by Smith, Skye
"After the colonel," a lad replied, his teeth flashing white through his filthy blackened face. "He was hit in the shoulder and he is riding north across the fields. Or at least his horse is. I think the colonel is in so much pain that he isn't paying attention.” The last of this the lad said to the back of the tall captain, because the captain had said something in a strange language to his bony pony, and she had almost leaped to a run. "Wait for us," he called to the captain's back, and then he called out to his mates for them to follow.
* * * * *
The field was still not planted despite it being now June, and the weeds were enjoying it all to themselves. Between the tangle of weeds and the slippery clay mud, the footing was treacherous, er, the hoofing was treacherous. The five devil's lifeguard could not risk a pace faster than a trot so they were barely gaining on the hunched over rider in front of them. It was maddening to be so close to collecting fifty pounds each for such a simple kill, and yet to be slowed down by these stupid English fields and this stupid English weather. Hampden was obviously badly wounded, and likely couldn't even defend himself. An easy kill for a fortune in coin.
To Femke, who was also making for the solitary rider, this field was like a race course compared to the Fen's bogland she was used to. Daniel let her choose the pace, and she did not choose a trot which would sink her hoofs in, nor a canter which would risk slipping. She chose her quick step walk which was faster than a trot. With the quick step, she was light on her hoofs and never out of balance so if one hoof slipped it was but an instant before another took the weight. Meanwhile Daniel was planning out how he would deal with five seasoned German cavalryers by himself until the dozen dragoons who were following him could catch up and help.
Whatever else he did, he must keep John alive. A few months ago Lord Brooke had died somewhere to the north of here, and that had been a hard blow to the good ol' cause. Losing Hampden would be an even harder blow to the cause. At the current angles and speeds the best he could hope for was to reach John but a moment before the first of the cavalryers, that is, if nothing changed. It was a race too close to call, and yet he did not want to hurry Femke too much, because one false step by her could cost John his life.
Though he carried a sabre as a symbol of his rank, compared to these high born Bohemians he was crap with a sabre. If it came to hand to hand fighting, he would use his French hache, the short handled halberd that was part axe, part spear, and part hook. And of course he would have his double barreled dragon in his left hand. That went without saying. He could likely hold up three men with that combination, but five? Not bloody likely.
Due to the merging angles, Daniel now realized that he was closer to the cavalryers, across the field than either he or they were to Hampden ahead. With one hand he reached back behind his saddle and flipped the thong off his carbine. The devils were still two hundred yards from him, but that distance was closing all the time, and his was not just any carbine, but a rifled carbine and so its aimed range was about 150 yards. He opened the pan cover and made sure there was flash powder in it, and then closed the cover and twisted the gun sideways to ensure there was powder in the vent.
"Femke," he called out as he patted her shoulder to get her attention. "Still," he told her. She first stopped, and then stood absolutely still. Not a twitch, not a shake did she make until the gun sounded, and then she set off at pace again. Stopping to aim the shot had cost him ten yards, but it had cost the cavalryers a horse, for the lead horse had stumbled over the musket ball in her fore shoulder and had gone down. That rider waved the others on. "Four," he counted to himself.
The cavalryers now realized that he was a real threat, so three of the four turned and came to intercept him, while one kept his course directly towards Hampden. They all looked so confident. And why not? Three sabres against just him. Two of them stopped and waited for him directly in his path, while another hung back to come at him from his left side. Daniel had his dragon in his left hand, and his hache in his right, but now he switched them. At the last moment he told Femke to leap left, and she did so, and from saddle height he blew dragons breath into the faces of the two horses and two riders who were blocking his way, and then lashed out with the spiked hook of his hache so that it dug deeply into the shoulder of the third horse.
The damn thing dug in so deep that it wouldn't come out, and for a moment he had no defense against the swinging cut of the man's sabre. Fortunately, the man was right handed and had to cross the sabre over to his left side to slash at Daniel, and by the time he did that, Daniel had slipped his hand out of the wrist loop of the hache and left it behind still buried in the horseflesh. Even so he had to duck over and down the other side of his saddle so the sabre's swing was broken by the saddle rather than by his flesh.
