A Soldier of Substance Read online

  “The gunner must now gauge his piece,” continued Morgan. “That is to say he must make sure that the gun is aligned correctly. Once he is satisfied, he will fill up the vent with priming powder and check there is a clear line to the main charge.”

  After a minute’s pause, the gunner stepped back and raised his hand in the air. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash, followed a split second later by a resounding boom. Women squealed and put their hands over their ears. The cannonball flew at a low trajectory towards the house and buried itself into the wall with a crunch, sending a huge cloud of dust flying into the air.

  Raucous cheers emanated from the forward trench. Fists were shaken and insults hurled at the snipers in the towers and on the walls. A few stones crumbled, but once the dust had dissipated, it became clear that the cannonball had done precious little damage.

  “That’s strange,” said Alexander. “I thought cannonballs that size were supposed to break up walls like these.”

  “They are,” I said, “but the walls are so old that the rock will probably only crumble. Only new stone will crack in the way you mention. Apart from which, Lady Derby’s men will have been building up earth banks behind the walls. It will take more than a few cannonballs to break through them. Look at Browne,” I added, “he is an engineer. He knows it.”

  In fact, both Browne and Morgan had noticed the problem and were trying to attract the attention of Rigby, who seemed oblivious to the lack of damage caused by the first cannonball and was continuing to play to the crowds. Eventually, though, Browne managed to draw the colonel away from his audience for a moment. When they had finished talking, Rigby addressed the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Mr Browne and Major Morgan wish to provide you with more sport and a more spectacular outcome. Our gunners, therefore, will now target the towers, so there will be a brief pause, whilst our gunner resets the angles on our demi-cannon.”

  “I knew it,” breathed Alexander. “Browne and Morgan have been saying all along that the slope of the hill prevents them from getting the right trajectory to target the wall where it matters. The best they can hope for is the sight of some falling masonry.”

  And so it proved. By the time the demi-cannon had been reset, Alexander and I were back on duty in the forward trench and were therefore able to get a much closer view of the damage caused by our ordnance. The gun was fired twice more, this time the balls arching upwards and hitting the stone towers inside the walls. It certainly made for a more spectacular sight, as both cannonballs sent substantial amounts of masonry crashing into the courtyards below, and sent the snipers scurrying for cover, which inevitably provided much entertainment for the spectators. The damage, however, was merely cosmetic, and there was no sign that Rigby would be able to make any further impression on the walls.

  Fortunately for him, Rigby was able to save himself from further embarrassment by the appearance of a messenger from York, where Fairfax was now encamped. Sir Thomas, it appeared, had received word that the Earl of Derby, still in Chester, and thinking to save his wife from unnecessary danger, had been persuaded to agree terms for the surrender of the house and wished to convey this message to Lady Derby.

  Having received this missive from the earl, Rigby immediately ordered Morgan to cease bombarding the house with shot and sent his personal chaplain, a man called Jackson, into the house under a temporary flag of truce, in order to convey this information to her ladyship. Lady Derby received the chaplain with all due courtesy and thanked Fairfax for the same, but nonetheless chose to reject the offer.

  All this I heard from Colonel Rigby’s own mouth when he summoned me to his field command base in the Tawd Valley as soon as Jackson returned.

  “I need a rider to take Lady Derby’s response to her husband,” said Rigby, by way of explanation. “You are the most obvious candidate.”

  I was not sure why this should be so, but any opportunity to escape the purgatory of the trenches was welcome, and it would give me the opportunity, once in Chester, to conduct some further investigations into the murders, as well as to seek out William Seaman and pass on the news of what had happened to Jane Bootle. I therefore readily agreed to Rigby’s request.

  “That is good,” said Rigby. “It is too late to depart this evening. You can be on your way at first light tomorrow. In the meantime, you are excused from duty tonight. I suggest you go back to New Park House and get some rest.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” I said, “but what of Mr Clowes. Will he accompany me?”

