Cromwell's Blessing

by Peter Ransley

  ‘He is?’

  ‘And his men. They vote.’

  ‘Vote?’

  ‘It’s what they do in Parliament, sir, I believe. They all decide what they want to do.’

  I stared at him suspiciously. Not a muscle in his face moved. The surge of hope gave way to scepticism and the scepticism to anger. I had been made a fool of too often: by my father, by Scogman. I winced as I remembered the whores shrieking with laughter when I took money to Scogman’s starving family.

  ‘Are you lying?’ I said curtly.

  ‘No, sir.’

  He stared back at me defiantly, without a trace of his shifty, hangdog air. Outside the church hall Sergeant Potter was looking around for stragglers. Probably there was something in Scogman’s story – a few men who had some religious fervour, mixed with many more deserters, who were seeking plunder they had hidden during the war. A tailor. Votes. I kneed my horse forward. Scogman rode in front of me, blocking my way. His hand went halfway to his hat in an act of deference, but returned to his saddle without completing it. The leaves in his hat glinted like metal in the sun. His voice shook, but only slightly. He never raised it.

  ‘You think I’m a rogue. Quite right. And why shouldn’t I be? I was pressed into the army, like most of the foot. Scum, as Sergeant Potter reminds us. In other words, the poor. Anyone with goods worth less than five pounds was pressed. I had five pounds eight shillings, but I had stolen it. If I’d declared it, I would have been hanged. The army or the hangman – some choice. After one battle I deserted, but it was worse being a civilian than a soldier. I took a dead cavalry man’s name, trade and horse and enlisted. At least I didn’t have to carry my bloody pack.’

  He gazed round at the wheat growing near the splintered trees, and the bleached bones.

  ‘Before the war I never knew anything but the whorehouses of Bankside. Now I’ve seen all this. I never heard anything before but thieves’ cant. Now I’ve heard people like you talk of a better world. We’re not clever, sir, like you. But we’re not fools. Ireland, troop movements: we knew something was going on. We didn’t know what but we’ve seen enough, these five years, not just to sit on our arses and wait until we were pressed again.’

  He clicked at his horse and began to ride downhill. I caught up with him. ‘You said the five hundred men are waiting for George Joyce. Where is Joyce?’

  He studied me for a moment. ‘Not far away. Waiting for Will and what’s left of the men when the regiment has been culled.’

  Listed as a deserter, Scogman had no desire to get too close to Sergeant Potter and turned away before we reached the town. He shouted after me.

  ‘I nearly forgot.’

  He pressed a paper into my hand. I knew what the setting meant immediately, for I had printed enough of them in my days with Mr Black. It was an ordinance, one indemnifying troops from normally illegal acts they had carried out during the war.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Sir Lewis’s study. I thought it might be useful.’

  ‘Why? What does it say?’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought it looked important enough, with enough big words to contain some really big lies. You tell me.’

  He rode away, but not before I caught a hungry look, part awed, part angry, at the document, staring at something he could not steal. I had been so taken aback by his fluency on the hill that a fact I would normally have assumed came as a shock to me. He could not read.

  17

  Colonel Wallace was calling upon God to bless their enterprise against the Irish rebels when I squeezed between the troopers standing at the back of the hall. The sight of me checked him in the reading of a psalm and he glanced towards Sergeant Potter. Will, who was sitting at the front, twisted round. From the look on his face he could not decide whether I was friend or enemy.

  Colonel Wallace recovered quickly. He had a sonorous voice. His illness had left him with skin the colour of a tallow candle and this, with his long, whitening hair, gave him the look of a prophet.

  ‘The Irish papists have strung their bows – but your weapons will rain down burning coals upon these forces of Antichrist, brimstone and scorching winds. Such is the draught the Lord brews for them. Amen.’

  The amens rippled round the dingy hall with varying degrees of fervour. Bennet, the marksman, was louder than the rest. Knowles, the shoemaker, had his eyes tightly shut, his hands clasped in fervour. I knew, from the letters I had written for him, that he was desperate to get home to his sick wife and children, but at that moment his mind looked full of burning coals and brimstone. Most muttered routinely, heads bowed.

