Red Man

by Andrew Wareham

  “Two nights, host. I have business in town tomorrow that means I would not be able to make a full day of travel, so best to stay the extra night. Then back on the road, quietly, towards London.”

  “Sixty miles to London town, sir. A long day’s travel and tiring indeed for the horses. Better to overnight in Watford, sir. The roads are cut up so by the many using them, sir, ‘tis wiser far to take a journey slowly.”

  Micah could accept that advice. He was in no hurry.

  “Has there been trouble in the county, landlord? You talk of men frightened their houses may be burned about their ears.”

  “As you might say, sir, though not exactly so as yet, but there be some wild and wilful talk to be heard of late of what the King’s people will do to traitors to His Royal Majesty. I’m sure I don’t know, sir!”

  It was clear which side the landlord espoused.

  “Be you a soldier, sir?”

  “I am, lately a lieutenant of Colonel Knighton’s Regiment and off to seek employment more properly in London.”

  It was a sufficiently vague statement that the landlord could make what he wished of it.

  “I fought in the King’s army against the villainous Scots, landlord.”

  That sounded uncompromisingly loyal, until the auditor analysed the words – a trick the landlord chose not to perform. His guests were in the right, as long as they paid their bills.

  Micah produced a crown piece and laid it on the counter.

  “Five shillings against the rooms and meals for myself and my man, host. We can discuss extras when it comes time to go. It the weather breaks, we might well stay another night or two – I have no wish to catch the miseries riding in the rain, and there are clouds showing in the west just now.”

  The landlord would expect to charge no more than fourteen pence for rooms and board for master and man for a night, was very willing to scoop up a coachwheel in advance. He hoped it might just rain for the rest of the week.

  “Can you recommend a gunsmith to me, host? My man thinks a fowling piece would make sense if we are to be out in the field.”

  There were two in the town, the one far lesser to the other.

  “Master Wenlock has a name for his barrels, sir. Many of the gentry of the county would rather come to him than go to London for their sporting guns. Down the road two hundred paces, sir, then left towards the river and you will find his shop on the right, with a sign bearing his name upon it.”

  The shop was typical of the trade, the windows small and heavily barred against thieves. Walking in through the open door, seeing it to have chains and bolts for safety at night, Micah came to a pair of large rooms with an open archway to workshops at the rear. There were racks against the back wall and an apprentice stood at a counter. There was an older man perched on a stool to the side, a short-barrelled scatter gun close to hand.

  “A flintlock fowling piece, sir? Certainly, sir. We have four you might wish to consider unless you want to wait a month or so for a pair to be made up to your measurements.”

  Micah did not have the time to spare, he regretted.

  “We have barrels more suitable for deer or other large game, sir, as well.”

  There was no game larger than a deer in England. The apprentice was implying that the guns were in fact military muskets.

  “May I see?”

  The young man pointed to a rack containing the familiar Dutch-made muskets, identical to those he had confiscated in Stamford.

  “That is a forty-two inch barrel, is it not?”

  “Sufficiently long for the powder to burn completely, sir, provided the mix is correct, sir.”

  “Have you ball?”

  “Cast in lead, sir. A windage of a bare one-tenth part of an inch, sir.”

  “Very good. We might wish to discuss the price of a brace.”

  The apprentice called for his master to deal with matters of money.

  The master gunsmith was a Puritan, consciously dressed in the plainest of clothes with steel buckles to his shoes rather than gold or pinchbeck and with no colour to the doublet he had assumed to speak to his customer. He presented a picture in black and white, marred only by his cheeks, bright scarlet from years of working over a forge.

  “It is thy wish to purchase two of the flintlocks, Master?”

  “I am Lieutenant Micah Slater, Master Gunsmith. I am bound for the wars, I believe, and wish to carry one musket and have the other available to the hand of my soldier-servant. We are to strike our blows on behalf of the congregation of saints assembled, sir, to lend our small help to those who would defy the Antichrist in all of its wicked doings.”

