Red Man

by Andrew Wareham

  “Put up boiled mutton tonight, with parsmits. Pair of chicken on the spit, tomorrow. See what we got, after that.”

  “That sounds good, Cook. Tuck this away in your purse.”

  He handed her a shilling piece, a rare silver coin. Cook was used to handling no more than the occasional penny, most of her wages coming in kind – her roof, clothing and food supplied by the master; a shilling was a great treat.

  Micah silenced her thanks.

  “We are here for the ordinary folk of the land, Cook. I am one of them myself. Tell your helpers that we shall find a few pennies for them as well.”

  “What be thee to do with the villagers, Master?”

  “Why? Do I need to do anything for them?”

  “Some of they do go to the church come Sunday and they be at odds with the folks what cleaves to the chapel, as what is only right, like. Times back last year, they did throw stones at each other, so they did. And broke the windows in the rectory at night. Master Palethorpe, he were goin’ to take the pastor up in chains, so they did say, but never got round to doin’ it, quite.”

  “I shall go down to the village this afternoon, when the rest of the battalion has marched out, and I shall speak to vicar and pastor both. We shall have a peaceful village, if I have to put some of them out on the road and burn their roofs.”

  Micah was within reason certain the message would reach the village before he did.

  Sergeant Fletcher provided an escort of six musketeers and Corporal Perkins to march behind Micah when he walked down the hill.

  He was wearing breast-and-back with his helmet and backsword and six pistols, felt somewhat of a swaggering bully in front of the rural hinds. The villagers had lived peaceful lives for the previous century, were strangers to sword and gun and did not like to see them strutting into their quiet little marketplace.

  Micah stood tall and looked about him, making a point of doffing his helmet and rubbing the sweat from his brow.

  “Judas haired!”

  “That be that Red Man they talked of. Look at that bloody girt cutter what ‘er got at ‘er side!”

  “Kill thee so soon as look at thee, so they did say!”

  He heard the whispers, saw old men and women surreptitiously making the sign of the horns – fist clenched and first and fourth fingers extended – as protection against the Devil and his works.

  They were terrified of him, which was disconcerting, but better they feared him and stayed docile than perhaps rose in riot that would have to be put down. He pointed to an old man sat on the bench outside the beerhouse.

  “You, sir! Will you tell me where I will find the rectory?”

  The gaffer heaved to his feet.

  “Beg pardon, Master, but it be the red-brick place next door to church. Down thataway, do ye see, Master?”

  Micah followed the pointing finger and nodded. He dug into his pocket and found tuppence, passed the coppers across.

  “Do you drink a pint or two on me, old fellow. My thanks for your service.”

  The old man knuckled his forehead and found a surprising turn of speed as he trotted into the barroom.

  Micah grinned and turned his steps towards the parson’s dwelling.

  A maidservant came running to the door as he walked up the short path from the gate. She flung the door open wide and curtsied.

  “Rector says as ‘ow you be welcome, sir. Please to come inside. If thy men will sit on the bench here” – she pointed into the garden – “I shall find they mugs of cider to wet their throats, sir.”

  Micah nodded to the corporal, expecting no trouble in that particular house.

  A middle-aged gentleman dressed in black and displaying clerical bands stood in the hallway and bade Micah enter his dwelling and be seated. His slightly younger wife scurried with beer and cake, made him welcome.

  “I am the Reverend Jonathan Taylor, sir. I presume I have the honour of addressing the famous, or notorious, Red Man?”

  “I am Micah Slater, Reverend, Captain in Colonel Jevons’ Regiment of Foot and here to bring peace and tranquillity to the Hampshire and Sussex countryside. I am known as Red Man, I will admit, but more from the colour of my hair than for blood staining my hands, sir.”

  “That is as may be, sir, but there are men laying wounded in this house who tell me that you ran through the fire of grenadoes to strike them down.”

