Believe or Die (14 page)

In Westminster the politicians frantically sought to defuse the situation without giving in to the Army’s demands. Little by little, some kind of compromise did seem to be budding. Was it possible? Could a deal be effected? Then urgent news arrived simultaneously in both Putney and Westminster. The King had escaped and fled to the Isle of Wight. Not only this, but he had entered into a secret agreement with the Scots to regain his throne and his absolute authority over the Realm. Loyal men, both Royalist and Parliamentarian, held their heads in their hands and groaned. Had it all to be done again? All over the country the flames of war appeared about to ignite again. Parliament and the Army were forced to put aside their arguments, albeit only temporarily. The country could not stand another lengthy conflict, could it be prevented? Initially, it appeared not.

Risings in favour of the King, or sometimes more as a reaction to heavy-handed Puritanism, began spreading; rioting became endemic. Canterbury virtually exploded when the Puritan mayor ‘forbade’ the celebration of Christmas as a distraction from proper worship. Londoners took to the streets when similar intolerance banned the playing of ball games and ‘tip-cat’ on the Sabbath. Many who had previously fought the King now joined his colours. The direction their country seemed to be taking, that of intolerance and a ban on anything remotely enjoyable, was not to an Englishman’s taste; it was not what he had shed sweat and blood for. Royalist forces reformed under old banners and captured a number of castles. The Fleet mutinied. The Scots crossed the border and marched south laying waste to everything in their path.

The politicians of Westminster suddenly appeared to lose their voices. The Army was needed again, and it responded with brisk and ruthless efficiency. Within a year, the Second Civil War, as some called it, was over. Almost immediately, the squabbling between the Army and its ‘Masters’ began anew. But on one crucial point at least, there was no disagreement; the King could not be trusted. But there, the concord ended. Parliament still held out the hope that Charles could be persuaded to amend his ways. The Army were through talking. When the Commons refused to heed the Army’s ‘Remonstrance’, a list of demands, and stated that they would continue to treat with the King, the Army reacted. Troopers arrested or ejected all the members from the House in a purge and closed Parliament. People were stunned throughout the land. Was it not just such an act by the King that had led them down that sorry road to war all those years ago? But, as with so many titanic events, once the thing was in motion, it became unstoppable. Parliament was reopened under tight supervision and an Ordinance was passed instigating a specially selected High Court with the specific purpose of trying the King. In court, Charles was regal, lucid, and even without his habitual stutter. He questioned the Court’s legality and argued cogently, but his arrogance and contempt was still visible just below the surface of his calm exterior - not that anything was ever going to change the outcome of the trial. On the 27th of January 1649, Charles Stuart was condemned to death. On the 30th of that month, to the stunned disbelief of his subjects, he was executed. The English had done the unthinkable; they had killed their King.

The shock that reverberated through the land gave way to a kind of stunned disbelief. The whole of England seemed to be holding its breath, but this inertia did not last for long. Charles had a son and he very soon set about trying to reclaim his birthright, the crown of the Stuart dynasty. Yet another round of hostilities erupted: a Third Civil War. His attempts to engineer some kind of unification of all the disparate factions in Ireland failed disastrously when Cromwell defeated the Royalist sympathisers and brutally suppressed any dissidence. He slaughtered the garrison of Drogheda for failing to surrender to him, outraging Catholics across Europe who were told by their Church that the three thousand corpses incurred were those of women and children. This was untrue, they were mainly Royalist soldiers, but no religion has ever cared for the truth if it doesn’t suit its own ends, and so the tragic legend stuck and was enhanced by the Army running amok in Wexford shortly after. Cromwell cared not a fig for the opinion of any religion other than his own; the young Stuart’s plans for Ireland had been shattered and that was all that mattered. Charles the younger now turned to the Scots, they had been ready to assist his father, surely they would do no less for him. Westminster in turn looked to Fairfax to deal with the threat. Fairfax stated bluntly that he would defend England with his life if the Scots invaded, but, regardless of what duplicity
they
might show, HE would not break his oath. He had sworn to uphold the Solemn League and Covenant and he would not carry his sword north of the border; his conscience would not permit it. In truth, Fairfax had had his fill of the new order already. He no longer recognised this England he had fought so hard to establish. Indeed it was nothing like the ideal he had originally perceived in his heart and killing the King had never been a deed he had wanted any part of.