  I looked up to see Rigby’s constant lopsided smile; only I knew he was not smiling.

  “I think not, Mr Cheswis,” he said, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. “You do not need a chaperone to deliver a message. If Mr Clowes asks where you are, I will make sure he is duly informed.”

  Chapter 25

  Lathom House – Wednesday March 20th, 1644

  I walked back to New Park House by the northern route, through the sprawling parliamentary camp and onto the track past the woods where I had seen Jenny Reade a few days earlier. As I climbed out of the valley and onto the track, I noticed that Morgan had positioned the rest of his limited ordnance, consisting of three sakers, at the gun placements on the northern side of the house. For the present, they were pointing at the postern gate, from where both of the night attacks on our position had originated.

  As I considered this vista, I was amazed to see the postern gate open slightly, allowing Jenny Reade’s dog to emerge and trot lazily across the open ground towards the trees where I had seen it disappear before. This time, however, it did not vanish into the copse but turned left, bypassed the chapel, and headed off towards Ormskirk.

  Forgetting all thought of returning to New Park House, I picked up my feet and ran after the dog, desperate not to let it out of my sight. Fortunately, the animal kept stopping to sniff at the ground and to relieve itself against walls and posts along the way, and so I was able to keep it within my sight right to the edge of Ormskirk, close by the windmill at Greetby. There it slid off to the left of the road and entered the garden of a small cottage set slightly apart from a row of workers’ houses.

  As I approached the cottage, though, I was forced to duck instinctively behind a stone wall, for a male figure suddenly appeared from around the back of the cottage, leading a horse by the reins.

  It was a figure I knew well, but not one which I had expected to see. How, I asked myself, had Edward Chisnall managed to get out of Lathom House undetected? The house was now fully surrounded, so I could only assume he had managed to distract the guards watching the various sally ports around the house.

  I crouched low behind the wall and watched as Chisnall mounted his horse and rode away across the fields to the south. There was, I realised, only one place that he could conceivably be heading.

  I considered briefly whether I should be asking the grooms at New Park House to ready Demeter for a night ride to Chester in order to reach there before Chisnall, but decided, on reflection, that there was little point. If Chisnall himself decided to ride in the dark, I would have no chance of catching him.

  At that moment, a second figure, small and waif-like, appeared from around the rear of the cottage. Jenny Reade was singing to herself, and her dog was running round her heels, but she came to an abrupt halt when she realised I was watching her. Behind her, two young children, a boy of about eight and a younger girl, stood sullenly and stared at me.

  “Jenny!” I said. For a moment it looked as though the girl was about to take to her heels and flee, but she thought better of it.

  “You will not tell, will you, sir? If Colonel Rigby should find out my brother is still sending out messages with the dog, they will kill me, as they did my mother.”

  “Then why allow it?” I asked.

  “I have no choice. The earl sends one of his men from Chester to pick up messages. I can hardly refuse.”

  “I suppose not,” I said, “but what is Edward Chisnall doing here?�
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  Jenny looked at me in resignation. “Mr Chisnall merely keeps his horse here,” she explained. “My mother looked after it for him and I have continued to do this. I receive a small consideration in return. If I did not do this, our family would starve.”

  I thought about this for a moment. That messages for the Earl of Derby were being passed out with Jenny as an intermediary were one thing, but they did not throw any light on how Lady Derby was receiving information from the parliamentary commanders. Neither did it explain how Chisnall had managed to leave the house undetected. I could easily have stopped the trafficking of secret messages by hauling Jenny off to Rigby’s interrogators, but I could not see what that would achieve other than to condemn Jenny to death and her siblings to destitution. I made a decision and chose the more subtle option. Gaining this girl’s trust, I considered, might prove to be more valuable than betraying her to the colonel.

  “Jenny,” I said, “I have little interest in what messages your dog is smuggling out of the house, but I would like to know how Edward Chisnall manages to escape the attention of our guards.”

