men being torn apart tormented him. Never a good patient, discomfort and mental anguish combined to make him a monster. Many a time his harassed mother left his room, leaned against the door-jamb and wept silently into her apron. She understood his behaviour and rarely snapped back. She was just terrified Gideon would die.
Parthenope Jukes was made of stern stuff, however. She had always been a scrupulous housewife. In her home, flies were swatted. Hands were washed before preparing food. Floors were mopped; tables scrubbed; dishcloths boiled. Cooking pots were cleaned to a sparkle with vinegar or lye. The well in the yard was kept sanitary.
A similarly strict regime was applied to her sick son. He was quarantined to a small, simply furnished room, where his bedding was changed daily. The lice were dealt with; Parthenope tenderly cut his hair short, combing out nits onto a piece of housewife-cloth which she burned. Once she realised the extent of the problem, his parents struggled to hold Gideon while a barber shaved him naked, including places where a seventeenth century man never dreamed of being shaved. His delirium was coloured by the constant smell of sulphur and lard from ointments to soothe his itching, an aroma that soon seemed to infest even his dreams.
Eventually came a worse odour: rotting flesh. When gangrenous sores appeared, a surgeon was called. Gideon lost three fingertips on his left hand and his right fourth fingertip.
Though frail, John Jukes played his part in tending his son. After close study of medical tracts, he had advanced views about airing sickrooms and even though it was winter, he insisted that a window was opened daily to allow the escape of dangerous 'miasmas'. John's more curious theories were rebuffed while Parthenope tackled the unpleasant day-today aspects of nursing. By some act of providence his parents managed not to catch the fever and slowly they restored Gideon's health. He moved from stupor into a clear mind. It took months, and even afterwards he clung to his room in a long depression.
At least he was rarely left alone with his terrors. Mostly his mother sat with him, studying her books of household management. It was years since she had had so many quiet moments and Parthenope came to enjoy the respite. Often Gideon emerged from restless sleep to find her, spectacles on nose, intent on putting her recipes in order — spreading the papers across his bed as she worked. Sometimes instead, a waft of tobacco smoke announced his father in attendance. Gideon felt bound to protect both from knowing what he had endured, but John was determined to find out. The days were long gone when John Jukes could parade with the Artillery Company, but he was full of curiosity about all that had happened to his sons. He plied Lambert with questions, unconsciously helping Lambert to unburden himself, then when Lambert lost patience John would turn to Gideon. In the early days, when Gideon was most dangerously ill, John took to dozing in a chair at the bedside overnight.
Gideon lost some of the distance from his parents that had built up while he was apprenticed. He was already much better friends with Lambert. So they all moved into a new family cycle. Whereas for some people the civil war damaged or destroyed stability, the Jukes were more fortunate. The parents were proud of the sons; the sons were encouraged by their parents' support. One son's wife was a fervent ally. Only Lacy held herself aloof, but that was never political.
Robert Allibone was of course another supporter. As soon as the invalid was adjudged out of danger and unlikely to be contagious, Robert hurried to help keep him cheery. For him, this meant bringing paper and ink to woo reminiscences that could be reconstructed into a diary. Like other memoirs by the Trained Bands, it was polished, edited and published. So the vivid, intrigued recollections of the ordinary soldier were brought to both contemporary and future readers in an unprecedented way. Gideon complained that the fever had made his mind hazy, but Robert persisted.
Robert brought news of how the London Trained Band regiments were continuing to serve in the field. Gideon listened, at first feeling out of it, but then relieved to be so.
Sir William Waller had now been made commander of various troops but was beset with problems. Particularly fraught was persuading his allocation from the London Trained Bands to do service outside the city. Some grumpy members of the Yellow Regiment were taken to Farnham Castle, Waller's headquarters. They met their new commander: an intense West Countryman, with brows drawn anxiously down over wide-set eyes and a pursed mouth beneath a moustache that was swept up at the ends onto gaunt cheeks. He signalled his authority by hanging a clerk of his own regiment for mutiny. This failed to impress the disgruntled Londoners. Their relationship with Waller never gelled and he was frequently furious at their open cries of 'Home! Home!', which forced him to make unmilitary pleas for them to stay.
