by Simon Parke
‘England’s freedom, soldiers’ rights! England’s freedom, soldiers’ rights!’ they shouted.
There was the sense that day that anything could happen. Battle-hardened men felt unpaid and unvoiced and were no longer prepared to stand for it; no longer prepared to listen to their leaders, who spent their time sweet-talking with the king and sharing his anchovies and wine. So they came to Corkbush Fields to say, ‘No more!’
And now Cromwell was riding hard at them. He was riding into the troops, as if at war, riding alone into the waving muskets of his own soldiers, shouting in prayer, shouting God’s fury and swinging his sword, like one deranged. He was attacking his own men, the saints who’d marched by his side down the years. And he knew the regiment he tilted at: that of Robert Lilburne, brother of Leveller John.
‘Who will fight with me?’ yelled Cromwell, as he rode into the ranks. ‘Who will fight with me?’
This was not as it should be. The army had gathered here to sign a declaration of loyalty to Fairfax and the army leadership, who for their part had promised to take this show of unity to parliament to demand the payment owed. And most were content with this, loyal to their godly boots; but not Lilburne’s regiment, they had more political airs. They’d arrived with their own ‘Agreement of the People’ stuck on their heads – paper fliers of insurrection wedged in their hatbands. Cromwell admired neither their manner nor their dress.
‘They have paper fliers in their hats, like children at a party,’ he said to Ireton.
‘They seek to be seen.’
‘Then they have my attention; but shall not enjoy it.’
They’d chanted the Leveller slogan, ‘England’s freedom, soldiers’ rights!’ And after shouting a while, the stone-throwing began – aimed at one of Fairfax’s officers who’d approached them to reason and discuss.
‘I come in peace,’ he said.
‘He brings false peace!’ one shouted back and cast the first rock.
Fairfax was in shock. He wanted reason to rule, but Cromwell chose force – quick and determined, like in battle. And off he went, springing forward on his horse, riding straight at them, aiming at the ranks of the mutineers.
‘Oliver!’ shouted Ireton, a cavalry man himself but left stationary by the speed of Cromwell’s movement. The mutineers saw him coming and backed off, pulled away; they even broke lines to allow him through. Cromwell slowed his sweating horse and shouted at them to surrender.
‘And remove those strange agreements from your hats, you prick lice! Such frippery in your hair, you look like girls after school!’
‘We will not do so,’ shouted a leader. ‘We stand for the agreement!’
‘And I stand on the agreement! I stamp its nonsense in the mud!’
Jumping down from his horse, he seized the papers from two or three heads, held them up and then threw them down, trampling them into the Corkbush soil.
‘You speak too much with the king!’ shouted another, but it was a voice lost in the wind.
Cromwell was moving among the men, close to their faces, looking each in the eye. These were his sort, honest folk, but no matter now – like old fruit they’d gone rotten. With the officers who’d followed him, he seized eight or nine of their leaders and had them taken away under arrest.
He looked around at the remaining soldiers. Some removed the paper agreements from their hats themselves, others just stared. No one had disobeyed the general before; these were different days. Cromwell mounted his horse and returned to Fairfax.
‘This must be stopped,’ he said, by way of explanation.
‘But whether you calm them, I don’t know,’ replied Fairfax.
‘I calm them.’
And he had. The uprising was sunk like a spinning top with no spin. A sullen quiet prevailed and Cromwell acted without delay. There, in the fields of Corkbush, a court-martial trial was held in the open air, with all nine found guilty of mutiny and the three ringleaders sentenced to death.
‘We will execute only one,’ said Cromwell.
‘Only one?’ queried Ireton.
‘Just one.’
‘I see three ringleaders.’
‘Only one; let mercy reign.’
Ireton raised his eyebrows. ‘And which of them will choose their death? We may not find a volunteer.’
‘An honest man would volunteer. But if there is not one of those, then let them cast lots, as they did in the scriptures.’
The condemned men were taken to the edge of the encampment and there each selected a stone from a table. It was Private Richard Arnold who chose first, civil war veteran, Leveller agitator and former Baptist minister. He turned his stone over to discover the scratch mark none wished to see. He looked up in shock, and then defiance, while his friends were asked to leave his side.
They didn’t move at first, and Cromwell warned them: ‘Stay and you die; which is a waste not wished by God.’
With a nod of the head, Arnold let them leave. He was alone with his stone, so poorly chosen. Cromwell ordered the musketeers to raise their arms, then spoke.
‘Richard Arnold, you have been found guilty of mutiny and have chosen the marked stone. You will die by musket fire. Do you have anything to say?’
‘Charles is a man of blood and you speak with him.’
Silence. The army wanted an answer.
‘When I speak with the king, I speak not for myself but for the army and for England.’
‘What do you know of the army now, Mr Cromwell? You lord it over us these days and laugh with the king.’
‘I laugh, do I?’
‘We hear that you laugh.’
‘I did not know laughter was a sin. But I do know we are better together, Mr Arnold, whether we laugh or not. I know that only our unity will bring God’s will.’