  Jenny looked at me in bewilderment. “That I do not know,” she said. “He will not say for fear of his secret being discovered. He has told me this himself.”

  “But you will tell me if you find out?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” she said, uncertainly. “You will not betray me, will you?”

  “I do not wish to cause you trouble,” I said, truthfully. “I promise you, if Colonel Rigby finds out about this, it will not be me who has told him. But I may need your help on another matter. You are knowledgeable on the subject of herbs and remedies, I understand.”

  “I learned a lot from my mother,” replied Jenny, a touch of suspicion in her voice.

  “Then I will return,” I said, reaching inside my pocket and giving her another shilling. “In the meantime, you must have a care and keep Chisnall away from here as much as you can.”

  Jenny hesitated for a few seconds but eventually reached out and snatched the coin, a broad smile breaking out across her face.

  “You are a good man, Mr Cheswis,” she said, before turning on her heels and shepherding her younger siblings around the back of the house.

  Chapter 26

  Lathom House – Thursday March 21st - Friday March 22nd,1644

  The next morning brought with it a stiff breeze and squally showers, but the changeable weather did not deter me from my business. I woke early, having not seen Demeter for several days, and was gratified to find that Rigby’s grooms had already prepared her for the ride. My bay mare whickered in recognition and nuzzled her nose into my neck as I led her out into the courtyard. Her ears stood erect and alert, as though she too was elated at the prospect of putting some distance between herself and Lathom.

  Despite having to negotiate muddy and rutted roads, we made good time, and by late Friday morning I was in Mickle Trafford, banging on the door of Challinor’s forge. Knowing that, as Rigby’s messenger, I would be kept under close watch whilst in Chester, I arranged for messages to be taken to Annie at The Boot and to William Seaman at his shop, requesting each of them meet me at Challinor’s later that afternoon. I stayed only long enough to make sure Demeter was fed and watered, and before long we were in sight of the outer earthworks at Flookersbrook. To my surprise, I found the earthen banks and palisades to be completely abandoned, whilst all that remained of Flookersbrook Hall was a burned out and empty shell.

  “Destroyed on the order of Prince Rupert,” explained a farmer, who I encountered coming the other way. “A monstrous display of wanton destruction, if you ask me,” he opined, “but the prince reckoned it would make the inner defences more secure. You’ll need to show your papers at the toll booth at Henwald’s Lowe.”

  “Prince Rupert was here?” I asked, surprised.

  “Aye, that he was,” said the farmer. “Came with a whole load of soldiers and left with a few more. Ate our food, drank our ale, burned down half the houses hereabouts and then buggered off back to Shrewsbury.”

  I thanked the farmer and rode on to the toll booth, where I was stopped by a burly redcoat. The look of suspicion he greeted me with turned into one of contempt when he saw my papers.

  “Bloody roundhead, are we?” he growled.

  “I have an important communication for his lordship, the Earl of Derby,” I said, trying to sound as self-important as possible.

  The redcoat sniffed and deposited a large globule of spittle on the ground at my feet. “Aye, that’s as mebbe,” he growled, “but you’re going nowhere without an escort in and out of the city. And I would recommend that you don’t try any funny business, either. There’s plenty here would give their eye’s teeth for the chance to shove a red hot poker up your traitorous arse and feed your miserable pizzle to the dogs. Is that clear?”

  I indicated to the redcoat that I understood his warning and waited fifteen minutes while an escort of four dragoons was organised. Once they arrived, they led me down Cow Lane, past the Kaleyard Gate, through which I had escaped but a few days earlier, and into the city via the Eastgate. From there, I was escorted past The Boot, around the Pentice, and down Watergate Street, until we reached the fine gabled town house that belonged to the Earl of Derby. As I rode past The Boot, I glanced upwards to row level and caught sight of Thomas Corbett, who was busy sweeping his stallboards. The youngster caught sight of me momentarily and stared quizzically at me before disappearing through the door into the tap-room.