  Colonel Wallace was sitting at a table, on which were several leather bags. His black riding cloak, edged with fur, was hanging on the wall behind him. I remembered it from Sir Lewis’s waiting room. Colonel Wallace was the visitor he had not wished me to see. He was effusive in his greeting.

  ‘Major Stonehouse, welcome back. You are volunteering for Ireland?’

  ‘No, sir. I wish to speak against it.’

  Sergeant Potter sat up, ramrod straight. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Point of order. Matter closed, as per last meeting. Sir.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘Quite. Thank you, Sergeant. I regret, Major, there can be no further discussion.’

  ‘I fear there were irregularities in the voting, Colonel.’

  Wallace frowned. ‘Irregularities?’

  ‘I have a list of them!’ Will rose to his feet, holding up the paper he had shown me.

  ‘I am sorry. The matter is closed. Please sit down.’

  Neither of us moved. A man was coughing, struggling to stop. The paper shook in Will’s hand. It was the only movement in the hall. Dull red spots formed on Colonel Wallace’s sallow cheeks. He spoke very quietly.

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen. That is an order.’

  Sergeant Potter moved down the aisle. He looked as if he had been waiting all his life to lay his hands on me.

  Nearby, Knowles gazed at the paper trembling in Will’s hand. He knew his name was on it. He was the man in debt, Sergeant Potter having threatened he would face prison unless he agreed to go to Ireland, although, probably, the debt was covered by his overdue pay. His stare shifted from the paper to me, a confused mixture of hope and despair on his face, which strengthened my resolve.

  ‘If you prefer it, Colonel, I am happy to refer the complaints to the Army Council,’ I said.

  The Council was at Saffron Walden, less than an hour’s ride away. Wallace looked not so much at me as at the falcon on my signet ring. It was not my words that made Colonel Wallace hesitate. Lord Stonehouse, with his direct link to Cromwell, still had influence with the Army Council. But it was a measure of how tenuous that influence had become that Wallace deliberated for so long before answering. Just as before the start of the war, people agonised over which side they were on – or over which side would win. At last, curtly, he told me to speak.

  ‘Sir, Parliament decided every man who has fought for it should be free to choose whether or no to go to Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some here have been pressed.’

  ‘Name them.’

  Knowles looked terrified that I would name him and he would be hauled before the Colonel for debt.

  ‘Would it not be quicker and fairer, sir, to take the vote again?’

  ‘Name one man, Major, who has been pressed.’

  Gunpowder Bromley rose to his feet, shaking. He got his curious name because, in civilian life, he was a Saltpetre Man, scraping off the top layer of dung-soaked soil from pigeon-houses and stables, rich in the nitre used to make gunpowder.

  ‘I was ill, not present at the vote, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Questioned after – put down his mark and took the shilling, sir,’ Potter said.

  It was the age-old device for pressing men – getting them drunk and pressing a shilling in their hands as payment to agree to serve.

  ‘Is this your mark, Bromley?’ Colonel Wallace held up a list of
names, by the side of which were scrawled signatures and crosses. Bromley first denied it, then, under Sergeant Potter’s wrathful gaze, conceded it might be.

  Colonel Wallace sighed. He held up a pamphlet that contained pictures of the Irish washing their hands in the blood of Protestant women and killing their children. I knew it well, for I had had a hand in it. It came from the earlier rebellion before the war, when Parliament believed the King had a secret deal with the Irish Catholics. I believed it then, but after five years of war I knew how little such pictures had to do with the truth.

  ‘Put it this way, Bromley,’ Colonel Wallace said. ‘Do you want the murderous papists to continue sticking innocent Protestant babies on the end of their pikes?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Bromley.

  ‘Good. Sit down.’

  Bromley dropped back into his seat. Bennet slapped him on the back. ‘Good lad! You’re coming with me to kill the Irish sods.’

