Warlord's Gold: Book 5 of The Civil War Chronicles (57 page)

He stood now. The fire from the roadside had ebbed, for all Parliamentarian eyes were on the gate, desperate to see through the gritty miasma left by their petard, eager to witness the breach that they so dearly needed. And so he fired. His bullet killed an officer in the half-moon, making men tear their eyes away from the misty doors and towards the rampart, and he bellowed a challenge. His greencoats, joined by Rawdon’s men at the same instant, rose to their feet as one, and as one they fired. The volley ripped down upon the half-moon, the road and the copse further back, mud spurting as balls hit the earth. It enfiladed the Londoners, who were already realizing that their petard had failed. There was no breach. They had far superior numbers, but now they would have to use the ladders, pushing them up against high walls that were lined with killers. Even as the Royalist volley ebbed away, Stryker was ordering his charges to reload, because now the day turned on courage, or the lack thereof. He knew that the petard would have worked perfectly had it been fixed to the wall, but luck had been on his side, and the explosion had done nothing except dampen Roundhead hopes. These were not seasoned troops, and he wagered that the failure of the petard would have a greater effect than any number of defenders on the smoke-wreathed rampart.

His men were quickly ready. They stood again, emboldened now, for still the shots from down on the road were desultory and ill-timed. The Parliamentarian storming parties had come up to the walls again, and again they had failed to find a way into the fortress. They were uncertain, shoaling tentatively before their braying officers like trout beneath a looming shadow, and then, step by step, they began to move backwards.

The Royalists jeered. They kept loading, kept firing, chanting always for the King and for God, and their enemy, so vast and unstoppable, kept inching away from the walls. One of Rawdon’s yellows was hit, toppling over the rampart to crunch sickeningly on to the road below, but the rest seemed impervious to the hurried and poorly aimed shots that came their way.

‘
Fire
!’ an officer on the wall shouted, a dozen muskets rattling at the call.

‘
Fire
!’ someone further down towards Peake’s section screamed, perhaps a score of shots tearing out in answer.

Stryker’s musket was ready again. ‘Fire, you bastards!
Fire
!’ He pulled his trigger as men on either side of him did the same, smoke slewing in bitter gouts all around them.

The great wave had smashed against rocks that had proved immovable, and it was rolling back now, retreating to the sea even as orders came to stem its flow. Drums hammered hard, issuing commands to renew the assault, but the division that had failed at Garrison Gate was not to be coerced any further, and, to rapturous cheers from the ravaged rampart, the second div­ision seemed to be following suit. All along the northern wall the tide was turning, and so long as the men in the front ranks were refusing to fight, their comrades further back could not be brought into the fray. Thus the huge fire-power the div­ision possessed was rendered utterly impotent.

Captain Lancelot Forrester had been asked to lend his experience to the men defending the south-western approach. There were two guard towers set into the wall along this section, flat-roofed but defended by crenellations that jutted like a gap-toothed grin, and it was from one of these higher platforms that Forrester watched the enemy advance. He was with two lieutenants, a Captain Le Saux, Major Lawrence and a handful of yellow-coated musketeers. Rawdon’s men were Londoners in the main, and they knew the colours of the rebel regiments almost as well as they knew their own. They named the companies as they came up before the house, spitting malice towards the attackers with the distilled venom only ever reserved for those who had once been neighbours.

The shape of the attack quickly became clear. From his vantage point, Forrester could see the column, perhaps a thousand strong, trundle to the heavy rhythm of their drums in two distinct groups. The first, half the total complement, formed a vanguard, and he guessed these men would be the forlorn hope. One of Rawdon’s corporals, on the rooftop beside Forrester, identified the largest colour – green, with wavy golden rays – as that of the Cripplegate Auxiliary Regiment, the inexperienced men and boys of Waller’s new army, the cannon-fodder who would be first into action, sacrificed to allow the second section, the veteran companies, to scale the walls in relative safety. The second group marched, but they were fifty paces behind. They would be the assault troops when the dirty business of crossing the earthworks and pushing ladders against the wall had been done by men Waller could afford to lose.

