Red Man

by Andrew Wareham

  “If they have the munitions, they will respond with fire from their gun, Red Man.”

  The col was no more than fifty paces across. A first and shallow trench was quickly dug. The soil turned to chalk in less than a foot and would be hard labour thereafter.

  There was no fire from the fort.

  “What now, Daniel?”

  “Send a wooding party downhill and start the cookfires. A stew, I think – a good meal to show that we are well-provisioned and are ready to settle into a siege. They are in a bad place for water, on top of a chalk hill, and will know that they must kill their horses within a few days. Their plan must have been to encourage us to an assault and to bloody us so much that we would go away. Nothing else would make sense. So, we worry them first.”

  The garrison was, or so they had been told, comprised of poor men. Killing their horses would be a financial disaster. On top of that, they were farmers’ sons, had probably been riding those horses for years and would have an affection for them. Making them fear for their personal future, forcing them to put survival in front of their loyalty, might result in a surrender rather than a bloody fight.

  “Won’t they realise that we shall take their horses from them, whatever they do, Daniel?”

  “Possibly – they might imagine that they can negotiate terms.”

  Micah was unconvinced. These folk were amateurs; they lacked knowledge of soldiering.

  “We might make them desperate, Daniel. This man, what was his name, Jasper Palethorpe, a sailor, will have a different way of looking at things. He is not a soldier, not one of us.”

  Daniel was forced to admit the possibility that Jasper Palethorpe might not know the rules of the game. He took up the possibility.

  “What can he do? Three choices, or so I must imagine. Surrender is the one most convenient to us, so we might be over-hopeful that is what he will do. If he will not raise the white flag, then has the option to draw in his horns, like a snail in his shell, and suffer siege, hoping for the King’s forces to come to his rescue. If he refuses siege – which is a most dubious prospect for him because the King shows no signs of marching in this direction – then he must make a great sally, sooner rather than later, before he has taken losses and his people are weakened by hunger.”

  “Tonight, before we have dug our trench?”

  Daniel nodded.

  “Let us leave our lieutenants to dig and pay Major Jevons a visit, Red Man.”

  They explained their thoughts to the Major, outlining their fears for the night.

  “What say you, Captain Carew? What must we do?”

  “Put up defences, after nightfall so the garrison may not see them. There are woodlands to the rear. Half of our men there now to cut trees and sever their crowns and branches and drag them back to set as abatis across the roadway. Three or four blocks across the road so that the horse will be much impeded. The trunks to be laid out singly in front of the companies, a barrier to a charge across the grassland. The companies to lie down in square, matchlocks loaded and match lit but hidden, not to show light. Half the men to sleep at any time. All of these precautions after dark, to embarrass any cocksure attacker.”

  Major Jevons ran to chivvy the captains into action, came back puffing and panting but pleased with himself.

  “I have told them as well to stack dry sticks and logs next to the cookfires, ready to throw on and give light.”

  “A wise move, Major Jevons. The company cooks are under orders to mind those fires, I presume?”

  The pair returned to their own companies, too high to drag timber up to make their own defences.

  “We will not be attacked by horse, Red Man.”

  Daniel waited for his pupil to give the correct response.

  “No. Dig the trench and pile the spoil to the front. A three feet deep trench will give a heap two feet high to its face, sufficient for shot to use for cover and rest while firing. For the night, one platoon of thirty-five or so to stand sentry, two to sleep, the fourth to sit by the fires, on call but taking their ease.”

  “My pikes to sleep in their square, Red Man, ready to form and push in any direction.”

  “Agreed, Daniel. If we push back an attack, then we force our way uphill and into the fort, on the heels of the sally party so they cannot turn and stand against us.”

  Daniel nodded – it would be done. He was pleased that Micah had perceived the proper course without too much prodding. They had marched to war and either man could die on any day – they had to be able to step in for each other.

  Trench digging in chalk was a slow process. Quarrymen with pickaxes and the muscles to wield them might have said it was easy but infantry with their short-handled mattocks found the labour hard. By nightfall their defence was three feet deep and the same wide with the spoil cast up another two feet and tamped down to make a wall. It would do as a temporary measure, but a pike could be thrust over too easily and a horse could jump it. The men inside would be protected from shot from at a distance and would have a steady rest to fire from – it felt better than standing on the open turf. The chalk stained their uniforms and the men objected; they had been smart and proud and were made grimy. They blamed the King.

  Micah set the first platoon to the trench, told them they would be there for three hours, as close as could be estimated.

  “That will give you six hours of sleep over the night, which is sufficient for any man. Keep awake! Five men to stand sentry, on their feet behind the trench and watching everything. If you see movement – or think you do – whisper down to the men in the trench to make ready. Do not shout. Your corporal has a dark lantern and will signal to the company behind us. All to be done secretly, so that the wicked foe will be taken unawares as they come upon us.”

  “Beg pardon, sir – but if so be the lantern be dark, how is they goin’ to see ‘un?”

  It was, in its limited way, a fair question. Micah called the corporal across and displayed the lantern.

  “It has shutters all round, do you see? Open one shutter and the light shows on that side. Take all of the shutters off and you have an ordinary lantern.”