It was a bad time of year for manoeuvres. The troops marched towards Winchester but were turned back by extreme wet and snow. Waller swung them over to Basing House. This enormous Royalist stronghold dominated the area between Oxford and London, threatening both Essex's headquarters and Waller's base at Farnham. Once a staunch motte-and-bailey castle, it had been transformed by grandiose Tudor courtiers and now rivalled the Tower of London in size and strength. Over fourteen acres included the Old House, surrounded by still-viable Norman earthworks, and the palatial New House, which contained 380 rooms. Basing was garrisoned with two regiments of foot and extra cavalry, who were protected by star-shaped towers set into massive surrounding walls that were said to be eight feet thick, brick walls on an earth core that would withstand the heaviest cannon fire. The gatehouse was a stupendous four storeys high.
Its position so close to London made the capture of Basing House imperative. But when Waller's men arrived and the cold fog dispersed to reveal this bastion, their hearts sank. The London regiments were wimpish besiegers, daunted by the task. Upon finding one of the buildings in the grounds, Grange Farm, full of bread, beer, mild cheese, bacon, beef, milk and peas, the famished Trained Bands gorged themselves, while the thatched roof blazed dangerously above them and shots rained all around. Ignoring their colleagues, who were struggling bravely elsewhere on the site, they threw themselves into looting and gluttony until the day's attack failed, with many men killed. Bad weather and lack of spirit caused two retreats from Basing, which would continue to hold out for three years.
Hopton approached. He was Waller's old friend and long-term Royalist rival; Waller had a vested interest in beating him. Waller kept the Trained Bands sweet by plying them with victuals. When he reviewed them on the 12th of December, he begged them to stay for one more task. They grudgingly remained until the following Monday. They marched towards Basing again, then veered off to Alton; this important Royalist garrison was taken after a particularly vicious fight, which resulted in the Parliamentarians carrying away 875 prisoners, fifty officers, and various standards. Hopton was sore. Waller was satisfied. The Trained Bands' reputation had been saved — though they begged to be allowed to go home as promised, because it was nearly Christmas.
Gideon Jukes observed all this and convinced himself he was still a sick man.
Late on Christmas Day 1643, Lacy Jukes went into labour. A daughter was born to her on Boxing Day. Mother and child survived. The successful outcome was reported to Gideon by his own mother, with only the slightest puff of surprise that the birth had occurred so soon. Still, judging a pregnancy was an inexact science and, as Parthenope commented, many an innocent young woman giving birth prematurely had been accused of immorality. Being called to account by some interfering crone while racked in labour was a fear that dogged all women…
Parthenope was weary when she let slip this speculation; she regretted it afterwards. Luckily her son took her remarks very quietly so there appeared to be no harm done. She knew he was sensitive. She would not have wanted to perturb him.
The baby, in its long white gown and tiny lace cap, was shown to Gideon, briefly, from the doorway of his room. Everyone sent messages of the child's lustiness and its likeness to him. His wife said it was unthinkable that she should come near a sick man while nursing her daughter. Gideon made no objection.
He had a lot of time for private thought that winter. Too much, perhaps.
Both Jukes brothers were now reconsidering what they wanted from this conflict. Both had been deeply affected by their great adventure to Gloucester. They felt entitled to political reward for their contribution. Lambert fell back into domesticity, but Gideon became ever more restless.
By winter, Gideon had to accept that his physical recovery was assured. He continued to mope by himself in the sickroom. The loss of his finger ends gave him an excuse. He was a specimen: doctors came and went, writing up notes for their memoirs. Gangrene was not unknown in camp fever patients, but it was rare, and his father enjoyed parading Gideon as a singular case. Civil war doctors and surgeons wanted specialist reputations. Who could blame them, when a surgeon's pay was only five shillings a day, and each had to equip himself with a medical chest to the value of twenty-five pounds at his own expense. Most wounded soldiers died. Most, therefore, would pay no fees.
At least being a specimen was a two-way process. Gideon made it a condition that his doctors had their