  “I fight for the right, Reverend, and will not stay my hand from its bloody duty when the fight is brought to me. I begged the reprobate Palethorpe to surrender his fortalice and end his uprising peacefully, pledging myself to protect him and his people thereafter. Those who chose to fight must not complain that they were stricken down in their wickedness, sir.”

  The Reverend shook his head, unable to accept the demands of battle.

  “What will you do with the men who lay here, Captain?”

  “They must surrender their arms to me, Reverend, and swear to commit no act of war until they are returned to health and leave your care. When they are able to walk out, they should come to me and discuss their parole. I do not make war on the halt and the lame, Reverend, not shall I persecute those whose Christian duty it is to care for the victims of battle.”

  “You are an honourable man, Captain. I shall pledge myself to those terms, sir, and will hold the three to them. They have swords which I shall send up the hill, sir.”

  Micah sat to his cake and beer for a while, at the vicar’s urging.

  “I am told, Reverend, that there has been some disorder in your village in the past. Your congregation and that of the chapel are, it might seem, unable to live in peace in the same village.”

  “Foolishness, Captain Slater, and the fault lying with both parties.”

  “I must insist that it comes to an end, Reverend. I would beg you to pass the word to your flock that any who break the peace will find themselves conscripted into the ranks of my company, there to carry a musket until the wars are over. The same message will be taken to the pastor. I would wish you to inform the magistrates of my words, sir. Any poachers or drunkards and everyday villains may enjoy the privilege of service as well, sir.”

  Reverend Taylor was inclined to applaud such a course – there were troublemakers in every community and unruly young men who might be encouraged by military discipline to grow up and behave themselves.

  “They will not all survive the experience, Reverend, but it will do them good, of a certainty. I believe the pastor may be discovered at the other end of the village?”

  The Reverend led him out to the gate and pointed to the chapel and made his polite farewells.

  “I am Pastor Abednego Bates, sir. I am glad to see thee again, victorious and the forces of Satan cast down!”

  “Virtue must always triumph, if not necessarily immediately, Pastor.”

  “Well said, brother.”

  “There has been unrest in the village, Pastor. It must come to an end. Those who wish – rightly – to persecute the unbeliever must walk up the hill to join my ranks. I require more strong right arms to smite the evildoer and would beg of thee that young men should be brought to the service of arms in our time of need.”

  “You speak well, brother. I shall make thy need the subject of my discourse on the coming Sabbath. I shall press the burden of service upon the unwed men of my flock.”

  “You are right to do so, Pastor, yet be sure in your own mind of the wisdom of your words. Some of the men who leave will never return, finding their last resting place under a far distant field of battle; others may come back crippled – destroyed almost in body and unable to work for their living. Some few may even find foreign parts more attractive to them and choose to dwell in London Town or cross the seas to the Americas. To take up arms is a drastic course, Pastor, and the weak-minded might need to be protected from such an action.”

  Pastor Bates was much moved by Micah’s words.

  “Thou art a good man, brother! Thou hast great need of soldiers to fill thy ranks
and yet will not seduce men from their proper homes. I shall pray for guidance. I much suspect that I shall discover that the need for saints to take arms is greater than any other fear for them; they are to be Soldiers of God, and the Lord will protect his strong right arms in their travail. We must be strong in our urgency to cast down the Man of Blood, Charles Stuart. All other considerations pale before that need. The King must be cast down that the rule of saints may prevail in this poor land of England!”

  “Hallelujah, brother!”

  Micah made his farewells – he was called for elsewhere, he much regretted. His knowledge of the breed suggested that the Pastor was about to cast himself on his knees and pray long for guidance, and there were clouds a-building in the sky and he had no wish to kneel beside him in the rain.

  “We must make haste, Corporal Perkins, for I fear I may be late to Captain Carew. I would not offer him such ill-manners!”

  “Mid-afternoon, sir, to meet him, and perilous close to that now, sir.”

  They quick-marched away, the men having no wish to provide an extempore congregation.