‘There can be no peace in the land while the king lives, no peace!’ And then he started again, looking around him for support. ‘England’s freedom, soldiers’ rights! England’s freedom, soldiers’ rights! Death to the man of blood and death to all who parley with him!’
But none joined in, resolve having left the place. Richard Arnold was alone in Corkbush Fields.
‘No one wishes to fire on you,’ said Cromwell, walking a little towards him. He’d been a brave soldier and deserved an honest death. ‘But they will fire, because it is better that they do.’
‘Better for who? They kill an honest Englishman!’
‘Honest Englishmen must stand together at this time.’
‘Honest Englishmen stand for the godly and the downtrodden, for persecuted sectaries and virtuous tenants exposed to the malice of royalist landlords!’
He sounded like a pamphlet and shouted on: ‘And if only the propertied are to have the vote, then why did we fight? Why did the common soldier fight? For we return from battle with nothing but our wounds and more slavery!’
‘There must be order in the land,’ said Cromwell.
‘Without the army, these people are undone!’ shouted Arnold, shivering a little now. ‘England’s freedom, soldiers’—’
‘Fire!’ shouted Cromwell, his patience dismantled. The marked stone hit the earth before Arnold’s tortured body, which fell twisting against the table.
‘Fire!’ shouted Cromwell again, more shots aimed at the groaning man, the table pushed over and Arnold rolling back . . . until still.
Silence. Only the call of the birds and a westerly wind; but there was no more mutiny among the soldiers that year.
*
Robert Hammond was counting his blessings, like a child with an orange. How delighted he was to be away from the army and not debating politics with the wide-eyed loons now in residence there. He could not understand why Cromwell even spoke with them; you do not remove rats by feeding them. The army was changing, this was clear to Hammond: no longer the honest fellows th
ey once were. The Levellers had too much influence, republicans and democrats all, and four-square against all that true Englishmen held dear. And Robert would not countenance any of it. His days of conflict were done, and he delighted in the weight eased from his back. Instead, he listened to the seagulls, breathed in the untroubled air of the Isle of Wight . . . and remembered the old hag.
‘I see a new life beckoning,’ she’d said, after taking hold of his hand outside parliament and feeling his palm. ‘I see a new life beckoning!’ He’d made light of it, laughed at her even – she probably said it to everyone . . . but he could not help notice the truth of her words. A new life had beckoned.
He would write to his mother; he should do this more often. He’d tell her how glad he was to have retired – no, how glad he was to have acquired a civil post, away from politics, ‘for which I am not made, Mother. I fear the army will break their promises to the king and I am not so averse to his majesty – if I may confess this – for he is a good man, I believe so.’
He chose his words carefully. His mother was an Independent and no lover of Charles. Her favourites came and went, she fell out with everybody, but the king had never been admired.
I remain an Independent, as you would wish; but in favour of both the king and liberty of conscience; and certainly not of the extreme party, who batter the ears of Cromwell these days.
And generally, I seem to make a good impression on the Isle. Even Oglander, a famous royalist, yesterday called me a ‘gentleman and also the son to a gentlemen’. I do try to get on with all people.
In the meantime, Aunt Margaret sends her best wishes. I have visited her at Wolverton Hall, which is barely four miles from Carisbrooke, and I hope to see more of her in my time here; the slow life will suit me for a while.
From your dear son, of whom I trust you are proud,
Robert
He did wish her to be proud of her son.
*
The rain did not concern Charles. After three months of captivity in the palace, he was finally free from Hampton Court – a move achieved with surprising ease. He was imprecise about his destination, though he sensed that Cromwell was right.
In truth, he would have preferred to stay where he was. Hampton Court was a comfortable setting, more suited to a king than Holdenby, and he had planned to remain while his adversaries squabbled and begged for the honour of a royal smile. But then came the rumours of murder; strong rumours that could not be ignored. They’d been passed to him from more than one source – and, significantly, not denied by Mr Cromwell, who was plain and straight, if nothing else. He didn’t dislike the man.
‘We will do all we can to protect you, your majesty,’ he’d said.
‘And is that sufficient?’ asked Charles.
The rumours spoke of agitators in the army. These were common men with sudden voice and power, men who sought ‘summary justice’ against the king.
‘I cannot say,’ said Cromwell.
‘Do you know these men?’
‘We do know these men; but we perhaps do not know all their friends – or where they might be.’
‘And your meaning made plain?’
‘We will do all we can to protect your majesty. I have spoken this morning to Colonel Whalley, who commands the guard.’
‘And you were clear to him about these threats to my life?’
‘Clear as the gospel, sire. “Have care of your guard, sir,” I said, “for if such a thing were done it would be a most horrid act!”’ Charles nodded . . . more horrid for him than for Cromwell, he felt. ‘But the army that guards you here is an angry army, sire, stirred by agitators.’ Cromwell must make this clear. ‘Many feel badly towards you; I cannot dissemble. Who knows what plots exist in the minds of men?’