  They agreed that was clever – they would not have thought of it themselves.

  Micah addressed the corporal of the first platoon.

  “Corporal Perkins, call the men to fire at twenty paces – or thereabouts – and then to kneel and present their short swords. Do not try to reload. The other three platoons will run up behind and fire at interval over your heads. You will deal with any who actually get into the trench. If they attack, well, it is most likely they will come before dawn, but they might choose the dead of the night when they hope you will be sleeping. You will not be asleep, will you?”

  Corporal Perkins assured the Red Man that he would be wide awake.

  “So you will be. So will I.”

  Corporal Perkins believed the implicit threat – his captain was a seemingly kind-hearted man, but he had a name that said he was washed in the blood of the malignant. It was wiser to take no risks with such a man; he would not fall asleep and neither would his sentries.

  The first platoon marched into the trench before nightfall, plainly visible to the defenders behind their stone wall – if they were there.

  Micah stood next to Daniel, a few yards back.

  “I can see no movement up there, Daniel.”

  “That means that either they are all at the front, readying themselves to charge downhill, or…”

  “They are hidden here, at the rear, waiting to charge down this side of the hill.”

  “Possibly. They might just be huddled together, terror-stricken and waiting to show a white flag in the morning.”

  Neither man gave much credence to the last possibility. It felt like a fight.

  The cookfires were banked an hour after nightfall and the little encampment officially went to sleep. A good half of the men laid on their blankets, wakeful, watching to the front.

  An hour passed and there was a flas
h of light from the trench, then two more.

  “Stand to – quietly!”

  Micah tapped Halleck and Walsh on the shoulder and they in turn prodded Sergeants Driver and Fletcher who were already stirring their corporals into action. A minute and the three platoons were on their feet, blowing on shielded slowmatch.

  The sentries on the trench could see tiny lights coming cautiously down the slope, steep enough for a foot to turn and bring a man down with a great clatter of musket and pouches and rest.

  “Make ready!”

  The musketeers knelt sideways in the narrow trench, hiding as best they could, waiting the command to stand and fire.

  The lighted matches came suddenly nearer as if the enemy had started to run. Suddenly they arced up into the air and towards the trench, thrown by strong arms.

  “What in God’s name?”

  “Stand, fire!”

  The shouts were drowned by six sharp explosions and by the screams of wounded men. A dozen muskets crashed, the remainder dropped by the injured or dead.

  A second wave of missiles, clearly visible by the trail of fire left by their matches came in and blew up.

  Micah arrived at the run and called the remainder of his company to commence their volley fire from behind the trench.

  The pike company arrived and passed through the line of musketeers and jumped the trench, levelling their clumsy weapons and charging.

  “Hold your fire! Reload all. Corporal Perkins, bring your men out of the trench! Mr Halleck, go right. Mr Walsh, to the left, Sergeant Fletcher, bring one platoon behind me!”

  Micah waited impatiently, counting off the seconds, giving his men a full minute for the blind reload.

  “Charge!”

  They stumbled forward, jumping over the bloody mess in the trench, seeing only a very few of its occupants climb out and follow after.

  Twenty yards out Micah came across a body sprawled on the ground, a sputtering slowmatch still in his hand, burning into the flesh and stinking vilely. Beside him was a wicker basket, its contents spilled out and just visible in the moonlight as clay pots and jugs, seemingly collected together from the kitchens, sealed and with a length of match dangling from each. The presence of the fuse said gunpowder inside.

  He ran on, less burdened than his musketeers and catching up to the pikemen, toiling uphill with their clumsy weapons held horizontal in a well-controlled row. There was a figure in front of them.

  “Daniel? Push on to the attack?”

  “Go!”

  They could hear more explosions towards the front of the hill followed by the bellow of the saker, loud in the night.

  “Sounds like the main attack is to the front, Red Man. Get over the wall and into them from behind. One of the men with the stinkpots had a pistol and I am shot a little – in no case to be running. Go on!”

  “Shot! Follow me!”

  Micah ran a few paces, slowed to a laboured walk. Charging uphill in the dark was hard work. He saw the wall, thought he could pick out movement along it.

  “Sergeant Fletcher, get the men into a single line at my shoulder, quickly.”

  The platoon lined up on either side and brought their muskets to the horizontal and blew on their matches.

  “Point your firelocks.”

  A few seconds while they readied themselves and Micah pulled a pair of pistols.

  “Fire!”

  The muskets coughed and lead balls splatted into the wall or sang through the air above it.

  “Drop your firelocks. Short swords. Charge!”

  Most of the men dallied a second to lay their muskets down carefully and then followed after Micah, struggling the last few, steep feet to the low wall and then dragging themselves over it. They heard Micah in front of them, yelling for them to follow.

  They could see the loom of a building to their front, ran towards it, kicking down a pair of wide doors and discovering a barn in use as a makeshift stables. There was a single shielded lantern to the front, disclosing a bleeding man down in the straw and two or three figures crowded about him. They dived into them, short swords glinting in the lamplight.

  “Don’t knock that lantern over! Out, go left around the barn!”

