Black Tom's Red Army Page 3

  Nobody could tell where the damned New Model had got to.

  “Ten thousand men lost with all guns, colours and baggage, and yet his highness advises another of his near legendary marches. By night, perhaps?”

  Rupert turned to his uncle, busy chewing the wisps of his beard.

  “Fairfax is here. Cromwell reported nearby. We need not concern ourselves with the rest of Parliament’s damned crew, nor their fair weather friends the Scots.”

  “Please God that were true,” Charles murmured.

  And on it went. By the light of flickering candles, armies and brigades conjured and transported from one end of the country to the other.

  As if armies were sacks of sugar beet or barrels of beer.

  Rupert shifted his finger across counties, traced meandering river lines.

  “We must reduce Taunton, clear the West coasts once and for all. Bring all the men back here, here in the Midlands, to face the enemy’s main force.”

  Rupert straightened, chronically tired but keenly aware he dare not allow this jabbering cabal to set his majesty’s strategies.

  He, Rupert, would destroy the rebel army, this new Noddle the pamphlets hadn’t stopped crowing about.

  And he would restore his name, aye, and fame besides.

  *************************

  That night at least, the bone-tired Prince could feel fractionally reassured. He had managed at last to overrule the court, shout down lords and earls, silence his critics and dare his enemies to gainsay him. He had succeeded in prising one precious piece from the board. Remove one of the crowing cocks from this court of cocks.

  Goring. Reckless, boastful and suicidally brave, found the intrigues of the court more stimulating than his most provocative whore. He would leave his precious bottle in his tent, swagger and strut before his majesty promising the moon and stars for breakfast.

  Rupert, who had never been one for idle chit-chat, out of his depth in comparison.

  There were plenty of silver-tongued courtiers who could get the better of him in a debate, but none who could have taken him or his regiment, sword in hand.

  But Goring was different. He could have won the war in a twelve month, if he laid off boozing for an hour or two. But for every stroke of genius he played a dozen jokers. For every brilliant victory a blindly stupid mistake.

  Goring had set the west afire with his antics, but for every blow he landed the enemy returned three, with interest.

  Not that you’d know it, listening to him blabber on.

  Rupert couldn’t compete, tongue tied before the stammering monarch.

  Charles would have changed his mind, ignored his counsel before an hour was out.

  So he had got rid of him. Recommended he return to his precious West Country with a new commission placing him in command of the squabbling whorseons who had spent the past three years carving out their own little empires without reference to the over-riding demands of the cause at hand. His uncle’s throne.

  But the price had been heavy. Heavier than he would have liked.

  Three thousand horsemen, veterans who could have helped balance the scales here.

  Three thousand horsemen who might second his charge.

  Goring, tickled at the prospect of ruling the roost, had ridden off with his precious regiments – one of the finest assets at the King’s disposal that miserable Summer.

  Goring was fully capable of beating up respected commanders like Waller and Cromwell as if on a whim. To him it was nought but a game, an idle pastime between bottle and bawd.

  Charging around the countryside he was irresistible. But Goring was wholly incapable of settling down to a siege. Incapable of taking the most meanly defended town. Incapable of sweeping up the last Rebel garrisons along the coast and setting the men free to march north and reinforce the King’s field army.

  Taunton, Lyme, Plymouth – thorns in the side of the King’s Western counties. Thorns which should have been pulled long since, if they were to concentrate the force necessary to bring the rebels to one final, crushing defeat. By God, The King had more men south of Bristol than he had around Oxford. And Oxford was where the war would be won, aye, or thereabouts.

  Goring, not expecting any support from the high and mighty Rupert, hadn’t thought twice about his latest mission. He had galloped off without a second thought, bottle in one fist sword in the other.

  Leaving Rupert to counsel the King. With Goring out of the way he stood a fair chance of shouting down the whispering coven of dukes and lords and minor gentry who accompanied Charles on his aimless anabasis about the Midlands.

  Digby, his most ferocious critic, in league with the swaggering Goring? It was not to be borne.

  Digby, sensing the subtle demonstration, demanding Goring should weld his three thousand cavaliers to the King’s main force, let the West rot!

  For once, he had been right.

  For once, Digby had been out-voted and overruled.

  Rupert, returned to his quarters at last, allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at his strategic victory.

  With Goring gone and Digby isolated, he would be free to direct the King’s wayward attentions. He knew Charles would sway and stutter and shift his ground, but at least Rupert would be at his side to guide him back to the path.

  The path that would lead him, Rupert, to victory.

  *************************

  New faces everywhere. Seven thousand strangers.

  Precious weeks since the ill-starred rendezvous in Windsor, and McNabb, Holbourne and the vast majority of the mightily experienced Scots had gone home. Well north at any rate. Away from them.

  The sudden departure of so many good officers had been hard felt, particularly in the ill-assorted rabbles which made up the new model’s regiments of foot.

  Well they might well have been short but that didn’t mean there was a place for William bastard-fathering Sparrow, printer turned ensign turned major turned fornicator and now sergeant of the pike.

  Back to the ranks! The fanciest turned out sergeant in the entire army, even if he had been obliged to sell his horse to one of the chinless wonders drafted in from the South East.

