mood to gather and gossip, reviewing the previous year and making prophecies for the next. The Blues and the Reds had spent the past autumn in the Parliamentary blockade, stationed at Reading and then in action at Newbury. Conversation inevitably turned on comparison between the two battles there. But first Gideon heard in more terrible detail what had happened at the defeat in Cornwall.
'We met the few lads who managed to struggle back. Those poor devils had a time of it. Getting penned up in Cornwall was folly by Old Robin. They ended at Lostwithiel, in a deep valley with a river to one side and steep hills around them, and only open sea ahead. It was a desperate place, with the local people violently hostile. Many only spoke a foreign language, and claimed to know no English. There was neither food nor any provisioning to be had. Our fellows were starved to the bone there for eight days, under constant attack. The cavalry cut their way out, by good management and luck, but for the rest it was hopeless. Then Essex left them, very suddenly, to save himself from capture, and was fetched off in a fishing smack. He had not even told Skippon what he intended.'
'This is a bad story!'
'True enough.' More wine was downed despondently. 'Skippon made the best surrender he could, and upon terms. Luckily the King was also hard pressed, too deprived of supplies to remain there himself. And so it was agreed that our infantry could march out, every man above corporal keeping his weapons, on a promise that they would not fight again until they came to Southampton. They marched through the enemy, who said they hung their heads like sheep. The very lice upon them were more alive than they. But the terms were broken. Our men were fallen upon, stripped, battered. The King and some of his officers tried to drive off troublemakers with the flats of their swords — but they did not try hard enough. Locals and disobedient Royalist soldiers tore the very shirts from our boys' backs, stole their weapons, reviled them, shoved them in the mire and kicked them, harried and taunted them. There was no food. The enemy went ever ahead of them, taking all from the villages. Our men shuffled through driving wind and rain, shivering, naked and unshod. Skippon had his coach, but to his credit he stayed right with them until he brought that miserable band safe into Southampton. Most never made it. They dropped in mid- stride, then they died where they dropped. We heard from those we met that only one in ten men came through their hardship alive. There are rotting bodies like milestones all along the roadside from Fowey to Southampton.'
Respectful silence fell. Eventually Robert prompted, 'When you met the survivors at Newbury…?'
'Dismal as ghosts.'
The Blues were sombre. They hunched over their cups, each man turning into himself as he imagined what Essex's humiliated infantry had endured.
'Well, they were afforded some revenge — ' Empty flagons and trenchers skidded swiftly across the worn oak taproom table to illustrate the battle at Newbury for Gideon and Robert. 'This is Shaw House… Donnington Castle… Speen village. The first encounter was at Shaw. The plan was for a double-pronged attack. In the hours of darkness Waller and Skippon, with a large contingent, had marched right around — ' A sweep with goblets, scraping on the board, indicated a flanking move. 'They were to invade Speen, while Manchester was to charge on Shaw as soon as he heard their cannon. Waller duly did the business. That was when we saw the broken-hearted relics of Lostwithiel regain their manhood. They marched on, valiantly singing psalms, despite a hail of case-shot that ravaged the ranks. When they came to the very cannon that had been taken from them at Lostwithiel, their emotion was pitiful. Some embraced the gun-barrels with tears in their eyes. Prince Maurice had Cornishmen in his forces — they ran for it, shrieking. They knew what to expect. Our fellows raced after them and gave no quarter.'
No need to describe the Cornishmen's bloody end.
Though all had been confusion, these men who served at Newbury were certain what went wrong. 'Manchester failed to busy himself when he heard the guns. Men fought like furies at Speen, expecting Manchester's attack on Shaw to come at every moment; he did nothing. He took an hour to engage, and was then repulsed by Sir George Lisle — '
'Lisle, it was said, threw off his buff coat and fought in his white shirt, so his men could still see him in the gloom.' Robert had already read about this.
Aye, while our dreary commanders dithered like blushing flower-girls… So the joint attack failed. Manchester would not bestir himself until half an hour from sunset. As soon as darkness came, the enemy reorganised and got safe away.'