  Outside Derby House, the dragoons dismounted and ordered me to do the same, one of them taking hold of Demeter’s reins. Two of them escorted me to the front door and were just about to announce their presence by tugging the bell that hung at the end of a rope outside the front door, when the door was flung open and out strode Edward Chisnall, clutching a small leather satchel. When he saw me he came to an abrupt halt, his eyes widening in astonishment.

  “You!” he croaked, in strangled tones, a vein throbbing prominently in his neck. “Am I to believe you have had the nerve to follow me here, sir?”

  The dragoons looked at each other in puzzlement. Behind me, Demeter reared nervously.

  “I am the bearer of correspondence from Colonel Rigby in response to his lordship’s letter to Sir Thomas Fairfax, but my services as a courier would appear to be surplus to requirements, for I see you have beaten me to it.”

  Chisnall glared balefully at me and opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he simply wagged a gloved finger in my face and glowered at me for a brief moment, before snorting loudly and disappearing up the street towards the cross.

  The leader of the small group of dragoons, a craggy-faced sergeant with tanned skin that looked like leather, rubbed his hand through greasy black hair and regarded me with a look of new-found respect.

  “I don’t know who you are, mister,” he said, “but he seems mortal fed up with you.”

  I thought to tell the dragoon that Chisnall was merely a hasty and judgemental fool, who had taken a dislike to me from the start, but by this time a footman had appeared in the doorway and bid me enter a spacious and well-appointed reception room.

  To the right, a fireplace was supported by a large ship’s timber, a reminder of how close we were to the port of Chester and that the Stanley family remained the custodians of Watergate, attracting an income from all goods landed there. The walls themselves were covered in plain wood panelling, the ceiling cross-beamed, and to my left, a wooden staircase led to the upper floors. I was allowed to sit on a chair next to the hearth, but the two redcoats positioned themselves ominously by the door.

  After a few minutes, I heard voices, accompanied by the sound of leather boots on the stairwell, and three figures descended into view. The first of these was a man of medium build with a long, straight nose and dark hair that lay flat over his forehead, but tumbled in curls over his shoulders. Clean shaven, but with a thin, wispy moustache on his upper lip, he wore dark clothing
, un-extravagant in style, and exuded an air of authority. I realised at once that I was in the presence of James Stanley, the seventh Earl of Derby.

  “So, you have been sent by that treacherous dog Rigby, have you?” exclaimed the earl. “I fear your efforts have been wasted, for I already have news from my wife.”

  “So I have seen, my lord,” I said, struggling to my feet and bowing hastily. “I apologise for my tardiness. I set off from Lathom at first light yesterday, but I’m afraid I was not as fast as Captain Chisnall.”

  Lord Derby looked at me sharply and took the small leather pouch that I proffered to him. He opened the pouch and took out a sealed envelope. Carefully breaking the seal, he extracted a sheet of paper, which he read carefully.

  “Tell me,” began the earl. “I am curious. How is it that you know Captain Chisnall?”

  “I think I can answer that, my lord,” said one of the two men behind the earl. I had been so transfixed by being in the presence of the Earl of Derby that I had taken only scant notice of his two companions. I noticed, with a start, that the man who had spoken was none other than Robert Whitby, who, it seemed, was just as shocked to see me.

  “Am I to understand, sir, that I dined with a man in the employ of Parliament’s rebel forces?” he demanded, a hint of steel in his voice. “I might have known a Nantwich man was not as loyal as he made out.”

  “Who is this cur, Robert?” asked the third man, stepping out from behind the earl. Dressed ostentatiously in a striking blue doublet with gold trimmings, he was about the same age as the earl, but carried the beginnings of a paunch and a slightly florid complexion that suggested rather more of a liking for good French wine than was strictly healthy.

  “This is Cheswis, the man I was telling you about, Francis,” said Whitby. “A friend of William Seaman. He was present when poor Katherine was so cruelly murdered.”