Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

It could not. Thomas was up, dressed and breakfasted when Rush arrived to fetch him before dawn. ‘It is as we expected,’ he reported. ‘Essex’s army arrived during the night and has taken up position outside the town. He cannot reach London without engaging us. The king is determined on a victory which will greatly set back the cause of Parliament, and open the way for his own advance on London. Follow me, Master Hill, and we will join his majesty on Wash Common.’

Wash Common lay less than a mile to the southwest of the town. They rode through dozens of tents and carts belonging to the camp followers and wives upon whom the army depended for its food, drink and necessities of life, to the king’s station. It was on a low rise behind the centre of the Royalist infantry, from where they had an excellent view of the surrounding country. Two tents had been pitched on the mound, both flying the royal standard. The king sat in full armour on his grey stallion, his heavy cavalry sword resting across its back. His Lifeguards and servants surrounded him. A heroic figure with a righteous cause, or so he made it look. Staring fixedly into the middle distance, his majesty acknowledged neither Thomas nor Rush. Thomas could not even guess what was going through the royal mind, but he hoped it was more than the fixed smile on the royal face suggested.

From their vantage point, Thomas saw four ranks of infantry and artillery — pikemen, musketeers and cannon — in the centre of the line, with massed cavalry on either wing, the whole army stretching across perhaps as much as a mile. Facing them, drawn up in similar fashion, was Essex’s army. Rush had been right. The king’s cavalry was the stronger, his infantry weaker.

At his first battle, and wanting to be properly informed, Thomas asked a young captain of the king’s guard to point out the salient features of the terrain and the armies’ dispositions. The captain was most obliging and seemed pleased to be asked to explain how matters stood.

‘We are formed up on Wash Common,’ he replied, ‘and our enemy opposite on land known as Crockham Heath. The area between us is open but marshy. Our position is essentially a defensive one, as our first task is to prevent Essex reaching London. Thus, Sir John Byron’s Lifeguards rest on the river Kennet.’ He pointed to their right. ‘And the prince’s cavalry near the river Enborne.’ His arm traversed the battlefield and settled on a point to their left. ‘Essex cannot reach the road to London without engaging us. It is as we would wish.’

‘I notice the enemy hold some higher ground, captain,’ remarked Thomas quietly. ‘Is that as we would wish?’ He pointed to two low hills upon which Parliamentary infantry had been drawn up.

‘I confess that it is not. They presently occupy Round Hill and Biggs Hill, and I daresay we shall have to clear both.’ The captain glanced at Thomas and smiled. ‘Worry not, sir. We shall make short work of them.’

Thomas thanked the young man for his help, and asked him if he had much experience of battle. ‘Very little, sir,’ he replied. ‘I was at Gloucester, but that was more of a siege than a battle.’

‘What made you become a soldier of the king?’ asked Thomas.

‘I was a schoolteacher, sir, and hope to be one again. I joined his majesty’s Lifeguards because I believe his cause to be just.’

A schoolteacher. That explained why he was pleased to answer Thomas’s questions. ‘You have been most civil, captain. I wish you a safe day and an early return to the classroom.’

Wondering how the enemy came to occupy the high ground when Prince Rupert’s cavalry had been first on the scene, Thomas steeled himself not to worry. He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom and followed Rush into one of the tents. There a table and chairs had been placed ready for them. On the table were papers, ink, sand and quills. Thomas took a seat. The king had still not favoured them with so much as a glance.

There was no time to dwell on the matter. Shots were being fired and the battle had started. Thomas heard the sound of Flemish pipes in the distance and wondered where his friend from Amsterdam had been stationed. Rush left the tent, returning within a minute to hand Thomas a despatch to be encrypted and delivered to all commanders. As there were five of them, five copies would be needed. The despatch was from the king and informed them that the infantry must hold firm against the expected enemy advance, while both wings charged forward to outflank them. With these tactics, the day would surely be theirs. Thinking that this was not entirely consistent with holding a defensive line, Thomas dutifully wrote the date — 20 September 1643 — at the top of the page, encrypted the order, using the keyword MASQUE, made four more copies and handed them to Rush. Five messengers on five horses galloped off to deliver them. Each commander had an aide to make the decryption, and they too would have to work fast.

It began slowly. Essex’s infantry, firing as they went, advanced steadily towards the king’s musketeers. As ordered, the musketeers returned fire, but did not advance to meet them. The lines on both sides thinned as the Parliamentary infantry approached. It had not occurred to Thomas before that, in battle, it was the screams of the wounded which were most terrible. The dead simply fell and lay still. Although from his table in the tent he could see very little, he could hear everything.

For ten minutes or so, Thomas could do no more than sit, listen and wait. By that time, the sounds of battle were deafening. Cannon and muskets fired, swords clashed, and men shouted and screamed. Deciding that not seeing was even worse than seeing, he stood up and went outside. Immediately, he regretted it. To his right, a cannon fired, and he saw three heads detached from three bodies by the shot. He turned away and vomited. More cannon fired, and more men fell, headless, armless, disembowelled. One file of infantrymen, struck by a cannon shot, fell like ninepins. Thomas wanted desperately to look away, but found that he could not.

He might have stood there until nightfall had Rush not appeared beside him and handed him a second order. It was for Sir John Byron on the right wing, and instructed him immediately to take Round Hill, which lay before him. Wondering how Sir John was going to manage this, given that his cavalry would have to find a way over a muddy mess of fields and ditches before they could even think of attacking the hill, Thomas returned to his table, encrypted the order and sent it off. Having seen the carnage already being wreaked on the cavalry by Essex’s men hidden among the trees and hedges below the hill, he thanked God that he was not with Sir John.

Thomas could not sit still. Again he left his post and went outside. The king sat unmoved on his grey stallion, his Lifeguards and entourage still surrounding him. Thomas hoped they had more idea of what was happening than he did. As the air grew blacker with smoke and thicker with the smell of gunpowder, a curtain fell across the field. Muskets and cannon went on firing, soldiers went on bellowing and shrieking, and horses screamed, but only occasionally did the clash of swords and the thrust of pikes appear briefly through the smoke. It was ghostly and unreal. Yet these were real men, real weapons, real wounds, real deaths, real war. Noise, pain, fear, confusion.

From somewhere on the left, news arrived that Prince Rupert, in typical fashion, had charged the enemy, and might have broken through to attack from their rear. On the right, Sir John Byron’s cavalry was probably being destroyed as it struggled towards the hill. With the battlefield all but invisible, there was no way of telling how they were faring, or even if they were still alive. Thomas half expected a troop of Parliamentary infantry suddenly to emerge out of the smoke and shoot him. By this time, he could barely see the king.