Nell Hardwick and the Ambush near Aldbourne Chase, 18th September 1643

[Content warning: Violence, profanity and lots of mud]

On 5th September the Royalist siege of Gloucester was lifted by the Earl of Essex and his army and the grateful citizens showered them, including Nell, her husband Bill and their comrades in the London Trayned Bandes with bread, cheese and ale, which more than made up for the short commons they’d been forced to endure on their march to the city. With the siege raised, it had been time to march back home to London. The Londoners had insisted, and the Earl of Essex had no choice but to cave in to their demands.

Not that Nell paid much heed to the politicking. She marches beside her husband because she’s been asked to do so by the Bandes’ commander, Phillip Skippon himself, after her bravery at Turnham Green last November. What better way to see that her Bill kept himself safe? The marching is no problem, she’s always worked on her feet ever since she was old enough to balance a tray of fresh loaves on her head, but those days are long-gone with her Ma and Pa’s death of the flux. She’d fallen in with Bill and what a lucky girl she is, she thinks, because he’s hard-working and kind, two things not often found together. She’d parlayed a business partnership in his London ferry and when, later, he’d asked her if she’d think about being his wife as well…Heaven’s above! She’d have been a fool to turn him down, and she’s nobody’s fool. She knows that and so does Bill.

Mind you, he can be a bit of a stubborn so-and-so when he’s a mind to, and when the war broke out and the Londoners were asked to fight for Parliament, he’d nearly been first in the line. His mate, John Sutton, had beaten him to it, but he’d paid the highest price at Turnham Green. But she’d kind of got a taste for the fighting. Nothing quite beat that tingle she’d got when she’d faced a whole army and felt no fear. There’s more to her than she knows herself, that’s for sure, so when Skippon asked if she’d like to join his ranks, she’d said yes. And when he’d asked again the following year, she and Bill had signed up for the Red Regiment along with Bill’s Uncle Matthew, and here they now are, slogging through the rain and mud on their way back to London, cold, wet and hungry, because the Gloucesterites bread had run out two days ago and they still have at least another day to go before they reach Newbury and fresh supplies. They hope.

Squelch-suck, squelch-suck, one foot in front of the other through the mud that pulls at her shoes with every step. Henry Ashman in front of her has already lost a shoe and is limping along with one shoe and one mud-clagged sock. Water trickles from the brim of his hat, down his back and drips off the hem of his coat. He must be miserable, thinks Nell. A pox upon this rain, she thinks, and stops for a second to chide herself. Her Ma would’ve never forgiven such words, spoken out loud or not. But the company of soldiers has roughened her sensitivities, as has the fact that she too is soaked through, the water dripping off her broad-brimmed cap, trickling down her back, squishing between her toes with every wretched step so that her world narrows to this small hell of itchy clothes, griping stomach and aching shoulders from her heavy musket, its rest and ramrod, and the continual banging of her cartridges and snapsack, now light with only a few apples and a heel of stale bread. Squelch-bang-ache, squelch-bang-ache, will this never stop, she asks herself? She glances over at Bill, squelching along beside her. He catches her eye and gives her a wink and a grin. She smiles back, his good humour warming her for a while before the black mood descends again.

Whoreson Royalists, they caused all of this, she thinks. That churl of a king, too stiff-necked to listen or talk, typical man, wanting things all his own way —Bill be excepted of course— may God visit a plague on him and all his varlet crew. As she trudges on, she can get no wetter but the rain kindles her anger, and with each muddy claggy step, it is fanned first into a flicker, then a flame. She feeds it with her memories of all the Maidstone men who’d pinched and prodded at her as she sold her Pa’s loaves, all those jokey asides that they always denied were lustful. Just one o’ the lads, they said, but she saw their eyes and knew what they wanted, so she’d put up a bold front, held her anger inside, knowing that if she lost her rag, she’d have lost the argument, so she’d bantered and joked back, not one of ‘em anyways decent (until Bill). But by now she is in no mood for parentheses, so she feeds her fire, giving in to her inner rage, letting it warm her against the rain and the mud and the scoundrelous pack of men. A pox on the lot of’em!

And so it is that Prince Rupert catches the Earl’s army by surprise as it sloughs its way towards Newbury, its stout roofs, warm hearths, trenchers of bread and cheese and flagons of strong ale tantalisingly out of reach. Almost catches, but not quite. The Earl is also no fool, although he is as stiff-necked as the next man. He had his horsemen out on the flank to give a decent warning of any such Royalist ambush. Trouble was, with the rain and the mud, his scouts get back with their warning scant minutes before the Cavalier Prince arrives himself. Worse still, with the rain it is impossible to light any match for the muskets, so their only hope lies in their pikes, to keep the churl cavaliers at bay. Which means they must stop and form up into their hedgehogs, the musketeers sheltering within the long reach of the pikes, the pikemen trying hard to look undaunted, lest any wavering be taken as a sign of lack of resolve and an invitation to the horsemen to charge home.