  Nobody else moved. Colonel Wallace had opened one of the leather bags. The men were fixated by the gleam and rattle of money on the table. It was their pay, long overdue. But Colonel Wallace handled it as if it was his largesse. The money my father had raised was about to do its job. Over half the men would march for the port to Ireland. The rest would shortly join streams of other soldiers going home. In a matter of weeks the New Model Army, which Cromwell had built up to be the most powerful war machine in Europe, would be broken up.

  Will and I looked helplessly at one another. My anger turned on the men. Scogman had said they were not fools, but that was exactly what I felt they were. He was the exception. They would never speak up for themselves. They were dumb. Dumb animals prepared to be driven to the slaughter. I pushed my way towards the door.

  ‘Sir.’

  Kenwick, the son of a stationer, as quiet as he was stubborn, stood up. He was not down for Ireland, but for discharge. Wallace paused in putting down a small pile of coins. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t want the money –’

  ‘Well, I daresay somebody else will have it,’ said Wallace genially.

  There was a burst of laughter. ‘I don’t want it if it means I will end up in court.’

  ‘Court? Have you committed a crime?’

  Kenwick told him that with two other soldiers he had been ordered to break into a house where a wanted Royalist was thought to be hiding. They had not found the Royalist, but had injured the householder, who was threatening to charge them with assault and burglary. There was a murmur round the room. Many soldiers were in the same position and, even greater than the desire for money, was the fear of being imprisoned, or even hanged, following similar accusations.

  I remembered the paper Scogman had taken from Sir Lewis’s study and pulled it out while Colonel Wallace reassured Kenwick that Parliament, in its wisdom, had declared an indemnity on such acts.

  I found the paper on indemnities. ‘The ordinance has not yet become law, Colonel.’

  ‘It will be law. Before these men leave.’

  I looked at the dates. He was right. The men’s eyes were returning to the money again when, as I was sitting, folding the ordinance away, my eye was caught by a Latin phrase. Parliamentary draughtsmen always put something in Latin when they wished to bury it. For the first time in my life I blessed the teacher who had beaten Latin into me. The Colonel was dividing up the money, very amiable now, and Bennet declaring it was time for a drink, the time-honoured celebration of pay day, when I rose to my feet again.

  ‘With your permission, Colonel …’

  Colonel Wallace gave me a weary, indulgent smile. ‘What is it now, Major?’

  ‘May I ask Kenwick a question?’

  ‘If you must,’ the Colonel said drily. ‘I do not wish to be reported to the Army Council.’

  More laughter and drumming of the feet as I turned to Kenwick. ‘When were you ordered to break into this house?’

  ‘March, sir.’

  ‘March this year?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This was long after the King had given himself up and the war was over?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but some Royalists went on fighting and –’

  ‘All right, Kenwick,’ Colonel Wallace interjected, beginning to lose patience again. ‘Is there a point in all this, Major?’

  ‘You will find it at the bottom of page two, Colonel. This ordinance only indemnifies soldiers committing illegal acts in tempore et loco belli.’

  The soldiers became still again. Many of them saw something supernatural in these pages of hieroglyphics; they were right, in the sense that such incomprehensible ordinances often determined their fates. And this was magic on an even higher plane – words they not only could not read, but could not hear.

  ‘Under conditions of war,’ I said. ‘This indemnity does not cover Kenwick and the others, for they broke into the house in what the law will call peace.’

  The soldiers understood that all right. To a man, they wanted their money, but they feared the lack of indemnity more. Living off the land, hated by the country people who had been forced to give free quarter, almost every soldier in that hall had either stolen or been wrongly accused of it. Some of the accusations, like horse theft, were felonies that could see them hanged.

  I saw something else, or the lack of it, in the ordinance. It had been shabbily drafted in haste, not so much to protect the soldiers but to get rid of them so Holles could take over the country. There was no provision for the King to sign it. What happened if he was enthroned again, with the right to veto, and dismissed it? I said as much, finding my voice, full of bitterness that these men who had fought for so long for Parliament could be so cheated by it. They were not getting their full pay. There was nothing for the injured. This indemnity was not worth the paper it was written on.

  It was astonishing how the men, so compliant one moment, were so full of anger the next. Someone tried to snatch the ordinance from my hand. Another spat on it.

