The Battersea Barricades: A Chronicles of St Mary's Short Story

by Jodi Taylor

  We stood before the outer gatehouse. The gates were open, the portcullises were up and people were flooding in. I’m not sure how formidable it was supposed to be – take it from me, some of the gun loops were in some very odd positions, but today it was the very epitome of welcoming hospitality. Some sort of high-ranking servant greeted everyone as they entered. Once through the outer gatehouse, however, a selection process kicked in. Stewards ushered people according to their rank. Top people – which we were not – were taken through the Pitched Court, into the Fountain Court, and from there across the bridge and into the great tower – the hexagonal Yellow Tower of Gwent – there to listen to music, partake of refreshments and watch events from the private apartments overlooking the moat.

  Not us, though. There was the usual appraising but slightly puzzled look as we approached. No matter how flawless our costumes and hair, we never look quite right. We’re out of our own time and it shows.

  The middling sort – good enough to be allowed in but not good enough to be allowed all the way in – were being politely directed off to the left to find the access to the moat walk. We were obviously the middling sort. And believe me, that’s a big step up for some of us.

  The place was full of chattering, excited people, all looking forward to having a good nose around. Most people were dressed almost as we were, so top marks to Wardrobe again, although I noticed no one else was in pink. Sorry – rose. I estimated several hundred people altogether but scattered over a large area. Most of them seemed more interested in the formal gardens, the orchards and fish ponds, even the deer park. We, however, had Lingoss, who more than made up for any local apathy in the steam-engine department.

  She was gazing up at the Great Tower. ‘That’s where the engine is. But we can’t see it from here. We need to go further round.’

  At some point, they’d built a broad, gravelled walkway around the moat, easily wide enough for the three of us to walk together but, tactfully, I hung back a little, pretending to admire … something or other. I assumed this was a place for the ladies to exercise on the days when they lacked the strength to walk the hundred or so yards to the formal gardens. As if to reinforce my argument, benches were set against the wall in the sun, presumably to alleviate feminine fatigue, although I knew better than to mention this. Niches had been built into the walls to hold what I thought an excessive number of naked statues. No wonder the ladies had to rest so frequently. I couldn’t help noticing that either the models had posed on very cold days or the masculine form had evolved somewhat over the last four hundred years. I didn’t mention that, either.

  The day was very warm and sunny and it was even warmer and sunnier down here. We strolled slowly – actually, in these clothes we had very little choice, admiring the fish swimming lazily through some of the dirtiest water I’d ever seen. The Yellow Tower of Gwent loomed high before us – and ‘loomed’ was exactly the right word for it, connected to the castle proper by an arched bridge. We could hear the sound of music and laughter coming from within. Everyone seemed in a really happy mood.

  Especially Lingoss, staring in rapture at some sort of contraption affixed to the tower’s outer wall. ‘There,’ she said in great excitement. ‘There it is. Attached to the wall by the bridge. Can you see it?’

  Of course we could see it. You couldn’t miss it. I’d seen steam-pumps before, but usually the free-standing models. The sort that nod or pump or whatever, but this was a strangely vertical affair. A giant tank with vertical pipes running in and out had been set directly into the wall. A pile of rubble and broken bricks lay on the ground around it. I wondered what his dad had had to say about that. I don’t think it had structurally weakened the wall any, but what father wants his kid hacking great holes into a load-bearing wall? That sort of thing doesn’t go down well with most parents. A vast pile of wood lay nearby – to feed the engine, I assumed.

  It was a lot bigger than I thought it would be and, to my non-R&D eye, looked like a giant tuning fork attached to an immersion heater. I decided not to mention that, either.

  She didn’t wait to be asked how it worked. ‘They let steam into a sealed chamber, which then cools and creates a vacuum. This opens a valve connected to that pipe there, which pumps the water up from the moat into the empty chamber.’

  We stood politely, pretending to listen. In fact, Peterson went one step further, nodding thoughtfully every other sentence. Always a sign that senior managers haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.