  Micah reflected that Pastor Doddington would have been proud of him – his words could have come from any of the divine’s sermons.

  “Hallelujah, brother! Your words come as music to my unworthy ears, as manna to my lips!”

  A fraction excessive, Micah thought, but essentially the result he had desired.

  “Brother Slater, I shall tell thee true that I paid thirteen shillings and fourpence for these Dutch pieces. They are yours for that sum. The powder cost me four shillings more. Ball was cast in my own forge and cost me nothing other than my labour and a few pennies for the lead, and that I must give thee free of charge, for every man should give of his hands for the great cause.”

  “Thirty shillings and eightpence, Master Gunsmith. Allow me to count that sum into your hands, sir.”

  They discussed the many failings of the King for a few minutes and regretted that the Papist Archbishop Laud had not yet followed his tool Strafford to the headsman’s block, shaking their heads sadly.

  “I must leave thee, sir, much though I have enjoyed our discourse. You will have seen I carry only a short sword at my side. I wish, if it may be possible, to discover a sword cutler and purchase a blade more suited for the press of battle.”

  “The boy shall lead thee, Brother Slater, to the premises of the godliest of those who pursue the trade in Bedford. He will also carry thy purchases, sir.”

  Micah led the apprentice to the inn first, depositing his weaponry there. They then proceeded at decorous pace to the sword cutler’s premises, it being inapt for an officer to hurry, or so the guide thought. The boy made the introduction and retired, clutching the sixpence Micah had given him. Micah wondered if the gunsmith might pick up a commission on the new customer he had provided.

  “A heavy working blade, sir. I am a powerful man, I believe, and can swing a long blade in battle.”

  “The Lord God of Battles will bless thy arm, brother, and add to thy might. You dress as a foot soldier, sir.”

  “I am, Master Cutler. I shall not ride my horse into the field.”

  “The Scottish basket-hilt would be best for you, but I have none such in my stock. A backsword will do as well, almost, the blade a little shorter but very strong. I have a pair on my racks – you should see whether either would suit you.”

  The sword cutler presented Micah with a blade almost half as long again as the one he was carrying. It was more than a yard overall, the hilt protected by a basket of a single longitudinal bar from pommel to ricasso and a pair of curved finger guards, all in strong steel. The blade was single edged apart from four inches to the tip, designed more for the slash than the thrust, and was wedge shaped in cross section, a heavy spine adding rigidity and cutting power.

  “It weighs no more than three pounds, brother, and will not tire thine arm excessively. There are heavier swords and they will do great execution but will exhaust thee in a daylong battle. This backsword may be used from horseback as well, should the need arise, while a greater sword cannot be swung except on foot.”

  Micah nodded, stepped back and took the weight of the sword, making passes in the air.

  “Well balanced, Master. The grip is easy on the hand. I like the weapon, Master.”

  “I have another, Brother Slater, but more ornate, to the taste perhaps of a less serious-minded gentleman. The hilt is bound with brass
wire and pommel cast to the representation of a noble visage.”

  “Not for me, Master. There is little of the nobility in me!”

  “And rightly so, brother! This is the day of the ordinary, common man, or so I believe. We must bring all folk to the same level of virtue and godliness. There is no place for the roistering, idle, fashionable son of privilege in our new land, to be made by the strong right arms of saints such as thee. Continence and prudence are to be the watchwords of our new Commonwealth!”

  Micah was not at all sure that he agreed with all of that declaration – continence particularly seemed much overrated.

  He chose not to argue, merely enquired of a price and handed over the remarkably few shillings demanded of him.

  “The cost of the steel, Brother Slater, for that I must have if I am to forge another in its place. My labour is thine for free in service of our Cause. Come, Brother Slater, let us pray for thy good fortune.”

  Micah dropped to his knees, reacting instinctively to the words and accepting the extemporised blessings poured upon him. He was much aware that he had not attended chapel as he should in recent months – and had a strong suspicion that he might not in the weeks ahead. A blessing from a good man could not come amiss.