As on the north-eastern corner, a half-moon ditch and staked palisade protected the wall, with a second ditch – the ancient castle’s dry moat – immediately below the high brick facade. The Cripplegates came on, the crackle of musketry and ordnance vibrating down from the north, seemingly heralding their arrival.

‘Christ,’ Frederick Lawrence hissed at Forrester’s side. He wore his armour, as if he were ready to mount his horse at any moment, though of course this fight was not for Paulet’s harquebusiers. ‘Hear it?’

‘I hear it,’ Forrester responded brusquely.

Lawrence twisted back to look towards the opposite corner of the embattled estate, but he could see nothing beyond the New House rooftops and the thick swirling smoke that seemed to shroud everything. ‘Will they hold?’

Forrester ignored him and bellowed at the men on the walls to make ready. He looked at Lawrence. ‘Where is the gun-crew?’

‘Gun-crew?’

‘Major,’ Forrester snapped. He pointed to the tower to their right, thirty yards along the ring-work. It was lower than their own platform, still twice the height of the wall, and on its summit sat a small fieldpiece, its black barrel pointing skywards between its wheels. ‘That falconet. Where is its crew?’

Lawrence turned to descend the spiral steps behind them. A torrent of shrill shouts replaced him, coming up from the staircase, and it sounded to Forrester almost as if a flock of gulls were flying up from the ground below. He turned away from the advancing Londoners to see Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson appear on the rooftop, flanked and followed by almost a dozen women, the chief of whom, to Forrester’s astonishment, was the Marchioness of Winchester herself, Lady Honora Paulet.

The marchioness was petite, her frame seemingly brittle, but her green eyes blazed beneath a fringe of black and silver ringlets. ‘Not possible? I’ll thank you, Lieutenant-Colonel, not to tell me what is and what is not possible in my own home!’

Johnson’s attention to his beard became more hurried still. ‘I cannot permit you to remain on the wall, my lady.’

‘Tripe!’ she retorted, lodging her hands on the voluminous skirts at her hips. ‘My ladies and I will remain here, on this very spot, sir, and you will have to carry us down one by one.’

Johnson could see that he was beaten, and he shook his head wearily. ‘Please keep your heads down. His Lordship will have my skin for a scabbard should any harm befall you.’

The Marchioness of Winchester swept past him with an imperious wave, beckoning to her attendants. The women followed, lining the edge of the tower at either side of Forrester and the other men, who all bowed to Her Ladyship with barely concealed smirks. Forrester noted some of the women dragged large, lumpen cloth sacks, obviously heavy with whatever bounty was inside.

‘Forrester,’ Johnson said. He was still back at the hatch that led down to ground level. ‘You’ll join me.’

Forrester tore his gaze away from the formidable marchioness. ‘Sir?’

‘They’ll be at the half-moon in moments. I would drive them off.’

Forrester felt himself tense. Johnson, he recalled, had been the man who had challenged Clinson to personal combat in the fight for the Grange, and would have lost his life were it not for Stryker’s timely intervention. Not only was the man clearly reckless, but he had a reputation to restore, and the two ingredients made for a dangerous brew indeed. ‘Drive them, sir? A sortie?’

‘The same!’ Johnson barked, his voice excited now that he had abandoned his ill-advised quarrel with Honora Paulet. ‘My men are assembling below.’

‘Is that wise, sir?’

‘It is invaluable, sir! I have sent for support from the north wall, where the fight, by all accounts, goes well.’