'So where is the blame in this?' asked Robert, thoughtfully.
'Chaos at the top. We boys put our lives at hazard while the commanders niggle. 'He stole my toy!' 'I'm the eldest!' 'I hate him — I shan't play with him!' The whole past season has been that way. And they were quarrelling days later, when the King came back. Reinforced by Prince Rupert, he danced in and carried his cannon out of Donnington, just as he had always intended. Our generals stood passive and refused battle.' Gideon knew this had annoyed Sir Samuel Luke. He related how Luke was livid when the King was allowed to retrieve his cannon from Donnington Castle, since they needed some great guns for Newport.
Disgusted, the Blues summoned another round of drinks. Robert Allibone tried to tell them lessons had been learned in Parliament. Oliver Cromwell, whose own role at Newbury had been less than stellar, had none the less been furiously lambasting the Earl of Manchester for 'backwardness', virtually accusing him of dereliction of duty. Even so, Cromwell now argued that it was pointless to assign blame; a remedy was needed. A committee was ordered to consider 'a frame or model of the whole militia'. All serving members of both Houses would voluntarily resign from army command and return to government, so the jealous earls and their fractious juniors would be removed at a stroke. The newly modelled army would be a national force, under one commander.
True soldiers, the Blues were happy to complain about their masters, but when theory cropped up, they lost interest.
In the course of the week, Gideon managed to hand over the Newport officers' letter to Sir Samuel Luke — along with two large veal pies baked by his mother. Parthenope had noted Gideon's stories of how country landowners liked presents. There was some coldness of reception for the letter, and Gideon was told he need not wait to take a reply. He had therefore to return next day to Newport. On his last evening, he went again to a tavern, this time with his brother Lambert. They took along their father, his role strangely changed so he seemed like a small boy being allowed out with adults. Lambert led them down Thames Street to the gracious area where once wealthy merchants had houses on the old road down to London Bridge.
Lambert knew a good tavern; Lambert always did. A hum of voices rose as the door was opened. It had a dark, noisy taproom, full of busy argument. Flagstone floors; dark panelled walls; two rows of old long tables; casement windows, set in deep embrasures, but barely visible through the smoke from pipes and the great log fire at the further end; waiting men and girls moving about rapidly, with trays borne aloft on their shoulders.
As soon as he entered, Gideon re-experienced his homesickness for London life. Lambert was subdued, regretful at losing him. As they ordered, Gideon looked around and listened to the flow of voices. He realised that he had been missing not only London, but the thrill of plotting. Although he liked his work as a scout, life at Newport Pagnell seemed empty by comparison. He had enjoyed the years leading up to war. He had been fired by political tension, excited by the hope of change. He loved being among men with opinions. These here were probably arguing about the rising price of haddock, but it could just as well be about freedom from tyranny.
That was why, sitting in Lambert's chosen inn off New Fish Street Hill, Gideon took a decision that if the army really was to be remodelled, he would try to be transferred to the new force. He told Lambert. The brothers' old wrangling had diminished. Partly it was the shift in their joint responsibility for their father, who now sat with them silently, wearing a sweet smile, far away in some world they could not enter. 'Lambert, I am sick of being stuck hungry in a backwater. To be honest, it is galling that we are pitifully equipped and never paid. We need our salaries so we can eat. Is it too much to ask?'
'Spare the country and pinch the soldier, that's the way to thrive!
'Proverb?'
'Read it in a news-sheet.'
'Oh then it must be true! The new army will have regular monies, guaranteed by Parliament.'
'You believe that?' scoffed Lambert.
'No, but who wants his old-age memories to be of Newport Pagnell?' The two Londoners laughed.
Lambert confessed that he too wanted to move on from the Trained Bands. They both saw the problem for him. Who would run the grocery business? Who would, in the most literal sense, mind the family shop?
'The women!' It was their father who startlingly spoke up. 'If they were widowed,' declared John, emerging from frailty like some papery old prophet, 'they would set to and take it on.' True.