  She surged on. ‘The valve closes and then they let in more steam which forces the water through another valve and into the second pipe and the pressure sends it up into the air. They reckoned the jet was about forty feet high and terrified the wits out of everyone.’

  She beamed in eager anticipation of this happy event.

  Peterson was palming his recorder, getting the establishing shots Miss Lingoss had forgotten in her excitement.

  ‘Can we get any closer?’ was obviously her next question.

  ‘Well, we can try,’ said Peterson, taking her arm and as he did so, I became aware of growing dissent in the ranks behind us.

  Despite their pleasant surroundings, congenial colleagues, no siege weapons present, a lack of cholera and so on, North and Sykes had still managed to find something to argue about. I tuned in reluctantly. As was appropriate, given that the family would support Charles I in the upcoming Civil War it would seem they’d got on to the Divine Right of Kings.

  ‘He was anointed, cried North, with what was, for her, unusual emotion. ‘You can’t anoint a king with holy oil and then say, well yes, we know you’ve been selected by God, but actually Parliament says you can’t do that. Or that. Or that. And we won’t let you do that, either.’

  ‘Parliament was the voice of the people,’ contended Sykes, unarguably one of the people. ‘And they said God and the law were more important than the king.’

  ‘The king represented God and the law.’

  ‘And should therefore abide by it.’

  I tried to intervene. ‘Will you two keep your voices down.’

  And indeed, they were beginning to attract unwanted attention. This was a hotly debated topic throughout the country – but not in public. You never knew who might be listening. In our case – half the county by the looks of it. Although to be fair, I think it was the fact they were women with opinions rather than the opinions themselves.

  North was unwilling to let it go. She gestured around. ‘Well, thanks to Parliament, all this will be gone in a few years. The castle will be slighted, the gardens and orchards destroyed. And not just here at Raglan …’

  ‘The consequences of being on the losing side,’ countered Sykes.

  ‘It wasn’t the losing side. Everyone hated the Commonwealth; the monarchy was restored almost the second Cromwell died and no one’s trusted Parliament to rule without a monarch ever since.’

  This was going too far. Discussions of the future within earshot of contemporaries was strictly forbidden.

  Peterson wheeled around. ‘Nobody minds you having opinions. You just don’t have them here. Understood?’

  They stopped dead. For Peterson to bollock anyone was a rare event. For Peterson to bollock anyone in public was unheard of. I didn’t blame him though. They’d never have dared open their mouths if Max had been here.

  For the maintenance of harmony, I told Evans to take them away and keep an eye on them. ‘Any nonsense from either of them – shoot them,’ I added, making sure they could hear every word.

  They departed – each ostentatiously ignoring the other.

  It would appear that while some, distrustful of all this new-fangled technology, were keeping their distance, there were other hardier and braver souls prepared to risk a closer look. Ancestors of R&D perhaps. More people were assembling and Miss Lingoss began to fret we’d miss something, so we gently elbowed our way to the front.

  I stayed behind them, watching their backs. There was a lot of excited chatte
r and pointing, and not all of it from Lingoss. The engine seemed set up and ready to go. Three men, grubby and wet, were fussing around and peering at things. One of them must be Lord Herbert. The dirtiest one, I guessed.

  Once, when I was a little kid, I saw a steam train. It chuffed into Paddington Station with a great roar, steam belching everywhere, tooting its whistle and I thought it was wonderful. I still haven’t given up hope of being an engine driver one day – but mostly, I remember the smell. Hot metal, hot coal, hot water. That was exactly what I was smelling now and the memories came flooding back. I could hear a faint hissing sound coming from the contraption, but it was nowhere near as impressive as the steam-engine at Paddington. I was actually rather disappointed. Still, give it a couple of hundred years …

  Something was happening. I could see heads turning to look up towards the bridge that connected the tower to the rest of the castle.

  Slowly people stopped talking and looked. Even Lingoss stopped talking and looked.

  I leaned forwards to speak to Peterson. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  He nodded and I stepped back and called up Evans. ‘Mr Evans?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘It’s all about to kick off here. What are you doing?’

