The Beating of His Wings

by Paul Hoffman

  The first five days of the seven-day tour went well. Cale’s presence – away from anywhere dangerous – was a tonic for the troops far beyond expectations. It continued to be a great success right up until the moment when it turned into an appalling disaster – one that was set to deliver absolute victory into the hands of the Redeemers by means of the deaths of Cale and Vague Henri on the same day.

  To avoid an unseasonably heavy storm coming down from the north, Vague Henri had halted the train. Unfortunately the same storm had also threatened a large expeditionary column of Redeemers, who had decided to avoid it by turning for the safety of their own lines. It was this coincidence of circumstances that brought a force of some fifteen hundred Redeemers, chosen to go this far because of their skill and experience, to blunder into Vague Henri’s unready wagon-train which, big as it was, had only some six hundred soldiers. Worse than that, many of them were not so skilled and experienced: Vague Henri had made the mistake, pressed as he always was for time, of handing the choice of soldiers over to someone too easily bribed to allow persons of rank and influence (already the New Model Army was falling into bad habits) to buy the great status offered by being able to boast they had served with the Exterminating Angel himself.

  Vague Henri immediately ordered the wagons circled. As soon as Cale emerged to investigate the noise he spent five minutes looking over the Redeemers, who were putting themselves in order about eight hundred yards away, and told Vague Henri to stop.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That small lake there.’ It was a tarn about three hundred yards away. ‘Form a semi-circle against the lake shore, same size as here – then with the wagons left over form another semi-circle inside.’

  Vague Henri was able to catch the wagons still on the move so there was no delay putting the horses back in harness or digging up the pegs used to fasten the wheels firmly to the ground. The Redeemer in charge realized that now was a good time to attack but he was a cautious man and delayed too long, wary of being drawn into a mysteriously cunning trap. By the time he decided to move, the New Model Army formation was in place, the horses being uncoupled and the wheels hammered.

  The central question for both sides was the same and neither knew the answer. Was help on the way? Vague Henri had sent out four riders for help as soon as he saw the Redeemers. For the Redeemers the question was whether they’d caught all of them. Without help or extraordinary luck it was only a question of time before they overran the stockade – unless they’d failed to catch all of the New Model Army riders. If so, help might be on the way eventually. Even then they were in a good position, with odds of better than two to one in their favour. They were also in a better position than they knew, given that half the soldiers in the wagon-train were made up of inexperienced administrators of one kind or another. Cale, more than anyone, believed in the importance of good administrators but not here and not now. It took about twenty minutes for Cale and Vague Henri to realize that they were not being protected by the engine of violence they’d worked so hard to create.

  ‘This is your fault,’ said Cale.

  ‘Put me on trial when it’s over.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you know you’re going to die here.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘Now you’re worrying about me? It’s a bit late.’

  ‘Stop whining.’

  There was a bad-tempered silence – then they got on with it.

  ‘We need height,’ said Cale.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We need a platform in the middle of that,’ he said, pointing at the small semi-circle of wagons. ‘It doesn’t need to be more than about six feet up – but we’ll need room for twenty crossbowmen and as many loaders as you can. The Redeemers are going to break through the first wall so we’ve got to turn the space between the two into a slaughterhouse – that’s all I can think of to keep them back.’

  Vague Henri looked around, working out what he would use to build the tower and protect it. It would succeed up to a point. It wouldn’t make much difference if all his riders had been stopped.

  ‘You look terrible,’ he said to Cale.

  In fact he could barely stand. ‘I need to sleep.’

  ‘What about that stuff Sister Wray gave you?’

  ‘She said it could kill me.’

  ‘What? And they’re not going to?’

  Cale laughed. ‘Not if they know it’s me. I’m probably all right.’

  ‘But they don’t know it’s you.’

  ‘It might buy us time if they did.’

  ‘Too clever.’

  ‘Probably. I’ll sleep on it. Sort out the experienced men and divide them into the good and the better. Of the best I’ll need seven groups of ten. Put the weakest in the first group of wagons and wake me an hour before you think the Redeemers are going to break in. Now walk me slowly to my carriage so they don’t see their Exterminating Angel fall over on his face.’

  On the way, a terrified-looking quartermaster walked over to them and reported there had been a mistake with the boxes of villainous saltpetre used to charge the handguns. Three-quarters of their supply turned out to be bacon, which was packed in identical crates. The quartermaster was surprised to be calmly dismissed. There was a reason.

  ‘This is your fault,’ said Vague Henri to Cale.

  It was true, it was Cale’s fault – months before he’d realized they were spending a fortune and huge amounts of time making crates of every different size and shape for their supplies, so he’d standardized them. A simple but clever idea promised to destroy them all.

  Cale had expected he might, if he was lucky, get two or three hours. Vague Henri woke him after seven. It always took him a couple of minutes to become wakeful in any way but he could see immediately that there was something different about Vague Henri. More than Kleist, and very much more than Cale, he’d always retained something of the boy about him. Not now, though. There was no point in delaying so he took the tiny packet of Phedra and Morphine out of his drawer and poured the dose straight into his mouth. Sister Wray’s dire warnings whispered in his ear. But she’d given it to him because she knew there would be days like this.