Femke leaped and changed course again to get around the two blinded horses that were now violently misbehaving, and that leap took Daniel out of sabre reach. As he cocked the second flint dog of his dragon, he twisted around in the saddle to keep an eye on the men Femke was leaving behind. The third horse was trying to reach his imbedded hache with her teeth and was walking around and around in tight circles and ignoring the rider's protests. Why didn't the bugger just help her and pull the damn thing out.
"One," Daniel counted to himself as he hurried Femke on. But they were too late. As their two courses merged just shy of Hampden, the remaining cavalryer was fully in the lead, and he had his sabre raised ready to cleave Hampden's head from his body. Where was Hampden's helmet? Why wasn't he wearing it?
Daniel could have fired the second barrel of his dragon, the small pistol barrel, at the horses ass that was just ahead of Femke's nose, but he feared doing so because on that aim the muzzle would be right next to Femke's ear. Instead he aimed at the man's sword hand, and missed. Frantically he reached for his other pistol to try again, but then Femke took a hand, or rather a mouthful, for she leaped forward with her neck fully extended and bit down hard on the ass of the horse in front.
The horse kicked back at her which bucked the rider a bit, and though the slash of his sabre had been intended for Hampden's neck, instead it hit his back armour and glanced off. Daniel dropped his empty dragon into the mud so that he could use both hands to get his other pistol ready to fire.
Having missed with the sabre slash the cavalryer over shot Hampden and had to pull his horse up and wheel her sharply so that he could try again. This time he flipped up his visor so that he could see all around. Daniel changed his aim from the horses eye to the man's eye and fired. He missed. The pistol ball ricocheted harmlessly off the curve of the man's polished black chest armour. He had been a fool to try such an aim on a moving horse because the slightest change in aim at the muzzle could mean a miss of a foot, even at such close range..
With a cry of frustration, Daniel threw the pistol at the man's face, which won him just enough time to put a hand on the hilt of his own sabre, but not enough time to draw it. The devil's sabre was raised ready to slash, but now not at Hampden's neck, but at his. All he could do to defend himself was to duck down the opposite side of the saddle and try to use Femke or the saddle as a shield.
Femke wasn't having any of that. When she saw the sabre swinging down on her, she reared up, and stretched her neck, and bit the wrist holding it. Bit it and wouldn't let go, which meant that the man's arm and sabre went backwards as he went forwards, and he shrieked out in pain as either his wrist or his elbow or his shoulder was dislocated. Whichever it was, he tumbled sideways and backwards out of the saddle and hit the ground hard.
Daniel now stopped and looked around to take notice of the situation. The man on the ground wasn't moving. Hampden's horse was still moving at a steady gait as if nothing had happened, and Hampden hadn't even looked around. Of the four other cavalryers, three were riding away to the west. This because the dozen dragoon lads had almost caught up to him. With no threat close by, he told Femke to catch up to the horse ahead of them.
* * * * *
Ha
mpden seemed not to be fully conscious but he had not fallen out of the saddle, not yet. To stop his horse required Femke to move close alongside while Daniel reached out and grabbed her bridle. Strangely, the slumped over rider did not begin to fall out of the saddle until his mare was standing still, but that forced Daniel to strain his own bad back by twisting around and reaching to steady him. By this time, two of the lads had caught up. The rest were still dealing with the two cavalryers who were not racing west to rejoin their prince.
One of the lads called out, "Be careful with the colonel. He took a nasty hit in the shoulder."
"Not his shoulder, lad," Daniel replied. "Come and climb up behind him and hold him steady. We have to get him to the barber back at Thame, and fast.” The lad was wise enough to stretch out from horse to horse to climb aboard behind his hero. "Hold him still. He's loosing a lot of blood so I have to tie a tourniquet around his arm before we do anything else. Oye, you," he said to the other lad. "Come and keep his bloody horse still.” Bloody was the literal truth because the flank of the horse was drenched in Hampden's blood.