Down below, a great cheer rose up as the forlorn hope reached the half-moon. The few Royalists left manning the earthwork scrambled away, fortunate that their enemies were more concerned with bringing up their cumbersome ladders than with flinging lead shot at their backs, and they dived into the dry moat, scrambling up under covering fire from the wall and squeezing through a small sally port that was quickly reblocked with wicker sheets, rubble and bits of old furniture. The Cripplegate Auxiliaries took up positions along the half-moon’s palisade. They would use it as a breastwork from which to launch their escalade. They moved the ladders up quickly to the front rank, all the while supported by musketry that rang out from the rank behind. An ensign in a wide blue scarf stood on the half-moon, in full view of the Royalist sharpshooters, and called his men on, swirling the huge green banner above his head. More colours joined. Reds and yellows, smaller ones with various devices to denote each company, flooded the earthwork, hurling insults and lead at the section of wall that sat between two squat towers, and preparing for the final assault.

k

The Westminster Liberty Regiment was the largest of Waller’s Trained Bands, and he had carved them up, placing most on the northern two divisions, spread evenly across the fighting front, while two companies had been ordered to the division at Basing Park. There, they had been ordered to the flanks of the green-coated auxiliaries, providing covering fire while the Cripplegate men moved their ladders to the fore.

It was with one of the Westminster companies, striding in the wake of a captain’s red and silver banner, that Major Wagner Kovac was now positioned. He did not know what hurt him more; the fact that he had been reduced to a plodding infantryman, the dangerous reality of being ordered to storm a castle, or his enforced membership of the woefully under-trained and audibly disgruntled Trained Bands. The only poultice to his slight was the possibility of getting inside the fortress. There was gold in Basing, and he wanted it. But, far more important, a man named Lancelot Forrester was in there somewhere, and Forrester had a debt to pay.

Kovac’s new red-coated unit came round to the eastern end of the captured sconce, making ready their muskets. Shots coughed from up on the wall. One man was torn back, bullets clattered off helmets and holes were ripped in the wind-flapped ensigns. The captain commanding the flanking unit ordered his front rank to fire, and a huge, rolling volley erupted all along their foremost line, sending the Royalists ducking low behind their brick shield. The men on the west flank fired too, just as the first men from Kovac’s company peeled away to reload at the rear, the second rank stepping up to fire. Kovac was in the fourth rank. He scolded himself for his own idiocy. For his runaway mouth he had paid with a place in what the Dutch called the
verloren hoop
, and there was no option but to kill or be killed. He drew both his pistols, pulling them to half-cock, and waited his turn.

Stryker was overseeing steady, rolling volley fire from Basing’s north-eastern corner as a party of musketeers edged out to retake the half-moon. There were casualties down amongst the storm-poles, and the Royalists dragged them back, plundering valuables, blades and ammunition before leaving them in a groaning line flush against the wall. They had time, for the threat had dissipated in a matter of seconds. The twin Roundhead divisions had retreated to the village and Grange, recovered their order and formed neat ranks once more, but although drums rumbled throughout the flag-marked units the attack seemed to have completely run aground.

‘A grand fight,’ Colonel Marmaduke Rawdon decreed as he paced smartly along the rickety platform to shake Stryker’s hand. ‘Have we the beating of them, d’you think?’

Stryker rubbed soot from his stinging eye. ‘Not yet, sir, but they’re not comfortable out there.’

‘
Ha
!’ Rawdon brayed. ‘We’ve put the fear of God into ’em, my boys!’

The men on the rampart gave a parched huzzah as ladders were dropped over the side for pairs of musketeers to set about collecting the casualties. Dead and severely wounded would be left until the gates could be safely opened, but Rawdon wanted the enemy’s walking wounded taken inside for use at the bargaining table should parley be requested.

A runner reached the colonel as the first injured Roundheads were gathered up and cajoled at sword-point up the ladder. He doubled over, panting hard and bracing hands against his knees, only looking up when Stryker and Rawdon clambered down from the wall. ‘Compliments of Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, sir,’ he said breathlessly.

‘Well?’ Rawdon prompted impatiently.

‘The third division has taken the Old House half-moon, sir. The colonel would sally out, seeks reinforcements.’

Rawdon looked to Stryker. ‘Can we spare the men?’

Stryker nodded. ‘For now, sir. A score, or so.’

Rawdon nodded, pushing thick fingers through the matted grey of his hair. ‘See to it, Mister Stryker. Take them down to the Old House. You’ll need a dozen of mine to make up the numbers. Pick whomever you will.’