final time.

  And then the column rumbled forwards, contracting to squeeze into the ancient lane made dark by overlapping branches, the incline immediately growing steep. Pikes were deployed in narrow, deep columns in the sunken thoroughfare, blades scraping and snagging the light-stealing canopy, with teams of musketeers moving more rapidly along the flanks to provide protection. Stryker left the column at this point, taking a score of his redcoats with him to claw their way up the left-hand bank. They kept pace with their pikes down on the lane, ready to do battle with any who would threaten them. Still the drums hammered out their dread beat.

  Stryker gazed through the forest of pike staves, the blades of the shortest poles now level with his eye line, and saw that the opposite bank was full of men too. More musketeers scrambled like herds of mountain goats over slippery earth, tangled tree roots, and fallen branches, ever vigilant for enemies hidden up ahead. It was a mild morning, but the wind, funnelled down this unnaturally busy lane from up on the bare crest, whipped in spiteful gusts, slashing along the sunken corridors to sting eyes and dry lips, shaking the full branches and drowning out the column’s footfalls for just a moment.

  Stryker walked on, leaning into the bank to keep his footing, reassured by the sight of a giant at the column’s head and the drums’ relentless percussion. For a minute or two there was no shooting as men on both sides paused to reload, and they made reasonable progress, though still he intermittently breathed life back into the tip of his match, keeping the saltpetre-impregnated cord hot for
when it would be required.

  Shadows moved at the far end of the lane. They looked like men but moved like wraiths, drifting in and out of the half-light, grey and nebulous. Stryker bit down his anxiety, telling himself the shapes were the shadows of wind-whipped branches. But then a small flicker of light danced before one of the figures, a hovering pinprick of furious orange against the drab morn. Before Stryker could call the warning, the light flicked suddenly downwards in a tight arc, racing to what he knew would be a pan full of black powder, and a bright flash spat into the gloom.

  A corporal, down on the lane, came to a sudden halt, throwing the step of the ranks behind. He made a strange squeaking sound and swayed for a heartbeat before his left leg crumpled from under him, seemingly no longer within his control. He staggered back, crashing into the pikemen to the rear, blood showing on the white fringe of his collar. Then the other leg went too, limp and hanging, so that he collapsed in a heap like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He squeaked again, but the sound quickly deepened into a gurgle, crimson bubbles exploding past his lips as he tried to mouth final words.

  The lane erupted in noise. Eight or nine men from both banks gave fire in reply, even as the column juddered into life again, men stepping inexorably over their fallen comrade, but it was impossible to see if any of the vengeful shots had flown true. And from the top of the lane came more fire, more leaden death, as the Roundheads gave rapid reply. Bullets fell around them like rain, punching the air at their ears and splintering trees. These were not wraiths, but flesh and bone. Men who were waiting to pour their malice into the Royalist column as it climbed a lonely hill where the soil would soon be red.