And that was enough; it was clearly time to take his leave, with certain plans in place. But due to haste – Firebrace was particularly flustered – no actual destination was settled upon as the king set off. He thought briefly of the whimpering Bishop, whose large eyes had looked bereft as Charles left his rooms. He had shooed him away, a little angrily perhaps, and closed the door on his pleading paws, for needs must – a cocker spaniel could hardly accompany the king on this venture. He’d be looked after when he was gone, and not punished; this was the king’s hope. They’d be kind to Bishop. Charles had never harmed anything, apart from some rabbits and deer, and he hoped that other humans were as decent as he.
These had been his thoughts as he crept down the back stairs, stairs that had never been guarded – a kind omission – and then out into the wind-thrown rain of this September evening. He was a free man for the first time in eighteen months . . . even if it was the uncertain freedom of the fugitive.
‘The king is somewhat free!’ he said to the rain, ‘though unsure as to his way.’
*
He’d get back to the palace in Whitehall, Charles was quite sure of that – back to Whitehall with his head held high. When all this silliness and nonsense was over, he would once again take walks in St James’s Park with Henrietta on his arm, king and queen together, like the old days. She plotted wonderfully from her Parisian exile, pressing Mazarin on the matter, selling the crown jewels to raise funds. She would continue the fight on his behalf . . . and then there was Jane, sweet Jane. He could always rely on her. Henrietta would like Jane.
‘Your majesty, let me cover you,’ said Legge, one of the grooms of the bedchamber and helper in the escape. He appeared out of the squall and walked alongside his majesty, trying awkwardly to cover him with his coat. But it was a wilful wind and Charles told him he was not obliged to continue.
‘I have walked in the rain before,’ he said. ‘The king is not made of clay.’
‘Certainly not of clay, sire. More like gold.’
‘They say creation sickens for the return of the king; that these days, it rains in sadness.’
‘The sadness at least masks our escape,’ said Legge, feeling that sadness must have a reason.
There were search parties behind them, no doubt. Charles thought he could hear their shouts. But Legge was a colonel in the war and moved with determination, a better soldier than housemaid and glad now of the adventure. And while the rain was severe, it did make a good shield, as Legge observed – a wet curtain as they advanced towards the village of Thames Ditton; and there, a boat was waiting on the rising water to take them across the river. Legge held it as best he could as Charles tried to climb in, but the wood was wet, not kind to the grip, and twice the boat moved just as the king’s leg was lifted, causing him to slip and curse with frustration. On one occasion Legge himself fell into the water, apologizing loudly.
‘It would help if you held the boat,’ Charles said to Legge.
‘Yes, sire,’ said Legge, in much discomfort, for the water was cold and the mud clinging. There were no shouts in the distance, though, which reassured, but no time for delay – the army would be consumed by fury. Finally they were afloat, Legge rowing hard across a strong current, carrying them upstream.
‘We’re drifting!’ said Charles. ‘You are not an oarsman, I fear.’
And then the pleasing sight – appearing through the rain on the other side – of Firebrace and Dowcett with horses.
‘God bless your majesty!’ hailed Firebrace as Legge aimed the boat towards the shore.
‘We have a journey ahead of us,’ said Charles, once he was landed. He did not like his feet being wet.
‘You spoke of Bishops Sutton in Hampshire, sire.’
‘That is certainly a consideration.’
‘Fresh horses await us there,’ said Firebrace. ‘A ride of eight hours.’
He had done his best to research the king’s wishes, but it had all been so hasty. If only he’d been given more time; he’d only received the message after luncheon, this very day.
‘Do we have a path, sire?’
‘We shall ride to Bishops Sutton,’ he said decisively. ‘And be away from there before the dawn’s exposing light.’
‘We were not able to obtain maps, sire.’
‘Follow me, Firebrace.’ A king did not need a map.
*
They were now quite lost, passing through a forest, soaked and uncertain. Charles rode a little ahead, with the distance between monarch and servants allowing for some grievances to be aired.
‘I said this would happen,’ said Dowcett.
‘You say nothing else,’ replied Firebrace, who was dismayed by Dowcett’s lack of spirit, when he had enough energy for five.
Charles, on returning to parley with them, believed the failure lay with them rather than himself. They’d travelled too far west, this was apparent; so when dawn broke, the king and his companions were not leaving Bishops Sutton with food in their bellies and fresh horses beneath them. Instead, they were in Windsor Forest – or so Charles thought.
‘I have ridden here before,’ he said. ‘In merrier times.’
‘So what are we to do?’ asked Legge, seeking an order, for he was a soldier.
At least the rain had eased a little and there was the hint of light in the east.
*
‘The search parties have found nothing, Lieutenant-General.’
The courier was in a state and Cromwell made to put the young man at ease.
‘Mr Cromwell will do. I am no longer a soldier.’
‘Mr Cromwell.’
‘And your name?’
‘Scratching, sir. Mark Scratching.’
He and Henry Ireton had heard the news at army headquarters at Windsor.
‘I imagine the search has not been helped by the rain, Soldier Scratching?’
‘Not helped by the rain, sir, no.’
Silence.