  Cale followed Vague Henri outside. In the hours he’d been asleep hell had arrived. All the wagons in the first wall were in a terrible state – walls broken, wheels smashed; half were pulled to the ground by Redeemer ropes and six of them were on fire. In the inner semi-circle the dead and the wounded lay in ragged lines of around two hundred – and though there were screams, mostly it was the horrible silence of those in the kind of pain that was going to kill. And yet Cale could see Vague Henri had preserved the line without using two hundred of the most skilled and experienced. Cale looked directly at him and Vague Henri stared back: something, something had changed.

  ‘What you’ve managed here,’ said Cale, ‘not even I could have done it.’ If they ever praised each other, which was rare, it was always with an edge of mockery. But not this time. Vague Henri felt the effect of this praise as deeply as it was possible to be affected by the deep admiration of someone you love. A short silence. ‘A pity,’ said Cale, ‘you let it happen in the first place.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pity,’ replied Vague Henri, ‘that because of your stupid boxes we’re all going to die.’

  The first wall of wagons was still holding, if not for much longer – already the Redeemers were pulling at the burning wrecks. Cale thought he had about ten minutes. He shouted the fresh troops forward and gathered them in their prearranged groups of seven.

  He gave them, of course, the speech he’d stolen from the library in the Sanctuary.

  ‘What’s the name of this place?’ he asked.

  ‘Saint Crispin’s Tarn,’ said one of the soldiers.

  ‘Well, he that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will strip his sleeves and show his scars and say “These wounds I had at Crispin’s Tarn.” And then he’ll tell what feats he did that day. Then shall our names be as famili
ar in the mouths of everyone as household words from this day to the ending of the world. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.’

  Cale did not make the usual offer to let any man go who did not wish to fight – no one that day was going anywhere. One day his trick speech would fail to work but not today. ‘Each one of you,’ he shouted, and the drug was beginning to do its work, his voice was strong and carried above the noise behind, ‘belongs to a group of seven named after the days of the week because I’ve not had the time and the privilege to know you better. But each one of you is now responsible for whether the future lives or dies. Keep your shields touching. I want you close enough to smell each other’s breath. Don’t lag behind, don’t charge ahead – that’s the style I want and the spirit. You know the calls – listen as well as I know you can fight and you’ll do well.’

  He stood forward and pointed to either side of the semi-circle.

  ‘Monday there. Sunday at the far end. Everyone in order in between.’ He waved at them to go.

  Vague Henri meanwhile had gathered up the remaining weakest fighters and now led them forward to reinforce the wagons not on fire.

  A few minutes more of the tug-of-war with the burning wagons and then they collapsed; the Redeemers pulled what was hooked to their chains back and away to leave what now looked like gaps in a row of broken teeth. Vague Henri had just enough time to return and enter the small semi-circle in front of the tarn and organize his crossbowmen on the stumpy ragged tower of earth and stones and wood.

  Five minutes and then the first Redeemers entered through the largest gap to Cale’s left. Now he could feel the poison pumping in his veins – not real strength or courage but jumpy, edgy and overstrung. But it would have to do. He realized his judgement was twitchy too; part of him wanted to rush the Redeemers in the breach and fight. Vague Henri had been instructed to save what remained of their failing supply of crossbow bolts and only try to hit the centenars. The centenars dressed exactly like other Redeemers for precisely this reason but Vague Henri could tell them even through the smoke. One went down, hit in the stomach, and then another.

  ‘Wednesday!’ called out Cale. ‘Walk on!’ They moved forward in a line – the Redeemers waited – clear now for them what attitude to take.

  ‘That’ll do!’ called out Cale and the Wednesdays stopped, leaving the Redeemers confused – they’d expected to defend the breach but they were being encouraged in. This wasn’t right. Cale raised his left hand to Vague Henri and five bolts from his overstrungs encouraged the Redeemers to do the right thing – or the wrong one – and advance.

  However bad things looked for the wagon-train, the Redeemers were worried too. It had taken them too long to get this far. With such odds they’d expected to overrun the wagons and be on their way before reinforcements came. They knew that if they’d got all the New Model Army outriders they had all the time in the world. But they couldn’t be sure. So, fearing they were pressed for time, they moved past the wagons and into the half circle.

  ‘Tuesdays!’ shouted Cale. ‘Come by! Come by! Quickly. Quickly.’ The Tuesdays moved forward, the left edge slightly faster, taking the group in an anti-clockwise move to seal the space to the Redeemer right. ‘Thursdays! Away to me! Quickly!’ The Thursdays moved anti-clockwise and blocked the moving Redeemers from spreading to their right. The replacement centenars would have withdrawn at this to the breach but they’d been told to push on.