  Sergeant Fletcher ran outside, called to the other platoons to cross to the right.

  Micah rampaged forward in front of them all, holstering his right hand pistol in exchange for his heavy sword. He spotted the rear of the big house and ran towards it, kicked down the back door leading into the kitchens.

  A woman screamed and ran. He ignored her and forced his way forward.

  The front rooms were better lit, candles in holders and sticks showing half a dozen men, some of them armed.

  “Drop your weapons!”

  One of the men turned towards him, raising something in his hand, a sword perhaps.

  Micah fired his pistol and swung the backsword, hacking into flesh. He pulled back and thrust at another figure while fumbling another pistol out of the holster and shooting into the three or four clustering towards the front door. Three of his men came behind him and joined the melee, yelling and thrusting hard.

  “Clear the house! Take lights and go through every room!”

  They ran at his command; he burst out of the front door and ran towards the open gate, just visible. There was another group clustered around the saker, reloading painstakingly by lantern light, not trained, experienced gunners. He stopped and took a breath and tucked his sword down against his legs while he pulled two of his four unfired pistols. Another deep inhalation and he slowly breathed out while he pointed his pistols and fired, right then left, then pushed them back into the holsters and drew the remaining pair. One man screamed and dropped and he heard a ball carom off the barrel of the saker. He fired twice more as they began to scatter, two running directly at him. He dropped the pistols on the gravel, reluctantly - they were too expensive to treat so cruelly – and gripped the sword.

  Neither of the running figures showed armed. He bellowed at them.

  “Hold still or I shall kill thee!”

  Both screamed and fell to the ground.

  They were no more than girls, joining in to defend their King, all most romantically, no doubt.

  “Stay still. Do not move. Do not go into the house.”

  Micah trusted his men, normally, but it was the middle of the night and they were fighting mad. Better for young girls that they did not go into a shambles of that sort.

  “Halleck! Walsh! On me! At the front. Sergeant Fletcher, Sergeant Driver, bring prisoners to the front. Red Man’s Company, to me! To the front!”

  He shouted and repeated himself and Lieutenant Halleck appeared puffing at his side, a bloody sword in hand.

  “Pull the men together, Mr Halleck.”

  “Walsh is down, sir. A man with an old halberd hit him with the axehead. High across the chest and shoulder.”

  That made Walsh dead almost of a certainty; if not outright, such a wound was not to be survived other than by the remarkably lucky.

  “Sergeant Driver killed the man with the halberd, sir. I got two more, one with a short pike and the second with a sword.”

  The young man was half-exultant, part revolted by his own actions.

  “Well done, Mr Halleck! That is exactly what I expect of my officers. Now, get a platoon together and take them to the wall by the front gate, on the right and hold there.”

  Sergeant Driver appeared, a formed platoon at his shoulder.

  “Got Corporal Perkins’ men, them what’s in one piece, sir, and Corporal Frobisher with all of his. Fletcher’s got hold of a few prisoners and is getting the men out of the house. All in hand, sir. No need for you to go back inside.”

  If a sergeant said he was not wanted, then Micah was not about to argue. He did not want to know about anything being hidden from him.

  “Good. Bring your men up to the gate. We’ll try to see what’s going on downhill and whether we need to go in behind the attack.”

 
Half of Halleck’s men fired a volley as he spoke.

  “Run! Quickly!”

  They formed their line and readied their matchlocks while Micah found Halleck.

  “They are falling back, sir. The fighting’s along a line in front of our people, I think. They don’t seem to have broken through and now we’re behind them, from the little I can see.”

  “Hold the wall here. Don’t venture downhill – like as not Major Jevons’ people would fire at us in the dark. Kill or take any who come back.”

  Micah stepped back from the wall, shouted at the house.

  “Sergeant Fletcher! Send a half platoon back to pick up the muskets and then do what they can for Perkins’ wounded in the trench. Prisoners to the front here!”

  He walked a little closer to the house, spotted the two girls sat up on the gravel.

  “You two, get up and come over here next to the gun. There is a lantern there and you will be safer in the light.”

  They ran obediently.

  Micah wondered what the time was, how long till dawn. He glanced at the moon, but it told him nothing.

  He heard weeping coming from upstairs, did not want to know, to discover its cause. At best, he would find a woman mourning her dead man. There might have been children hiding in their bedrooms…

  It was easy to tell himself that they were not there due to any of his doing – but he could not feel guiltless.

  He paced to the gate, stared downhill.

  The fighting was over. Fires were being lit and he could see vague shadows bustling about. He was fairly sure that Major Jevons had prevailed. He inflated his chest and shouted.

  “Colonel Jevons’ Regiment!”

  “Here! All is well.”

  “We have the hilltop. Wait till daylight.”

  “We shall!”

  Sergeant Fletcher found him a few minutes later.

  “Eight men taken under arms, sir, and made prisoner. Five womenfolk and their children, some of them hurt, sir. Two boys, sir, twelve or so years, grabbed swords in the dark, sir, and were cut down. Six of servants, sir, which had locked their rooms and came out when it was over and are untouched. Seventeen of corpses, sir. Three of them old men with swords, sir.”