  ‘Watching the newcomers approach, sir. There’s a party of six to eight men, all dressed in black. Very sombre. They’re all on foot so probably local. They’re walking straight in as if they own the place. There’s a castle official approaching. Several officials, in fact. It’s all very formal. No one’s taken their hats off. They’re being whisked straight into the castle – no messing. You should be able to catch sight of them appearing on the bridge at any moment now.’

  ‘Stay with them if you can, Mr Evans.’

  They hadn’t yet appeared but we could hear them. Their loud, harsh voices seemed very much out of place in this elegant setting. These would be the Protestant inspectors, insisting on carrying out their check for illegal weapons and determined not to be overawed by their surroundings. They didn’t know it, but they were in for a bit of a shock. And serve them right. Why would they choose today unless it was an attempt to embarrass the Somersets? If that was indeed their aim then it was about to backfire spectacularly.

  I couldn’t help wondering what constituted an illegal weapon. This was a castle, for heaven’s sake. There must be any number of cannon, pikes, muskets, longbows, and swords all over the place. It’s what castles are for.

  Heads were turning and hats were doffed. This must be Henry Somerset himself, Earl of Worcester, wearing dark red and escorted by just enough of his household to impress without being ostentatious. He walked very slowly across the bridge, doing an excellent impersonation of a man reluctant to leave his guests, but doing his duty nevertheless. He paused on the bridge to lean over and exchange a few words with the man I had assumed to be his son, Lord Herbert, as he fiddled with his engine ten feet or so below him. And then, having made them wait just long enough, he approached the little posse of black-clad spoilsports waiting on the bridge.

  I looked at the people around. All conversation had stopped. Fear was written on every face. These were treacherous times. The battle lines were not yet drawn, but all across the country, sides were being chosen. This was a Royalist stronghold. Both the earl and his son would declare for the king. Did those around us wonder if being here today would tar them with the same brush? It occurred to me that only we knew why the Protestant delegation was here. For everyone else it was just an unpleasant reminder that the harsh realities of the world never really go away. No matter how pleasant the surroundings, the real world has a nasty habit of intruding.

  Things were moving, however. Lord Herbert, sensibly clad in brown and not pink, was fussing around his engine and issuing a series of instructions. His assistants sprang into action. I suspected they’d been waiting for this moment. That the earl had somehow known in advance of the delegation and decided to give them a front row seat for the demonstration of his son’s water-commanding engine. Naughty, but understandable.

  Herbert shouted. Something hissed. A man shouted back. The hissing noise increased. Like a herd of St Mary’s swans. Lord Herbert raised his arm.

  A shiver of excitement and apprehension ran through the crowd. I didn’t blame them. Lingoss was craning her neck for a better view, although, apart from the thirty feet of scummy water between us and them, she couldn’t have been any closer.

  Lord Herbert lowered his arm. Someone shouted. The two men heaved on some sort of lever and a great roaring cloud of white steam belched into the air. Women screamed. I think some men did as well.

  Evans and I had read contemporary accounts in which they’d described the sound ‘as if all the devils in hell had risen up’ and that was exactly what it sounded like. I don’t know if a valve had stuck, if it was a safety feature – rather unlikely I thought in these pre-health and safety days – or whether it was intentional, but a hideous, ear-splitting, shrieking whistle echoed across the moat, reverberating from wall to wall in this enclosed space, causing people to cover their ears, scream all over again, drop to the ground or try to run away. With a massive clanking noise, the pipes attached to the wall rattled so violently I thought they would come away, possibly bringing part of the wall down with them.

  For long seconds, nothing happened – except for ‘all the devils of hell’ giving it what for, of course – and then, with a mighty gurgling, gargling whoosh, a great jet of water leaped out of the pipe, high into the air. Higher than the tower itself. A beautiful fountain of water, dark against the sky. Although that was probably because of the colour of the water. I was pretty sure they were pumping almost neat fish shit.