So, with Fairfax unwilling to act, who could Westminster turn to? Who but Oliver Cromwell. Convinced now beyond doubt that he was God’s chosen one, Cromwell pursued his task with vigour. He intercepted the Scots Army at Preston and all but destroyed it. It was during this battle that Corporal of Horse Bowman disappeared. He was assumed killed, but no one had seen it happen. At the end of the final victorious charge, he was simply gone. Everyone knew that he would not have deserted and his absence left a very noticeable hole in the unit. Mead in particular missed his presence and began to wonder if Bowman had been a lot sicker than anyone realised. Had he gone off to die somewhere? It made no sense.

Now Cromwell experienced a period a great frustration as Charles the younger kept on eluding him, always seeming one march ahead. Then at Worcester, he caught up with the combined Royalist / Scots forces and overwhelmed them. But once again, the young Stuart escaped, this time fleeing to France and beyond Cromwell’s reach.

Throughout the land, Parliament’s forces now began in earnest their task to extinguish every last vestige of Royalist sympathy. The New Model Army excelled in this work, in the Almighty’s work as they saw it. They would bring lasting peace to the country, even if it proved to be the peace of the dead! Diehard Royalist soldiers faced a stark choice: renounce your former ways, repent your sins, and swear for Parliament, or be declared outlaw and suffer the consequences. There were no longer to be any ‘prisoners of war’, the war was over, therefore anyone in arms not serving Parliament MUST be outlaws of the most despicable species. The gallows were seldom empty for long, and many were those poor souls despatched in chains for the Indies to be worked to death or waste away from disease. In desperation many prisoners made a last bid for freedom, escaping from whatever goal held them and fleeing to the coast in search of a friendly seafarer who might convey them to the Continent. One such was Wil Pitkin.

But Puritan bureaucracy had been hard at work and the names of many of these renegades and runaways had been listed and widely circulated. England was now effectively run by a select body of Major Generals reporting directly to Cromwell. Chosen for their dedication to the Cause and their extreme Puritan views, they ruled over their allotted domains with a rod of iron and a determination to create the New Jerusalem. The people of both Shire and City became daily more depressed. What monster had they unthinkingly created? These sentiments applied even to many in the Army, men who now seriously began to question what all the years of bloodshed had been for. Tempers began fraying but then a kind of fatal resignation began setting in. Just as the country had previously drifted into war, now it was sinking into a morass of hopelessness, of powerless apathy. But many were not content for this to happen unchallenged; undreamt of change was within their grasp. It must be seized! The fanatical austerity of the Puritans on one side and the increasingly radical demands of many of their former comrades on the other were boding ill to turn England into anything but a green and pleasant land. One man who was starting to view the future with an increasingly morbid scepticism was Richard Mead. But to him personally, the original job was still not yet done; old scores had yet to be settled. Vengeance might, according to the scriptures, be the Lord’s prerogative, but Mead had every intention of assisting the Almighty in achieving the correct outcome.

For weeks, Mead and his troop had been patrolling the West Country. Partly this was to ensure that the ‘Clubmen’ remained cowed, and secondly to seek out and apprehend those the State had declared outlaws. The first task was not to Richard’s taste. After all, all the Clubmen really wanted was to be left alone, and he could understand that. The second aspect though he pursued with tireless energy, frequently volunteering for a hunt if fugitives were foolish enough to traverse his area of responsibility. They were not to know that he was in reality seeking out one particular fugitive and were thus surprised when they found themselves treated without undue harshness, at least until they were handed over to their jailors, or worse, the New Model Army. It perplexed his fellow officers as well. Why? How could Mead chase a quarry with such zeal only to loose interest the moment it was caught? Then a new list of absconders appeared before him, believed to be heading into Devonshire and allegedly led by a renegade Royalist officer. At last, there it was, plain in black and white in the neat script of a Government clerk. There was the name he had been looking for all these long months!