  Colonel Wallace said something to Sergeant Potter, but it was drowned in the uproar of voices. Potter plunged towards me, but he was stopped by men firing questions.

  Men were pressing round the table, where Colonel Wallace stumbled and almost fell. Money rolled on to the floor, soldiers scrambling after it. I shouted to them to stop but they grabbed at it like starving men after food.

  ‘See to the Colonel,’ I snapped at Sergeant Potter. ‘Bennet … Maddox … put that money back. If you take that money you are accepting the conditions of the indemnity.’ They dropped the coins as if they were tainted by plague. ‘May I suggest, Colonel, the men for Ireland stay in the hall and I remove the rest.’

  ‘You are inciting these men to mutiny, Major.’

  ‘I am trying to prevent disorder.’

  ‘Mutiny is a capital offence.’

  ‘So is consorting with wanted Royalists like my father.’

  He went white and snatched up his cane. I thought he was going to strike me. A band of men surrounded Sergeant Potter. He pushed one away but another picked up a chair.

  ‘Sergeant Potter!’ The Colonel rapped his cane repeatedly on the floor. ‘Assemble the men for Ireland in this hall. All the rest line up outside with Major Stonehouse.’

  ‘Out!’ I shouted. ‘Kenwick … Harvey. At the double.’

  Bromley, the Saltpetre Man whom Sergeant Potter had pressed into going to Ireland, was wandering about looking dazed, not knowing which group to join.

  ‘You want to be back in London, don’t you, Bromley, scraping shit off the pigeon lofts?’

  His face lit up. ‘Yes, sir. I miss my pigeons.’

  ‘Outside.’

  I ushered him and a stream of other men through the door. The ones I knew were legitimately on the Irish list I sent back. Most would desert after what they had heard. Holles’s strategy for demolishing the New Model, at least so far as this regiment was concerned, was in tatters.

  ‘I will not forget this.’ Colonel Wallace’s voice sounded in my ear. ‘Neither will he.�
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  I followed his gaze. Halfway down the hill, where they had stopped their horses, looking down on the assembling soldiers, were Stalker and Sir Lewis Challoner. Even at that distance, I could feel the malevolence in his gaze.

  I turned away, almost bumping into Bennet on his way out. ‘You’re Ireland,’ I said. ‘You want to kill some murdering papists.’

  ‘I want indemnity,’ he said. I could believe it, from some of the things I suspected him to have done. ‘And it looks as if it will be more interesting serving you.’ There was a gleam in his eye I did not like.

  ‘You are not serving me,’ I said coldly. ‘Colonel Wallace is in charge of this regiment.’

  He looked past me at the assembling soldiers. ‘Is he?’

  I looked round. Dressing the soldiers smartly into line was a fresh-faced man with round, chubby cheeks who turned out to be older than me, but who looked as if he had barely left school. From his cornet’s insignia, I took him to be George Joyce. With him was Scogman, his hat at a jaunty angle. Wearing a dark brown fustian jacket, walking restlessly up and down, hands clasped behind his back as if he was about to review the troops, was the apprentice who had succeeded me at Mr Black’s, Nehemiah.

  18

  Ever since I had left London, even when I had been trussed up like a chicken at Byford Hall, I had felt responsible for my actions. Now I had the curious feeling of being handled like a puppet. I could sense the strings, although I had no idea who the puppet master might be.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said to Nehemiah.

  He looked put out to see me. ‘I might say the same of you.’

  ‘This is my regiment.’

  ‘Ah. I had forgotten,’ he said, with an eloquent glance at my signet ring.

  As well as printing pamphlets for the London Levellers, he produced some of the soldiers’ petitions. It was during the delivery of these that the crisis had developed, and he was coordinating action between the soldiers and the Levellers.

  ‘Then we are on the same side,’ I said.

  His lips quivered. His stammer was returning. ‘I … h-hope so,’ he replied. It was only months since he had run away from Mr Black’s, but it seemed like years. It was like looking at myself when I had broken my bond. He was of the streets, sharp, cautious, suspicious; even here looking behind his back.