  A couple of weekends carousing with their local trained band and they imagined they were Wallenstein.

  Sparrow had cursed and fretted for weeks, almost oblivious to the ridiculous distances they had force-marched.

  By Christ’s bones they had done some sightseeing that summer.

  They had even marched past Stonehenge at one point, though no one seemed quite clear as to the whys or wherefores of the broiling anabasis.

  Some of the preachermen and loudmouths had called for the brigade to be put to work dragging the pagan slabs to the ground and smashing them with picks, obliterating an ancient monument which had been there long before the disciples had put pen to parchment to write their precious gospels.

  But there hadn’t been time. They had been hurried on down the great West road, then turned back and marched straight back the way they had come, heading direct for Oxford, according to the smart-talking musketeers, who always seemed hours better informed than their colleagues in the pike.

  And before they had time to dig as much as a foot or two of trench the generals had packed them all off again, north this time.

  *************************

  “God’s bones,” Sparrow growled, picking his breeches from between his cruelly frayed buttocks. “I hope the King’s men are as worn out as we are,” he complained. One of the mounted officers had drawn alongside the column, lifting his wide-brimmed hat to waft cooler air over unfamiliar, flint-sharp bronzed features. Sparrow tipped his hat, forgetting it was no longer his place to address remarks to senior commanders. “When we catch up with ‘em, I mean, sir,” he modified smoothly.

  He had mistaken the quizzical look for an invitation to elaborate and been half way through his explanation before he remembered his place.

  “Well, that is, well my lord. We’ve chased
them up country and they chased us down country. Now they’re off to Newark and we’re after them. It’s as if we’re all playing catch-as-catch-can,” he added by way of lame explanation.

  “My Lord General has received his orders, I am sure they will be passed down to the common soldiery in good time,” the mounted officer retorted.

  Common soldiery?

  Oh yes. Him.

  “No sir. Indeed sir,” Sparrow replied smartly, tipping his hat. He slackened his pace a little, hoping the officer would pull off ahead, but he seemed content to pass the time of day with Sparrow, marching on with halberd slung over his shoulder.

  “The committee has let him off the leash at last,” he confided. “My Lord General is instructed to take the fight to the King how he sees fit, rather than being marched from pillar to post as you say.”

  Sparrow studied the anonymous officer, didn’t recognise him from Waller’s old crew. Not that there were too many of the Western boys left now.

  “Have you served with the Lord General before sir?” he inquired.

  “In and out. Eastern Association mostly.”

  “And how about you? Over from Massey? I hear he’s losing a dozen a day.”

  “I served at Gloucester sir, but with Essex’s army. Mercer’s.”

  “Mercer’s? Never heard of ’em.”

  “We got rolled into the Earl of Dartland’s. In Waller’s army. With him ever since.”

  The officer took a longer look at him. He had a thin beard, piercing blue eyes beneath that enormous, wide-brimmed hat.

  “Unlucky fellow, Waller. One of our best. Strict Presbyterian of course, means well I dare say.”

  “He always looked after us, looked after the men sir,” Sparrow replied loyally. The officer nodded.

  “I wouldn’t argue with the care he gave his men.” The officer leaned over his horse conspiratorially. “But if we’re to bring the war to an end, we need generals prepared to press our advantages. To bring the King to heel.”

  To heel? By Christ had the big chiefs in London actually thought this through? What were they intending to do with Charles, if the much vaunted new army did corner the King in some castle somewhere.

  Some of the hotheads claimed they would share the land out so every bugger got an acre, aye, and had a say in where his taxes went and all.

  Ha! Every musketeer and pikemen with a vote – just fancy.

  Some of the regiments and brigades had even set up their own damned committees, soldiers’ forums to liaise with the big nobs.

  Sparrow couldn’t contemplate such lunacy. Running an army by committee? It would never happen. Just get the bloody war finished, worry about the politics afterwards had always been his personal motto.

  More riders had caught up with them, fallen in line a short distance behind. Quality suits in grey and green with black and gold trim. Good swords and paired pistols. This army was certainly better equipped than the previous forces Sparrow had served in.

  They saluted the mysterious officer, fell in to line behind. The officer tipped his hat.

  “Ah. Duty calls,” he sighed. “Don’t fret about playing catching up with the enemy sergeant,” the officer advised. “We’ll be renewing our acquaintance any day now. Good day to you sir.”

  “And to you sir,” Sparrow called, unusually cheered by the unknown officer. His stained buffcoat marked him out as a veteran, whatever association he had hailed from. Talked sense and all, not the blather the senior commanders usually relied upon. The sort of fellow a man could follow.

  Sparrow raised his hat as the mounted party spurred on, bypassing company after company of trudging musketeers.

  There was a waft of strong tobacco as Muffet fell into step beside him, puffing on a short stemmed clay pipe. The musketeer moved the pipe to the other side of his mouth.

  “Building bridges with the big nobs then Will?”

  “Passing the time of day. Did you recognise him?”