  “The short sword, Rootes, will do better at your waist now. I shall keep the backsword at my side as we travel, against need.”

  “Been talking, so I have, sir, at the inn. The ostler says as how there have been fights every night between the parties, and hard words exchanged in daylight at the market and in the streets. As well, sir, that we neither of us venture out of doors unarmed, for any stranger may be challenged for his loyalties.”

  It was difficult, Micah mused. The fighting so far had been no more than fisticuffs, more noise than harm done. At worst, from the little he had heard, there had been stone-throwing, and that half-hearted. Was he to draw his new sword, or worse, his pistols, then the unrest must climb to a more serious level. He did not wish to be the catalyst, the cause of bloodshed that might otherwise be averted. Under no circumstance would he be insulted, or worse, going about his business at the market or in the shops; that his honour would not tolerate.

  He laughed, bitterly – since when had a common quarryman to worry about his honour?

  “Sword and pistols, Rootes! I do not wish to see blood, and that includes mine own. I shall carry the means of defence on my person. You will come with me when I go out next. Do not yourself venture out alone, Rootes.”

  The market stalls were thinly stocked and there was space for more to set up, as if many of the regular sellers had chosen not to risk their goods and persons while there was a possibility of riot in the streets. Sufficient had turned out for Micah to discover the bulk of the goods he required, and to notice that their prices were stiffer than he would ordinarily have expected. It would seem that fear for the future had put pennies on the cost of everything.

  The shortage of goods made it seem sensible to buy more than he had anticipated, for fear that there might be nothing to hand in a few more weeks. He bought his leather groundsheets, four of them against a long campaign to come. Woollen blankets were for sale on five different stalls and their price was not so outrageous, for there were fewer buyers as well as a shortage of sellers. Water bags were not to be found, ordinary folk having small use for them.

  “Buy them in London, Rootes. They say that anything can be found there. What else do we need?”

  “Pewterware, sir. There is a seller here and a pair of plates and drinking mugs could well come in handy. Easier to keep clean than wooden dishes, sir. A spoon would be of value, as well, for stirring a stew pot.”

  The pewter cost half its own weight in silver, the seller well aware of his product’s worth on campaign.

  “A jack knife apiece, sir. Good for cutting off a slice of bacon or chopping up a bit of kindling wood to start a fire or a dozen other little jobs on campaign, sir.”

  Rootes spoke aloud, not considering there might be ears in the market, listening to the conversation of the strangers. Micah was equally unaware, agreeing casually.

  “I have my own old knife from the Scottish wars, Rootes. It is in the larger of my bags, if I remember. Dig it out for me when we get back to the inn. We should buy a knife and perhaps a billhook for you, for firewood.”

  Agricultural tools were easily found in the market, new and sharp and inexpensive.

  They came away and walked into the street and were stopped by four men, shoulder to shoulder in the roadway.

  “Off on campaign, are you, soldier? Just who are you fighting for?”

  The speaker was older than Micah, dressed in breeches and doublet, prosperous seeming in countrified fashion, a squire come to town. The three at his side were horsemen, shorter, bandy-legged grooms who had possibly brought their master’s stock to market; they carried cudgels. Squire had a sword at his side, tangled up in his doublet, worn to announce him to be a gentleman rather than as a weapon he expected to put to use.

  “Be ready, Rootes.”

  Micah’s servant, who had been carrying all they had bought, put his packages down in the street, carefully choosing a dry and clean patch of cobbles.

  “My name is Lieutenant Micah Slater, late of Colonel Knighton’s Regiment of Foot.”

  He waited them for the squire to introduce himself, as a gentleman should, deliberately putting him at a disadvantage in terms of simple courtesy.

  “Jonathan Heller, esquire, of Copelands Hall. Will you now answer me, Lieutenant?”