  “Near thing, that, sir. I reckon the old pastor be good for two hours when the spirit moves him.”

  “He is a good man, Corporal Perkins and you should not mock him. I reckon he was likely to be three hours at least.”

  The laughter was stifled, the men fighting for straight faces as they passed the villagers in the square.

  “Begging thy pardon, Captain, but can us soldiers come down to the beerhouse for a pint of an evening?”

  “Only if you pay, your pennies on the counter and honest. Not too many at a time, but not too few, neither – there might be some who would rap an unwary soldier over the head, for being malignants by nature. I shall speak to the sergeants and make arrangements as is proper.”

  Corporal Perkins was satisfied with that answer. The better part of two hundred fit soldiers, leaving aside those who would not drink because of their religion, and one small beerhouse, meant they had to have some sort of organisation, a roster of who could go downhill on a given evening All of the men had a few pennies at least in their pockets, having had two opportunities to pick up spare coinage that might be lying around in places they had taken, and in the purses of their prisoners.

  “We must consider riding out, Daniel. Not merely to pacify the local villages and speak to the squires in the big houses and remind them of the rewards that accrue to those loyal to Parliament – we need forty men to make up our ranks.”

  “We do, Red Man. Besides that, we need forage. If we rely on just the one village we shall soon leave the local people hungry. Take a waggon with you when you go. Not only cabbages and sacks of oats for the horses, you may put willing young men up in the back to come to our ranks. Any youngster who shows interested, up he goes!”

  Micah nodded – it would be wiser than leaving the youths to be nagged by their mothers and brought to a sense of the unwisdom of volunteering.

  “I shall take the first of our patrols out in a couple of days, Daniel. We must discover who of the men can ride – I suspect we may find only a few of our Londoners who will be competent on the back of a horse.”

  Chapter Eight

  No more than a dozen of the men from the Trained Bands knew how to ride, and half of them had had little practice in the saddle since childhood.

  Micah dipped into his moneybag and found sixteen shillings in small silver and coppers and called the ostlers together.

  “There be eight of ye, all of ye knowing how to ride in the nature of things. For every man of mine and Captain Carew’s that ye teach to ride, there will be a shilling in your hand, each of ye, as ye will all muck in to help. There are fifty horses here and no more than twelve men who can ride already, as well as myself and Captain Carew and our servants. We have our own horses with us, as ye know. Ye can all count…”

  Micah doubted the accuracy of that statement, but he wished to be polite, to obtain their willing help.

  “Thirty-eight, master.”

  Young Arthur, the senior of the stable lads supplied the answer.

  “That is correct. Thirty-eight shillings to each man here. Fifteen pounds and four shillings, that is, all told. Shared between you. A deal of money to pay out – and all yours, if ye will work for it.”

  There was silence for a while as the men worked out all they could do with thirty-eight silver shillings.

  “Two shillings less than two pounds, that is. To show willing, I have the two bob here and will shell it out now to any man who wishes to teach my soldiers to ride. Extra. On top of the thirty-eight contracted for.”

  They formed a queue, hands outstretched although somewhat doubtful in their expressions.

  “Master Palethorpe might be coming back one day, Captain, sir. Thing is, ‘e ain’t likely to be pleased wi’ men what taught Parliamentaries to ride to better oppress the King’s Men, sir.”

  “Easy answered, Young Arthur. He won’t be back while we are here. Like as not he will be put in a prison cell for ordering the killing of our soldiers. He may just be sent abroad, not to come back for years. Whichever, when we march out, you will be at liberty to come with us. You could come as a dragoon, a riding soldier, or ride at my tail as my groom. The same for all of you – we can find places for any man who wishes to join us as soldier or servant. Come as a soldier and you will have one of these horses to ride and a pair of pistols and a sword and your own breast-and-back and helmet to wear; leather gauntlets, too, and boots. Not every man can be a dragoon, sat up tall to be seen. Think it over – you might prefer to stay, and we shall be here for some weeks yet.”

