The Best of Men (40 page)

“I wish it were over,” Ingram sighed.

“Soon enough,” Radcliff said, wishing the same.

Over the sloping field lay the enemy horse into which they would be charging. Finally they heard drums, and then the boom of guns on both sides. Their own heaviest cannon were firing from a position almost directly to their rear, and the noise was terrible, although the enemy shot whistled harmlessly past them. Their horses were neighing and jumpy, unaccustomed to such clamour. When the smoke cleared a little, their infantry raised a shout as news filtered through the ranks that the centre of Parliament’s line, mainly composed of foot soldiers, had suddenly deserted the field before it could be charged. And while they were still absorbing this information, Rupert gave the signal to advance.

Ingram’s face was very white. “God keep you,” he muttered to Radcliff.

“You too, brother,” Radcliff said.

They were off, starting at a trot in good order, cantering, and then galloping up the crest of the hill, all of them bellowing their battle cry,
“For God and the King!” The enemy was firing carbines at them before they were in range, the shots landing somewhere in the mile of field between. To Radcliff’s astonishment, a whole troop of Parliamentary soldiers appeared to turn coat and join the King’s ranks; and the enemy horse, faced with Rupert’s inexorable advance, abruptly fled. Just as at Powick, the Royalists were drawn into a chase, having scarcely fired a shot. Radcliff saw Ingram almost topple from his saddle and then right himself as they pounded across the turf. The village of Kineton rose out of the hills as they sped on, with loud cries of triumph; and rapidly they arrived, catching and firing on some of the enemy cavalry in the narrow streets. They took out their swords when they reached Parliament’s baggage trains, and the plunder began.

A horde of soldiers descended with delight upon a richly liveried coach: that of the Earl of Essex. Others were busily stealing from the supply wagons, meeting with almost no resistance. Radcliff reined in his mount, as he heard his corporals yelling in a vain effort to reassemble his troop, though he knew from experience that few men would listen when there was booty to be had, even if work remained to be done upon the battlefield. In the chaos, he sought a chance to escape, but was foiled by his corporals, who kept reporting back to him dutifully, just as he had trained them to do.

The beat of drums and the shrilling of a trumpet alerted them to a new danger: some of Parliament’s cavalry must have arrived too late to join battle and were now converging on Kineton, fresh, and ready to attack the marauders. Prince Rupert, on his great white horse, was struggling to wheel the Royalist forces about. Several of Radcliff’s men were felled by pistol shots. At last the Royalists turned to head back to the field. Time to seize the opportunity, Radcliff decided. As he was swerving away from the main body of retreating troops, Ingram appeared at his side.

“I’ll go back and gather the rest of our men,” Radcliff shouted.

“No!” Ingram cried. “You’ll get yourself killed! They’ll find their own route.”

A shot rang out and Ingram’s horse screamed. Plunging to the ground, it trapped him underneath. Radcliff thought that it was dead, until it kicked violently, rolled to its feet and galloped off towards the battlefield, following the other Royalists. For one shameful second he was tempted to leave Ingram and flee.

“Ingram!” he yelled. “Speak to me, brother!” He leapt down and tugged Ingram’s body aside so that they would not be trampled. He heard a bullet fly past, and felt a stinging sensation in his arm as he helped Ingram to stand. Ingram’s left leg must have been crushed by the horse’s fall and could bear no weight, and he seemed dazed; although his lips were moving he made no sound. “Take my horse,” urged Radcliff, and managed to lift him into the saddle. When he thrust the boot of Ingram’s damaged leg into the stirrup, Ingram shrieked and doubled over the pommel. Radcliff beat the horse’s rump with the flat of his sword, and the animal sprang forward carrying its unwieldy burden. At once he lost view of them in the smoky air; and as a knot of Parliamentary cavalry thundered up, he had only a moment to throw aside his weapons and go down on his knees in the thick mud. “Quarter!” he begged. “Give me quarter! I am an officer! I am unarmed! In God’s name, give me quarter, I pray you!”

“We must rally the men for another charge,” Falkland cried to Wilmot, over the din.

“Most of our horses are too blown,” Wilmot yelled back.

After more than four hours of battle, they had been unable to claim victory. In the fading light, between clouds of floating smoke, they could see that Parliament still held rank on the field.