  “I see no obligation upon me to do so. I need not meet the ill-mannered demands of some rustic squireen, I believe. I have, however, no desire to hide my allegiance. I am to go to London to place my services at the command of Sergeant Major General Skippon, and thus at the orders of Parliament to put down the foolish pretensions of the Papist would-be tyrant calling himself King Charles. I stand for Old England and its liberties, sir! What say you?”

  Micah ostentatiously dropped his hand to his sword hilt, the meanwhile easing his left onto the butt of a pistol.

  There was a crowd gathering, attracted to the trouble. At Micah’s words the onlookers began to sort themselves into factions, some standing behind him and others placing themselves at Heller’s shoulder. The majority though, stepped well clear, hoping to see a good fight but supporting neither side. The road emptied of women and children.

  Squire Heller was no coward but had never been to war. He was a farming man, robust enough but no trained soldier. It seemed likely to him that if he drew his sword it would be his last act. The traitor Slater was fully armed, he now saw, his hand having brushed away his greatcoat and displaying the front of a breast-and-back.

  If he fought, he would almost certainly die. If he did not fight, if he backed down, then he would display the yellow flag to the townsmen who knew him and had stood to his support. He must choose between losing his life or his honour, unless he could find a way out…

  Heller stood silent, casting about for a third course. There was none and he could hear mutters of impatience behind him. He had to do something.

  “You are a traitor, Lieutenant Slater. I order you to present yourself to the Bench of Magistrates.”

  “Make me!”

  The squire’s twelve years old son stood at the side of the road, in safety, where his father had put him, watching in horror as his father dithered and then suddenly turned away, hurrying down the street and turning a corner, out of sight. The crowd behind Micah roared its derision and the Royalists, betrayed by their leader, backed reluctantly away, feeling they had nothing left to fight for. The boy ran after his dishonoured father, towards the stables where they had left their horses; he wept in shame as he caught up and mounted and followed his father out of Bedford.

  The name was Slater, the villain who had humiliated and disgraced his father and his whole family. He would not forget.

  Chapter Two

  A crowd, fifty or so, too quiet to be called a mob, followed
Micah to his inn. They were an escort, it seemed, protecting their champion from any attempt by the enemy to take him up. He turned at the door, gravely thanked them for their presence.

  “Hard times are upon us, good people. The saints must congregate, come together to fight for all that is right. Better if we could avoid the spilling of blood, but that may not be ours to choose. We may not stand back from the conflict that has been forced upon us by those who have forgotten their duty to God and to the people. You have shown yourselves brave and bold, men of Bedford. When the time comes, I must beg of thee to take up arms, to join a regiment of like-minded and true men and face the bloody-handed tyrant. Do not do so in pride but in humility, aware of your duty and the need to protect all from those who would abuse them. I am to go to London in the morning. I shall go to my new regiment strengthened in the knowledge that right-thinking men have come to my succour.”

  The men dispersed, grave in the face, a few who saw themselves as leaders speaking to him before they went away.

  “Strong words, Soldier, and to be kept at the front of our minds, sir. You spoke well!”

  Micah bowed his head.

  They had not been his words in their entirety – he had taken them from the many sermons he had heard and from the addresses made by the virtuous in Stamford. They were not made invalid by their source, however – he found he believed all he had said. He was to go to war, which seemed inevitable, not for his own glory but in pursuit of duty.

  He ate his dinner and sat back with a pint of strong beer to hand, reflecting on the day.

  He was to go to war, that was for sure, yet he was not to accept in its whole the preaching of the chapel. Virtue was one thing, and much to be commended, yet a pint of beer was not unpleasant and the smiles of a chambermaid were not to be despised while he had a silver crown in his pocket…

  One could perhaps support the cause of those touched by the divine and yet be thankful not to have achieved their degree of saintliness. He would offer his strong right arm, and that gladly, but he was not to become an ascetic just yet. He had noticed that the majority of those who preached abstinence and continence were far his elders; he would wait until he was of their age before he assumed their way of life.