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

another of the seemingly endless patrols and foraging details, he and his men came upon a party of enemy dragoons doing likewise. Caught unprepared and barely awake, the Parliamentarians were made to surrender. Pitkin saw only their uniforms and went berserk, killing all four in but a few moments madness. Furiously, he examined each of the bodies as his men looked on in abject horror unable to grasp what Pitkin was apparently searching for. They didn’t know he was searching for a dragoon named Richard Mead.
    But Richard Mead was elsewhere, and he was no longer a dragoon. After Edgehill and the clashes that followed it, many decimated regiments were broken up and merged into other units. Mead, following his near drowning at Brentford, had been determined to join a cavalry regiment and to that end trawled through all the inns frequented by recruiting parties he could find in and around the west of London. Good fortune, or so it seemed at the time, smiled on him as his aching feet finally led him to ‘The Black Bear’ near Tyburn Brook. Two Regiments of Horse were recruiting: one from the Trained Bands, which didn’t hold much appeal to him, and the other being Hobden’s Horse. The latter, however, appeared a dour, deeply, indeed almost fanatically religious formation and Richard had grave doubts as to his ability to serve with such zealots. He paused a while considering, then a clattering of hoofs and a jingling of harness caused him to turn around. An officer and his escort of half a dozen men had stopped to converse with another officer, flamboyantly garbed and gesticulating with the tools that identified him as a Master of artillery. The mounted officer looked familiar to Mead. He frowned, and then realised he knew the man and quickly hurried across. The man glared down at him then his expression changed from hostile to quizzical.
    “Do I know you?” he asked.
    “Richard Mead Sir. You may recall a fracas in the village of Ruislip just before the war started. You instructed me to seek you out if I had a mind to fight.”
    “Ah yes, now I recall. Well, you took your time about it. What pray got in your way for such a time?”
    “Edgehill Sir.”
    “Indeed? And if I do not mistake, you are a dragoon, or at least that is what the rags you are wearing suggest. Are you here for redeployment? For I doubt a deserter would be petitioning me for service?”
    “Redeployment Sir. To the cavalry I am hoping. Which is …”
    “You wish to join my regiment?”
    “If it please you Sir?”
    “Well now Master Mead. You appear to have some modicum of intelligence and you showed initiative in approaching me in such a bold manner. And, by the state of you, I would venture you have a little experience. Can you ride?”
    “I can Sir.”
    “And can you read and write to a reasonable standard?”
    “Yes Sir.”
    The officer considered for a moment or two. He had a fair amount of good fighting men in his command but few potential officers and he would need the latter if this war lasted for any appreciable time.
    “Very well. I will give you a trial; I am in need of a cornet. You are aware of the duties of such? Good. Then I will give you a trial. If you prove worthy, I may consider you for the position. If you do not, then at least we will have someone to shovel the shit for us, eh boys?” and his escort chuckled appreciatively.
    Richard Mead did prove worthy and soon after, wearing a ramshackle collection of second-hand clothes, he became cornet in Ketch’s Regiment of Horse. Not only was he in the cavalry, he was an OFFICER! The lowest of the low in that species to be sure, but it was more than he had ever hoped for. It was to celebrate this momentous occasion that one night he and the trumpeter, also new to the regiment, sallied forth amid the inns and stews of Southwark. Despite London being all for Parliament, it had not yet fully succumbed to the strict ways of the Puritans. This especially applied south of the river in an