  “Does we get paid, if us goes for a soldier, sir?”

  “You do. Your food and sixpence a day or better. But, remember, you earn that money! A soldier goes to war, sword and pistol or musket or pike in hand, wearing his armour. You will be proud fighting men, parading through London Town or wherever we may be sent.”

  They had heard of London, had never thought they might go there.

  “Talk it over – plenty of time. I will not push you either way, though I will say straight that I need likely young men such as you. For the next few weeks, try to turn these lumps of soldiers into horsemen, if you will.”

  Micah came away feeling guilty – he had cozened innocent countrymen into thinking about joining up. He was sure that most, if not all, would. Ostlers and grooms rarely married – they earned too little and lived in their stables, servants to their horses, on call day and night. Soldiers, on the other hand, cavalrymen especially, swaggered in the eyes of the girls… He had offered to make them dashing heroes, as far as their village was concerned, and had probably turned their heads sufficiently that they would follow the drum.

  Some of them would come back with a few coins in their pockets; some would not come back at all. Whichever fate was theirs, it would be his responsibility.

  He sat back in the room the officers had taken over as a mess, not entirely proud of himself. He wondered if he was one of those who would never go back home again, either remaining in London or staying six feet under the turf of a hard-fought field…

  Either was possible. It seemed unlikely that he would ever go back to Collyweston and the slate quarries, unless he struck lucky and picked up money enough to become a quarry owner in his own, new-built big house.

  Soldiers did pick up loot, sometimes, that he knew. Maybe!

  Micah stood up to walk round the men’s living quarters and indulge in a quick inspection of their cleanliness and order. No reason to allow them to become slack. He could also mention that the ostlers would give lessons to those who wished to ride, first come, first served, his own company favoured, as his men would expect. Daniel Carew’s pikemen would be less enterprising in the nature of things – the pikes tended towards the more stolid, less adventurous of young men, the labouring sort.

  “Sergeant Fletcher, Sergeant Driver, over here, please.”

  The two stepped to the side, out of hearing of
the men, normal enough when they had important matters to discuss.

  “I have hired the stablemen to teach us how to ride. Twelve know already and we have just fifty horses. One or both of you and at least one corporal; if needs be, we can make up a second corporal from the new horsemen.”

  “There’s more than fifty nags in the two sets of stables, sir.”

  “From what they say, Fletcher, the others were Palethorpe’s before he set up in the military line. The fifty are those brought in by the farmers’ sons who joined him, all of them confiscated to our use. If the stable lads join us, they will bring their own mounts, taken from Palethorpe’s stable. I have it in mind to pick up a second charger of my own and no doubt the other officers will do the same. Palethorpe is a villain and must lose his all, including his horses. He killed too many of ours to be treated kindly.”

  “He did, too, sir, with his bloody stinkpots! No decent way to make war, them things!”

  Sergeant Driver evidently knew military right from wrong in his own mind. Micah was not sure that any man was more or less dead for being run through by a sword or blown up by a grenadoe, but he saw no need to argue.

  “You are right, Driver. We shall leave him little to come home to, if ever he is allowed to return. Now, will you wish to ride?”

  “It will do for me, sir. I thought I might keep my feet firm planted on the ground with my musketeers, and if it came to it, join thee on a later day. Changed my mind, though, sir. And maybe about being an officer, one day. The time has come that ordinary men might make something of themselves in England, sir, and I shall wish to be part of it.”

  Sergeant Fletcher showed his normal agreement with his companion.

  “I’ll take to horseback, if ye don’t mind, sir. Fancy letting a nag do the marching and give me feet a rest.”

  Driver grinned.

  “It’s thine arse will get sore instead a-horseback, Jack Fletcher!”

  They laughed, easy with each other.

  “It will make it simpler for you to become an officer, if ever you should change your mind, Sergeant Fletcher. You would do well as one of my lieutenants and very soon as captain of your own company. You too, Driver.”