The lad dismounted and took the bridle from him, and then stood in stony silence looking at Hampden's right hand. It looked like a pound of raw meat with a few fingers sticking out of it. The lad looked all the world like he was going to lose his stomach. Daniel found his silk scarf in his saddle bag and then wrapped it tight, and then tighter around the stricken man's forearm until the blood stopped spurting and just oozed, slowly. He handed the free end of the scarf to the lad sitting behind the saddle, and then forced the injured arm to bend upwards while the lad adjusted the free end of the scarf to take the weight of it. Hampden was as white as the scarf, either from shock, or loss of blood, or both.
"It's a wonder he didn't fall," Daniel told the lads. "I wonder where this horse was taking him. It took me some convincing to get her to stop."
The lads were both locals. "His daughter, Anne Pye, lives just over there at Pyrton Manor," the lad holding the bridle said while pointing. "The horse could have been raised there, and was taking him home. You know how smart horses can be, sometimes, when they are being stubborn."
"Tell me about it," Daniel said with a smirk as he patted Femke's neck. A call made him turn. Two more lads had arrived and one of them was carrying the various bits of gear he had dropped along the way, including his carbine, two pistols, and his hache. He took them from him and stored them away. The rest of the lads were now arriving and were leading two lame horses carrying two dead bodies.
"Should we shoot these horses and put them out of their misery?" one of the lads called out.
"Of course not. We need them to carry their saddles and their owners back to Thame," Daniel called back. "Even as lame as they are, they should make it all the way. It's only about seven miles, and we won't be riding fast. We can't, not with the colonel so badly hurt."
It took them precious hours to reach Thame, and every step of the way Daniel expected Hampden's lungs or heart to stop. They took him directly to his billet, rather than to the army hospital, because the army hospital was overflowing with men suffering from the typhos. The wife of the fine house was the mother of the local physician, and she immediately sent to the hospital for her son, and then busied the other women of her household with the task of feeding the lads who had brought John home.
While all of this was going on, Daniel had two of the lads carefully strip John of armour and clothing and then lay him out on some clean linen spread over the dining room table. All Daniel could do was give the orders for his own back was aching. He had chosen this table rather than a bed because it stood high and under a bright window. The job of cleansing the wound would need good daylight.
The wife came in and clucked about wishing he would wait until her son arrived, but there was much to be done, and Daniel saw no reason not to get as much cleansing done as possible while John was still unconscious. The wife was getting in the way, so he sent her away to prepare some pig-liver-and-blood soup. Shortly after that he heard the high shrieks of a frightened pig, and then a thunk, followed by silence. By the time the physician, Master Delafield, arrived back at his home Daniel had carefully pulled out the longest of the slivers and shards, and had cleaned off the black soot from the wound so he could see the smaller shards.
"What a mess," Delafield groaned. "What happened?"
"His own pistol blew up in his hand," Daniel replied.
"I am the local physician, not an army barber-surgeon. This is work for the barber. If the hand must come off, then all of your cleansing will be time wasted."
Daniel gave him a hard stare. "Let's clean it first so we can see what we are dealing with. If it is beyond saving, then we can call in the butcher, er, barber." Hampden stirred. "Do you have any poppy juice? He's waking up. It would be better if he slept through the cleansing and stitching."
"Don't let them take my hand," John whispered hoarsely one word at a time. "I need it for my writing. Promise me."
"Shush now and keep still, John," Delafield told him. "We will save it if we can."
It occurred to Daniel that these two men probably knew each other quite well, for they were of similar ages and had likely gone to school together. That would explain why John was billeted in this grand house and not at Essex's headquarters. While Delafield prepared the poppy juice, his mother came in with the first small batch of the liver-blood soup. She lifted John's head up on a pillow and began the slow process cooling spoonful by spoonful and feeding it to him. There was nothing like salty liver soup to restore a man who had lost too much blood.