As had Prince Rupert’s Horse on the right flank of His Majesty’s line of battle, Wilmot’s on the far left had routed the enemy at the outset,
chasing Lord Feilding’s cavalry northwest. Digby’s regiment, following behind, had wheeled about to attack the rear of the Parliamentary line. Feilding’s men had scattered, but Wilmot’s were tired and winded by the pursuit. As they straggled back to the field from Kineton, after some looting and the capture of many Parliamentary colours, Wilmot received news from one of his scouts that events were not turning completely in their favour. His Majesty’s personal Lifeguard, brave and determined to be more than a show troop in their elaborate uniforms, were suffering heavy losses along with most of the infantry. Meanwhile, with Rupert’s regiment missing from the field, Parliamentary cav alry had poured through the gap on the right flank towards the King’s gun battery and disabled many of the cannon. The remaining Royalist troops could not be made to regroup and attack in proper military order.

“Oh, for a regiment of hardened Swedish mercenaries,” Wilmot complained, as he and Falkland gazed upon the disorder before them: men moving as if weighted down as they tried to raise their swords, their horses’ mouths flecked with foam. On the blood-soaked turf lay wounded, dying, and dead, some heaped together indiscriminately, some alone.

“Can we not finish this once and for all with a last charge?” Falkland pleaded, his voice rising with desperation.

“We’ve as good as won the day, my lord,” Wilmot said. “Why not live to enjoy it. Our men are exhausted. They won’t be much use until they’ve had some rest.”

Falkland was so disappointed that he could not speak. He had hoped for a swift end to the war with this one action, followed by some honourable agreement between Essex and the King. It was not to be. The core of Essex’s army would continue to hold its ground, as would the King’s disorganized forces.

They heard the Royalist foot firing at the enemy until night fell. Then came an awful stillness, though not a silence, as Wilmot bade his drummers beat an order for his cavalry to join the rest of the army a couple of hundred yards to the side of Edgehill, where they would make camp.

“Cheer up,” Wilmot told Falkland, as they retreated. “We’ve raided enough of Essex’s supplies that he’ll be short of his supper, as well as his coach.”

“I am so sorry,” Falkland began, tearfully.

“What for?”

“Look about you. How many lost, Englishmen all of them.”

“Not all. There’s a bunch of hapless Welsh levies amongst them who deserved to be cut down, they made such a poor showing.” Wilmot peered this way and that, twisting in his saddle. “Hoy! Danvers!” he said, as Charles Danvers breezed past them on his horse.

Danvers was grinning and brandishing a huge flagpole in one hand. “I bring you Colonel Feilding’s colours.” Wilmot guffawed and punched his arm, making him nearly drop the pole. “Beaumont’s hauled back a cask of wine,” he added, “but it’s going fast, so you’d better hurry if you want to partake.”

“Trust Beaumont to think of such a thing,” Wilmot said. “How practical he is. Come, my Lord Falkland, let’s raise a cup in honour of the day.”

“No, thank you,” Falkland told him, offended by their levity; they were behaving as if they had just returned from a successful hunting expedition.

After they rode off, he tried to pray out loud, but his throat was thick with the acrid gun smoke and the dense fog that had settled over the battlefield. He felt cold, much colder than the chill air warranted, every limb trembling, his jaw locked; and yet sweat was pouring
from him, down the back of his neck and face, stinging his eyes. As he was removing his gloves to wipe his damp palms he felt his signet ring, engraved with the family crest, slip off. Uttering a rare curse, he dismounted to hunt for it. He could see nothing in the gloom, and after a while he knew that he must give it up as lost.

Laurence was in a farmer’s barn with Wilmot, Danvers, and some others, quaffing wine and inspecting the goods pillaged from Essex’s train. He had done his share of the violence with weary distaste, for Parliament’s cavalry were still mostly raw and hesitated too long to draw blood, though they would grow used to it in time. All he wanted now was to get very drunk.

“Hey, Beaumont, isn’t that your brother over there?” Wilmot pointed towards the door.

Begrimed with gun smoke like the rest of them, Tom wore an anxious expression as he bowed to Wilmot. Laurence poured him a cup of wine that he gulped back in one swallow. Then he announced breathlessly, “Ingram’s been hurt. His horse fell and crushed his leg. The surgeon might have to cut it off.”

“Oh God, I hope not,” Laurence murmured, horrified, knowing too well the likely consequences of such an operation in the field. “Can you take me to him?”

“That’s why I came to find you.”

“Where was your troop today, sir?” Wilmot demanded of Tom.