  Beautiful or not, it hung for a moment, reflecting the light from the sun, and then cascaded downwards to splash back into the moat again. The fish fled. The smell of stagnant water was awful. The noise was worse. Somewhere over there, the Protestants, probably having no clue what was going on, were fleeing for their lives. Over here, people were milling around in a dreadful panic, knocking into one another in their efforts to get out of the way. I was being buffeted on all sides.

  It was time.

  I took a deep breath, put my hand in the small of Lingoss’s back and pushed. As gently as I could. It didn’t take much. She teetered on the edge for a moment, arms flailing and then, with a scream that was lost in the shriek of the steam-engine, she fell some ten feet down into the moat, hitting the water with the most enormous splash and disappearing almost immediately, dragged down by the weight of her massive skirt.

  Yes, yes, I know, but in my own defence, my plan was for Peterson to jump in and rescue her. I was waiting for him to be the hero of the hour. I thought he’d pull her out to general acclaim and admiration. Especially from Lingoss.

  Nothing happened. I turned to where he’d been standing, all ready to hold his hat and boots while he did heroic things, and he wasn’t there.

  What?

  I spun around and around. The bastard had disappeared. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I’d pushed Lingoss into the moat so he could save her and the bastard wasn’t here.

  And now we were in big trouble because normally when this sort of thing happens the trapped air causes a person’s skirt to balloon up around them, which acts as a kind of flotation device, but Lingoss had fallen in head first and the weight of all her clothes was dragging her down.

  I’d really got this wrong. Lingoss was sinking like a brick. Peterson definitely didn’t need another dead girlfriend. And I didn’t even want to contemplate what would happen to me if anything happened to Lingoss.

  Men were calling to each other and women were screaming all over again.

  Peering down into the water I could just make out a sodden ball of pale silk below the surface. She was sinking fast. Oh God – I’d killed Lingoss.

  I still couldn’t see Peterson anywhere and I had to do something fast. I ripped off my stupid hat, kicked off my boots and jumped in.

 
As I hit the water, I realised it would have been a good idea to have taken off my cloak as well, because it was soaked in a moment. The weight was dragging me down as well, wrapping itself around me and impeding my every move. Why anyone would choose to wear such bloody stupid clothes was beyond me.

  Fortunately, it was loosely laced at my throat and I was able to pull it up over my head. Unfortunately, that took a few seconds and by the time I could see again, Lingoss had completely disappeared.

  People were shouting and pointing to where she’d gone under. No one was leaping in to assist. Perhaps people in this age couldn’t swim. I took a deep breath and dived down into the cold, dark water.

  I found her almost immediately. Some portion of her clothing swirled past me and I grabbed it. She was struggling like a maniac – or drowning, as she later described it – and not helping me at all. Her struggles were pulling us both down. It occurred to me she probably didn’t know which way up she was. I took a firmer hold of her skirt and yanked three times. She got the message – bright girl, our Lingoss – and ceased trying to drown the pair of us.

  I tugged again and felt her arm brush mine. I grabbed hold and kicked out towards the light.

  My head broke water almost immediately. We hadn’t actually been that deep, but it took me an age to disentangle her dress so I could get her head above water. I scrabbled away at the wet fabric with one hand, trying to keep us both afloat with the other and, eventually, she emerged from a cocoon of wet material, coughing and gasping for breath. Her hair was plastered to her face and blood was running sluggishly from a small cut over one eye. I tried to clear her mouth and nose of weed and she began to struggle again. I guessed her legs were entangled and she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said, not very helpfully, but she got the message. ‘Just put your hand on my shoulder. I’ll keep us both afloat.’

  She did as she was told and the two of us bobbed gently in the pond scum. And now I had a problem. The moat wasn’t that deep, but the water level was some ten feet below the walkway. Looking around, I couldn’t see any steps of any kind. I had no idea how I was going to get her out. We were going to need a rope and a great deal of assistance and I couldn’t hang on much longer. Her dress was so heavy she was pulling us both under. And, even though they’d shut down the water-commanding engine, a fine, damp, parasite-laden mist from the fountain was falling upon us the whole time. Because we weren’t wet enough, were we?