June's high sun was low on the horizon before the bleeding stopped but Daniel still wasn't satisfied that the wound was clean of metal and wood shards, bits of leather from his glove, soot and other filth. His greatest fear was not the bits he could see to clean out, but the bits he could not see. The flesh of the hand was a pulpy mess and he feared to probe too deeply because of all of the fine muscles and joints that made up a hand. His back was killing him, so he had to get Delafield to finish the cleanse.
Delafield finished the cleaning and then applied his potions and ointments. The plan was to leave the wound covered with salve overnight, but not bound in bandages. After propping the injured arm up on pillows, the physician tied Hampden down so that he could not twist and turn and injure his hand. "The women of the house can keep watch on him and wake me if it begins to bleed again." he told Daniel. "My mother says that you can use John's bed if you want to stay the night."
* * * * *
The morning brought a barber-surgeon who was most eager to cut off John's hand before gangrene had a chance to set in. With him came Captain Crosse, Colonel Stapleton, and Lord General Essex. John wasn't much up to company as he was in excruciating pain. Delafield had just opened his wounds again to allow the blood to flush the wound once more before it was closed with stitches. Essex was actually pleased to see Daniel and said as much, which put Daniel on immediate guard. What did this scheming earl want of him now?
"It seems that I must release you from house arrest," Essex told him. "These came for you from Robert Rich," and he handed Daniel a document pipe.
Daniel looked at the addressing on the pipe, and at the broken seal, then looked querulously at Essex, but the general just shrugged. Of course he would read anything that came from his lifelong competitor the Earl of Warwick, especially now that he was the Lord Admiral of the fleet. "So what does Rich say?" Daniel asked to save himself a lot of reading of formal Frenchified English, with all of its long words and clumsy phrasing.
"That he has already signed the document for your appointment in Bermuda," Essex said politely, "and that you can swear your oath to John Hampden, who can then add the second signature which is required under Company rules."
Daniel pulled out the scrolls and looked at the date on them. "This is dated a month ago."
"The mail is slow these days," Essex said dismissively.
Daniel didn't argue, although military dispatches t
ook only a day to come from London. There was nothing to be gained by accusing Essex of intercepting, reading, and holding his mail from him. The deed was done, and the obvious reason for Essex to be handing them to him now, was that he wanted rid of him, and not just away from his officers but away from the kingdom. "Thank you sir," he said in what he hoped was a humble tone rather than an angry one.
Essex took the papers from him, thumbed through them to the oath, and said, "I don't see any reason why this all can't be completed right now. John, are you listening. The captain is about to give his oath to be an officer in one of your company's colonies."
John nodded that he was listening so Daniel began to recite the oath. Only afterwards did the embarrassment hit all of the men present. How was John supposed to sign the papers with his right hand so crippled?
"Sign it with your left hand, John," Essex told him. "I will witness it as being your mark.” He put the inked plume into John's left hand, held the paper steady for him on the back of a serving tray, and pointed to where he was to sign.
With tremendous effort, John passed the plume to his two undamaged right fingers and slowly signed the paper. The effort was because every twitch of his right hand was agony for him. When he was finished, Essex pulled back the tray and looked at the signature. There was more blood on the signature than ink. He carefully took the plume back, dipped it into the ink, and signed the paper in witness that it was indeed John Hampden's mark. As he passed the paper to Daniel he remarked ruefully, "That is the only paper signed in the last three years that holds the signatures of both earls, Warwick and Essex."
Meanwhile John had swooned so Delafield wanted the room cleared. Essex took Daniel by the arm and pulled him forcibly from the room with him. "I want you out of my camp before noon," the general told him. "Understood?"
As Daniel watched Essex and Stapleton leave the house, Crosse asked him, "What was all that about?"
"It's a long story," Daniel mumbled. "Let's just say that the performance of your green dragoons yesterday against the cream of the king's army may cause some complaints from Rupert. The usual complaint - common lads being allowed to fight against gentlemen. I was under house arrest in part to appease Rupert after I fired grape at his gentlemen at Reading. Now the general may have to explain how it was that a man under house arrest took part in the action at Chalgrove. He needs to be able to deny it, which means that I must be gone from here, long gone, far gone." And then in a quieter voice, "or shot while escaping."
