Free Believe or Die by M.J. Harris Page A

pull the deceased out of the river and say a brief prayer over them before continuing on back to Lord Essex with their report of the King’s movements, the purpose of their reconnaissance. Four of the dragoons were clearly dead, but one was alive – just! His name was Richard Mead.
    The Royalist success at Brentford had given form to everything London had feared; the nightmare seemed about to become fulfilled. The sacrifices of Brooke’s and Holles’ Regiments had given Essex time to bring the rest of his Army together with the London Trained Bands at Turnham Green. There they waited to do battle with the King. Both sides pondered the situation: to fight in the open around Turnham Green or to fight street by street through the capital? King Charles dithered, his advisors argued, Rupert fumed. Essex decided to force the issue and ordered two Regiments of Horse and four of Foot to Acton where they might fall on the Royalist flank and rear if the opportunity presented itself. It was a gamble but it worked and these forces were not required. The King’s Counsel advised him to retire first to Hounslow and Colnbrook, close by Reading, and thence to Oxford. Winter was now upon them, the campaigning season was over, and mighty battles would have to wait for the coming spring. Thus did Charles justify his tactics and his Generals heaved a sigh of relief, many being confident that this rebellion would soon peter out of its own accord. Why therefore take unnecessary risks? Rupert got drunk in disgust.
    As the opposing forces withdrew from Turnham Green, the Angel of Death looked down on the field and was disappointed.

CHAPTER THREE
    The weeks following Brentford saw the King’s best chances of outright victory wasted. London was vital to his cause, it being the centre of everything: trade, commerce, money, and the Tower Armouries. It was also the largest port, a necessity the Royalists were desperately lacking, and a situation made worse by the Navy declaring for Parliament. As winter set in, the King and his counsel at Oxford considered the next move. Parliament sat in London and did likewise. Both sides had hoped for swift and decisive action; a battle that would win the war in one fell swoop. It was not to be.
    The winter was a cruel one with the heaviest snow falls in many a long year. The main field forces, rendered inactive by the weather, shivered and waited for spring. But this was not a time of truce or peace. All over the country, small garrisons and outposts fought each other amidst the sleet and snow. It was a time of raiding and retribution, of looting, ambush and counter ambush.
    Wil Pitkin, despite his comparative youth, found himself promoted to sergeant. He proved quick to learn his new trade and even quicker to lose any qualms he may have once felt about killing his enemy. Whilst many of his comrades would have been perfectly happy to sit out the cold and miserable months in some cosy garrison or billet, Wil fretted and fumed over the comparative lack of action. The westward approaches to the Thames Valley were no-man’s land and frequently patrols clashed in the sleet and snow as they probed each other’s positions or scavenged for supplies. In one such encounter, Wil lost half an ear which, had it not been for the icy weather, would doubtless have festered and caused him serious illness. Nonetheless, the merest mention of Parliamentarian dragoons would have him reaching for his weapons. Then, just around Christmas time, Wil met a young widow woman, a camp follower, and for a brief interlude his soul knew comparative peace even amid the constant skirmishing that surrounded him. Then he was despatched to escort a convoy of supplies from Fulmaston to Odiham, a week’s task, no more. When he returned, his woman was dead. She had contracted the flux, probably from putrid food and had died within thirty-six hours. Pitkin’s jaundiced view of the world returned with avengeance. Shortly after this, whilst on yet