Mead’s men became a blur of activity and within two days they had apprehended four of the men on the list. The fifth escaped by the skin of his teeth. They had not yet caught Pitkin. The last runaway hauled in was a grizzled and unrepentant old soldier with gangrenous wounds probably caused by the shackles of his previous imprisonment. He was almost delirious with pain and fatigue, but still defiant, still a King’s Man. Mead had his men ‘refresh’ the veteran with gin until he was alternating between self-pity and stubborn belligerence.

“Well old ‘un,” he prompted, “I’m surprised Pitkin left you adrift like that.”

“Captain Pitkin didn’t leave me yer dammed fool!” snarled the man. “I told ‘im to go. Couldn’t keep up anymore see. Made sense for ‘im to be away before you Roundheaded bastards caught the pair on us!”

Mead stifled an involuntary shudder of excitement. So close.

“No matter. We’ll soon have him, he’s afoot and … ”

The old man guffawed and tried to focus. He waved a gnarled finger in the general direction of the trio of Roundhead officers he was now seeing before him.

“That’s where you’re wrong yer smug piece of Puritan shit! He ain’t afoot an’ in two days he’ll be at sea! So stuff that up yer arse an’ light it!”

“Will he now?” said Mead quietly. The case of a missing donkey now appeared solved as well. “Will he indeed? We shall see.”

Pitkin’s donkey was starting to go lame and was making heavy weather of the poor road. A couple of miles from his destination, the fishing village of Beer, he had to abandon her, and stumbled on alone. It was near nightfall when he arrived, breathless and exhausted, to seek out the man he had been told of. The weather-beaten old seaman was a King’s man through and through and, once convinced of Pitkin’s authenticity, agreed to help him escape. Wil felt strangely humbled by the quiet dignity of the man, but the chances of him ever receiving any reward for his aid were almost non-existent. More likely he’d end up dangling from a rope for aiding fugitives. Yet still he was prepared to do it, to do it because he believed it was the right thing to do. No other motivation was necessary to him. Pitkin was given a trencher of bread and cheese and a mug of cider and was then shown to a lean-to full of nets. They would take the morning tide across the Channel to France where Pitkin would have to make his own arrangements. Wil was content; he could ask no more. He slumped on a heap of tackle and was asleep in an instant with a smile on his face. He had made it; he was free!

Richard Mead drove his men mercilessly. He’d studied the nearest thing he could find to a map, calculated distances and estimated speed. Only a handful of likely locations lay within a realistic two days of where Pitkin’s fellow fugitives had been apprehended. The destination would have to be discreet, and in most of the locations, a runaway would stand out like a sore thumb. In another, there was already a detachment of the New Model’s Horse in residence. That left the little fishing hamlet of Beer. Relatively isolated, not easily accessible; yes, it must be Beer. Reluctantly he ordered a brief halt for the night. There was a brilliant full moon in a cloudless sky and the pathways stood out clearly. Four hours then to rest the mounts, no more, then up before dawn and onwards. And so it was. Troopers Poulton and Hitch ranged ahead, carbines at the ready. Mead loosened his sword and checked his pistols. Pitkin would not escape this time.

No one in Beer heard or saw the xebecs as they skimmed lightly up the shingle. Low, sleek and fast pirate vessels from the Mediterranean, they appeared shortly before sunup just as the little community were beginning to stir. Minutes later, three score of swarthy men armed to the teeth were rampaging amid the bewildered and barely awake villagers. Horror had come to Beer. Pitkin was stirred by the strong smell of burning and the crackle of torched thatch. He blundered out into the half-light and instantly something crashed onto the back of his head. He fell back into a black void of pain then unconsciousness.

As the sun rose, Mead saw one of his scouts returning to the column in some haste.

“Something’s up Captain,” reported Poulton. “It’s a bit too misty to be sure, but it looks like the village is afire.”

Mead increased the pace and as soon as the ground permitted, he deployed his men for action. They entered the village cautiously, slowly descending the hill and watching for ambush. Not a single building was intact; all had been burned to the ground. Several bodies, most of them headless, were strewn about in puddles of blood.