Then it happens. As the pikemen start to close up and the musketeers scurry (difficult when encumbered with musket and mud) under their protection, Bill slips in the mud and goes sprawling into the clag, outside the reach of any pike which, although long, are not that long. A Royalist spies his misfortune and splashes up, reaching for one of his pistols, safely stashed in its holster. Their new-fangled wheellocks don’t need match and, if they don’t get too wet, can be got to give fire in conditions like these.

Nell sees Bill fall. She sees the horseman bear down on him. The cavalier raises his pistol, draws a bead on him and starts to squeeze the trigger. Bill’s a goner for sure. The grin on the Royalist’s face tells her he knows that as well. Only thing, he hasn’t reckoned with Nell. Or more precisely, with Nell’s anger. She’s never ever allowed herself let it rip. Not until today, until now. She embraces it, then unleashes it. It flows through her, like a river in flood. It fills her with a strength she’s never even suspected. She pours all its strength into her words.

‘You fucking whoreson cunt!’ she screams as she grabs her musket barrel and reverses it, swinging the heavy butt above her head. She steps out towards her Bill, prostrate and helpless before her foe. ‘Don’t Nell!’ She ignores Uncle Matthew’s plea. The foe’s attention wavers. His eyes lift from his prey and he sees a raging harpy bearing down upon him. His arm twitches, his finger contracts and the pistol goes off with a loud bang that she does not notice through the red mist that fills her vision and her ears with its red roaring rage. She also does not hear the ball whip past her head because now her musket, trailing raindrops, is swinging a lethal arc towards her enemy, whose hand tangles in his reins as he raises his pistol arm to fend off the clubbed musket, in vain. It connects with a crunch of shattering bone. He screams and falls, his pistol sent flying as he topples into the mud. His horse snorts and tosses its head, but can go nowhere because of the reins tangled in it’s master’s only good hand. She steps around the bucking horse and sees him on the ground. Helpless. The red mist surges. All those years of being the butt of men’s eyes and hands and leers come to the boil. She raises her musket butt above her head and takes aim, like she’s chopping firewood.

***

She poises the heavy musket over her head and glances down at the helpless man at her feet, his eyes wide and staring, the whites a clear circle. He is terrified. She feels the power her musket gives her over him. She plants her feet to steady her aim and glances down again, but this time she notices something else. Something that makes her pause; a widening dark stain in his breeches around his private parts. And the distinct whiff of shit.

‘No, mistress. Don’t’ He stammers on. ‘Please don’t…’ then he screws his eyes shut and flinches, awaiting the blow that must surely fall to dash his brains out into the mud.

But it does not. Instead, Nell begins to laugh. At first it is small, not quite a giggle, but it grows until she is throwing her head back, her body shaking with mirth, tears coursing down her cheeks, chasing the rain drops. What would Ma think if she busted this man’s brains out. No, she would not be impressed. Instead, she gives him a good round kick in his guts. He doubles over and pukes, letting go of his reins.

‘I’ll take that, thank you very much sirra. Go on, take your shit back to your mates an tell ‘em not to mess with the London Trayned Bands. Go on! Afore I change me mind!’ The man lurches to his feet but doesn’t look at her, Instead, head down, he staggers away, trying to cradle his shattered arm and hold his stomach at the same time. ‘Piss off and don’t come back!’ she yells at his back. Now, she thinks, where’s my man? She casts her eyes around, but cannot see him. ‘Bill? Bill!’ she calls, desperation entering her voice, when suddenly a pair of strong arms enfold her. She can do nothing, encumbered as she is with horse and musket. But before she can hit back, a familiar voice rumbles in her ear.

‘Nell Hardwick, you are a continual wonder to me.’ She drops her encumbrances and twists within the arms, to find her Bill grinning at her, his eyes shining. ‘You’ve only gone an’ done it again you daft ha’porth!’And he plants a big sloppy kiss on her lips. ‘Don’t you worry what the others’ll say. If they know what’s best for th’selves, they’ll pat you on your back and be wishing that they was ‘alf as brave as you, Nell Hardwick.’

She kisses him back, a long slow lingering kiss, then pushes him away. ‘Don’t you tease me Bill Hardwick—’

‘I’d never tease you Nell,’ he says, quiet into her ear. ‘Best thing I ever did was marrying you.’

She hugs him and whispers back. ‘We’d be lost without each other.’

He nods. ‘Damned mud!’ he shouts, more for their comrades than for her.

She stoops to pick up her musket and sees the reins trailing on the ground, the horse standing quietly a couple of feet away tearing at some grass. It is well laden, with saddle, holsters and, well! God be praised, two bulging haversacks slung behind the saddle. She picks up the reins, then she and Bill walk back, arm-in-arm to their regiment, with the horse trailing after.

Turns out it was their lucky day after all, with two loaves of more-or-less fresh bread, a round of cheese and a full flask of ale. That night they and their mates in their file sleep on full bellies under the stars, because the rain has stopped at last. No fire, but then you can’t have everything, can you?