  ‘Alleluia! Alleluia!’ they screamed and hit the New Model Army lines of shields with their own – here it was mostly cut and shove and the crash of sword and mallet against shield with everyone trying to get in a blow without being caught themselves. But the problem was that the Redeemers were by far the better soldiers in an open fight and it was telling much quicker than Cale had hoped. But he’d planned for it – hoping to stall them here to get time for reinforcements to arrive – if they were on their way. But too soon his men were beginning to fall back. Cale, in his fifteen-year-old pomp, would have used the rest of the days of the week to support the retreat back to the semi-circle around the tarn. He would have seen that he’d got it wrong and backed away in as good order as was possible. The only reason he was able to take to the fight was because of Sister Wray’s drugs – but she would have seen almost immediately that he was reacting badly: his face was flushed, his pulse racing and his eyes like pin-holes. Seeing the three days of the week were being pushed back and about to collapse he raced forward, picked up a hideous looking poleaxe from a wounded soldier and grabbed a short mallet abandoned in the ground then burst through the line of the Wednesdays and launched himself into the astonished Redeemers.

  Wide-mouthed the dogfish loves to swim

  The fishes go in fear of him

  Filled with rage and drug-powered to insanity, Cale lashed at the Redeemers around him with the blunt-toothed poleaxe – a thug’s weapon wielded by a thug with savage handiness and utmost craziness: brutal the crushing insults to teeth and to faces, blunt the breaking of scalps and of fingers, the splintering of knees and elbows. His hammer to their chests caused their hearts to stop as they stood, shattered spines and cheekbones; he hammered ribcages, fractured bones, legs tore, noses burst. Even Redeemers were stunned at the violence – and then the discouraged of the New Model Army, seeing the madman who’d come to their rescue, rushed to his aid and startled their betters as if they were taunted by Cale’s delirious poison, unhinged by the blood and the shit smells and the horror.

  Now more Redeemers poured in from behind but made things worse as their panicking comrades tried to escape the mad-infected counter-attack. Cale was stepping on the wounded living to get in his blows on the retreating enemy. He was in such a mania that he’d have been a terror holding a baby’s rattle in either hand. The drug released in a flood the pent-up anger against the men falling back in front of him – the whining and begging of men who were dying and the crowing and gloating of his men at his shoulders – these are the signals and the sounds of a battle, the terror and pain and the singular rapture.

  The Redeemer advance collapsed and but for one centenar, who kept his head and pulled away men who were standing like stumps to be slaughtered, they might have had a blow hard enough to make them leave. As they retreated Cale had to be held back from following – lucky for him, as once in the open beyond the outer rim of wagons he’d have been killed. No drug would have helped him there. The leader of the Fridays managed to hold Cale in the kind of grip possessed only by a six and a half foot tall former blacksmith. He held him back long enough for Vague Henri to arrive and talk him back to the semi-circle in front of the tarn. Now it was dark and as Vague Henri gave Cale over to a field doctor, with whispered advice about a medicine that had gone wrong, he tried to work out how to cover the breach.

  Had the Redeemers attacked the same point again they would have been through in a few minutes but they were, understandably, amazed at what had happened and, believing the New Model Army had found some berserk mercenaries, decided that they should try a different approach. For the next two hours they attempted an attack on the outer perimeter with the intention of setting all the wagons on fire and then pulling the burnt remainder out of the way to give them a clear line of assault to the semi-circle backed onto the lake. Vague Henri held them off until two hours past midnight and then ordered the survivors to retreat to the tarn and watch the Redeemer engineers pull the outer perimeter apart. At four in the morning the last attack began.

  The Redeemers gathered on the inside of the perimeter and sang: Alleeeeluuuueeeeaaaa!

  Alleeeeluuuueeeeaaaa! Lit from behind by the red embers of the burnt-out wagons they looked like some monstrously armed choir from hell. To the left, other Redeemer soldiers began to sing.

  Death and judgement, heaven and hell.

  The last four things on which we dwell.

  To the right:

  Faith of our fathers, living still we will be true to the
etill death.

  In a harrowing way it was beautiful – though that thought never crossed the fearful minds of those watching and listening.

  Brought back to the wagons in front of the tarn, Cale had been taken to the tent for the wounded behind the stumpy tower built by Vague Henri. His mind seemed a little clearer but his body below the waist was shaking uncontrollably in a way that looked faintly ridiculous. Vague Henri told the doctor what he’d taken.

  ‘Give him something to calm him down.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ said the surgeon. ‘You shouldn’t be mixing these drugs – it’s not safe. As you can see, you can’t tell what’ll happen.’

  ‘Well,’ said Vague Henri, ‘I can tell you what’ll happen if you don’t get him into a condition to fight.’

  It was hard to argue with this so the surgeon gave him Valerian and Poppy in a dose large enough to put down the former blacksmith who was now standing over Cale in case he made a run for it.

  ‘How long to see if it works?’

  ‘If I told you I’d be a liar,’ said the surgeon.

  Vague Henri squatted down in front of Cale, who was shaking all over and breathing in and out in short bursts.

  ‘Only fight when you’re ready. Understood?’

  Cale nodded between shakes and breaths and Vague Henri walked out of the tent knowing this was likely to be his last night on earth and feeling all of two years old. He climbed up the makeshift hump in the middle of the semi-circle – tower was too grand a word for it – and exchanged a few words with the fifteen crossbowmen and their loaders. Then he turned to the rest of the men – his men – at the barricades. He thought that at this time of all times they deserved the truth.