“We were transferred this morning to His Royal Highness Prince Rupert’s regiment, sir.”

“Why’s Rupert poaching my men? Who ordered it?”

“I – I got the order from Colonel Hoare, sir.”

“Beaumont, did you know about this?”

“No,” said Laurence, with a questioning look at his brother.

“And what was His Royal Highness thinking, to let you run riot all the way to Kineton?” Wilmot said to Tom. “We could have made short work of Essex if he’d kept his right wing in the field.”

“Our wing did exactly the same thing,” Laurence reminded Wilmot, who gave a little snort and turned back to Danvers.

Laurence followed Tom out and they walked side by side through the camp, their boots squelching in the thick mud. “Thanks for coming,” Laurence said.

Tom nodded shortly. “I must admit, I didn’t expect you’d fight. When you weren’t with us at Powick, I assumed … oh, well, what does it matter now.”

They pressed on in silence through the crowds of men, some sitting or lying on the cold, muddy ground, some groaning from their wounds, and others talking quietly together and ministering to the needs of those worse off than they. The air stank of blood and powder, and from the distance came an agonized chorus: hundreds of horses were dying, strewn about the surrounding fields.

“How do you like war so far?” Laurence asked with a grimace. “Isn’t it splendid?”

“It
was
splendid,” Tom said, in a hushed voice, “when we were charging at the enemy. I’ve never known such a thrill in all my life. And to ride with the Prince was an honour.”

At the mention of Rupert, Laurence stopped and took his brother’s arm. “Tom, you must be on your guard with Colonel Hoare. Don’t trust him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because …” Laurence hesitated; he could not tell Tom the truth. “Because of what I’ve heard.”

“From what
I’ve
heard, he’s amongst our finest soldiers and he’s trusted by Prince Rupert, which is recommendation enough for me. You’ve been listening to your friend Wilmot, haven’t you,” Tom
exclaimed, pulling away. “Everyone knows that Wilmot’s deadly jealous of the Prince. No wonder he’d try to slander Colonel Hoare.”

Tom strode on again and Laurence had to run after him. “This has nothing to do with Wilmot. I mean it, Tom – watch out if Hoare begins to pay attention to you.”

Tom laughed sourly, his old hostile expression returning. “Now I understand.
You’re
jealous – of
me
! My troop was specially selected by Hoare to fight under His Majesty’s most talented officer, and you could have been with us sharing the glory but for your prevarications.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” Laurence said. “I couldn’t give a shit about any of that. I’m warning you off Hoare for your own good.”

“Out of brotherly love?” Tom sneered, and he walked away.

Laurence swore at himself. His vague, condescending advice about Hoare would probably make Tom respect the man even more. But why, he wondered, had Hoare brought Tom’s troop into the Prince’s regiment? At present, however, his chief concern was Ingram, who might already be suffering unspeakable pain at the hands of some ill-trained surgeon.

He eventually found Ingram laid out in the open with many other wounded men, his legs covered by a blanket. “Beaumont,” he said, his face contorting as he sat up. “Tom must have sent you. Did he tell you I broke my leg?”

“Yes. Has anyone seen to you yet?”

“No. I was told that I’m not an urgent case.” Ingram attempted to smile; then he gasped as Laurence pulled out his knife and drew aside the blanket.

“I’m going to cut your boot off, not your leg. Don’t move.” Laurence prised the leather from Ingram’s flesh, sliced downwards and peeled it away. “Thank God the bone hasn’t pierced your skin. We’ll bind up your leg to keep it from moving, and then you should have it set as soon
as possible, before the swelling gets worse.” He thought quickly. “I’ll take you to my father’s house. It’s not more than a couple of hours’ ride, and you can be well looked after.”

“I should stay with my troop.”

“What for? By the time a surgeon gets round to you, we could already be at the house.”

“But surely Wilmot needs you.”

“Not as much as you need your leg. I can catch up with him tomorrow morning.”

Ingram sniffed and muttered, “What friends I have – first Radcliff, and now you. Radcliff saved my life today, Beaumont.” Laurence did not respond; he was busy tearing the blanket into strips. “If he hadn’t dragged me out of harm’s way after I fell, the enemy cavalry would have ridden right over me. And he gave me his horse. Because of that he’s either dead himself or a prisoner at Kineton. Beaumont,” he said urgently, wincing as Laurence started to bandage him up, “I must know. Could you go and ask if any prisoners have been exchanged?”