  “Nah. Eastern Association I imagine.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  Sparrow wiped the sweat from his brow, wiped his hand on the back of his breeches. “Not one of ours though? I heard Sir Hardress has gone off to collect recruits. I don’t even know the Major he’s left in charge.”

  “Smith? Smith or suchlike. That’s handy then. We’ll have to look out for ourselves, as usual.”

  “Aye. Got away with it so far I suppose,” William remarked, reassured by Muffet’s sheer implacability. The Londoner had been with them from the early days outside Bath, taught Sparrow most of what he knew about soldiering. Use a bit of common sense and never, never do anything hasty.

  Sound advice had kept them alive so far.

  “Where we headed anyway? We must have marched twenty miles today.”

  “More like fifteen. North. As far as I can make out.”

  “Trapping the King before us and the Scots.”

  Muffet blew another puff of smoke.

  “I imagine his majesty has left himself a few ways out of the woods. Yorkshire, Newark, North bloody Wales. It’s a question of trying to guess which road he takes.”

  Sparrow switched the halberd from one sore shoulder to the other and strode on.

  “We can’t watch every bloody road.”

  Muffet jabbed the stem of his pipe at the ruts in the road, the heaps of horse dung trampled flat by thousands of boots.

  “It’s a bliddy army we’re following, not a flock of starlings. We’ll catch up with them soon enough. But I can’t remember marching this fast, this long.” The veteran musketeer sighed. “Summat’s got to give,” he predicted.

  Sparrow pulled at his stubbled chin, trying to forget his shrieking feet. He’d traded his roll top boots for more sensible soldier’s shoes, although it tended to leave him looking a trifle top heavy what with his barrel chest and prominent backside. By Christ much more of this marching about and it wouldn’t be prominent much longer.

  *************************

  In camp that night, while they were still waiting for the provision waggons to work their way up the Northampton road, the word came down the lines that the King’s army had finally stopped marching and turned about.

  Muffet tipped his montero back and rubbed his sparse grey hair.

  “They mean to fight it out then, here and now.”

  Here and now.

  Sparrow’s empty belly rumbled.

  *************************

  So. The pieces were set and the players assembled at last. More news trickled in through the night, couriers galloping to and fro yelling to the stragglers to get out of their path.

  Sparrow sat by a fire-lit wagon, his men talking quietly all around. Grumbling about their missing supper mostly.

  Butcher had shot a rabbit and was trying to find something to cook it in.

  “Well I can’t eat the bleeder raw can I, wodger take me for?”

  Sparrow shook his head as the sharpshooter headed off in search of their missing commissariat wagons.

  The camp gossips maintained the King and Prince Rupert were just up the road, anything between twenty and forty thousand strong. They’d caught up with his outriders, scattered a patrol and taken a few prisoners back to headquarters.

  Bloody marvellous. One army crashing into another like steers penned for slaughter.

  Sparrow rubbed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t sleep if he tried.

  “Black Tom’s cornered the King, right where he wants him,” young Nicodemus maintained, his enthusiasm for the fight undimmed by the lack of their promised supper.

  “More like the King’s cornered us.”

  “How d’you make that out? There’s nowt behind us but little villages and open fields. We can all take cover in Northampton, if push comes to shove.”

  “I bet that’s what they said in Leicester and all. Look what happened there.”

  “We weren’t at Leicester. Rupert wouldn’t have dared…”

  The argument went on, to and fro in unconscious
parody of the army’s perplexing manoeuvres.

  Manoeuvres? Sparrow could have laughed out loud.

  Truth was the snakes and ladders which passed for strategy in both camps had brought the rival armies within blundering distance once again, and Sparrow knew from bitter experience that’s when the marching stopped and the fighting started.

  Old Sir William would have been off looking for good ground, determined to ensure he got one over on his opponent.

  Sparrow wondered whether the new lot would take as much care of them as Waller had. For the umpteenth time in this amateur’s war quartermasters busy ferreting out feather beds for their masters had come to blows, caught their counterparts over their cups in the wayside inns.

  Cry havoc and release the billeting officers of war, riding ahead of the army like a snail’s feelers, delicately picking a passage through the undergrowth.

  Regiments, brigades, troops of horse and batteries of guns had been ordered and assembled, dispatched and recalled as Parliament and the King contrived to turn painstakingly framed military operations into ludicrous wild goose chases.

  Lost and suddenly found within those several thousand acres of the Midlands: Thirty thousand Englishmen. Fifty if you paid any attention to the camp Jeremiahs and Christ knew there were enough of them in this man’s army.

  Sparrow imagined the pampheteers and diarists who tagged along with the armies, busy spilling ink describing the summer manoeuvres, cunningly concocted interpretations of their masters’ calculated strategy. It was the same in London as it was in Oxford, the top nobs assuring their subjects that all was going to their meticulously prepared plan.

  Sparrow knew better. He’d write his version when it was all over. Tell it like it bloody was.

  In reality the armies had groped and fumbled, marched and cursed half way around the country. Cross stitched across the belly of England like an ill-fastened corset.

  Who pulled those strings tighter, the generals and grandees over their map tables, the King, Prince Rupert, Cromwell and Fairfax? That thin faced officer with the easy-going manner?