Nell Hardwick and the Confrontation at Turnham Green-13th November 1642

13th November is Saint Quintian's Day. It is also Nell’s wedding anniversary, her and Bill Hardwick's very first. She is still getting used to being called, ‘Mistress Hardwick’, rather than ‘Miss Fuller, although truth be told, it was rarely that and usually ‘Oi! Wench!’ by the newer punters for her husband’s ferry service across the River between Southwark and The City. It was a brisk trade, from those that could not countenance the slew of carriages and carts that slowed the crossing of London Bridge to a crawl, even if Bill’s fare was a tad more expensive than the bridge’s toll. Mistress Hardwick: she rolls this delightful fact around in her mind like an unusually piquant oyster. He is a good husband. He provides well for her. Better, even, now that his poor old Ma had gone, God rest her soul. She’d passed peacefully in her sleep only a month before. Bill didn’t beat her, and in that he was unusual, if the gossip from the other wives was to be believed. So all should have been well on this, their first wedding anniversary.

Only it wasn’t.

She is standing in a field near some village called Turnham Green, just to the west of London, peering through the dissipating mist at an army of Royalists with all their muskets and pikes, or so it seems to her, pointing at her. And that is not the worst of it. Her Bill is out in front as part of something called a ‘forlorn hope’. That does sound good to her. Not good at all. She could be a widow by sunset and then where would she be? By sacred Jesu’s toenails, she doesn’t want that. What started as a business partnership with Bill has grown into something more. She cannot bring herself to even think of the consequences. But she knows that if he were to die today, she will have lost the one man most precious to her in all the world.

But there is nothing she can do.

It all started when some of his fellow watermen had joined the “Trayned Bandes.” Of course, he had to join as well, after all, they were his mates. She’d gone along with it. He’d always has an evening out with them, and this was no different. ‘Drilling’ he’d called it, though what it had to do with making holes she did not understand. Drilling with his mates in the ‘Trayned Bande.’ The Southwark Whitecoat Regiment to be precise. His old Ma had always shrugged when he rolled home tight as virgin’s quim, every Thursday, without fail. He’d be up before the sun next day, also without fail, so she’d got used to it, and so had Nell. Turns out this ‘drilling’ meant learning how to trail the puissant pike and fire the far less puissant musket.

When the king had decided he did not like being told what to do, and parliament had decided that he needed to learn, the London Trayned Bandes were the stick that Parliament would use to beat the lesson into the king’s stubborn head.

So now, all in all, the Earl of Essex’s failure to beat the King way out past Oxford meant that it was Bill and his pisshead mates of the London Trayned Bandes were all that stood between a vengeful king and the city he desired most. Her Bill and his forlorn hope. A handful of men. That was all. Well, we can forgive a little exaggeration on her part here, because it was actually five London regiments, including Bill’s Southwark Whitecoats with their brave yellow flags emblazoned with blue circles flying proudly over their massed pikemen and musketeers, with drums beating a suitably military rattle, that stood between the King and London. But we may forgive her because, of the five thousand or so men, she only cared for one, and he was way out in front, for what reason, she could not fathom. It seemed daft to her. Their leader, Phillip Skippon, had roused them with a short speech; something about brave boys fighting for their wives and children. But they would be no use to their wives and children, she had thought when she heard him, if they were dead. Stupid. Why did it have to come to fighting anyway? Could not the king see reason and come to talk to his parliament? But no. Men, be they commoners or kings, are all stubborn and pig-headed, especially when it comes to their ‘honour’.

So here she is, standing next to Matthew Hardwick, Bill’s uncle, the sergeant-major of the Southwark regiment, thinking (but not saying) that even he does not know much about soldiering, given he’s a Soap Boiler. But she plucks up her nerve and tugs his sleeve.

‘Uncle Matthew…’ He turns and regards her with a glaring eye that softens immediately he sees her.

‘Nell, my favourite niece,’ he rumbles, because he’s a big man with a barrel chest and arms like oars from stirring his soap. ‘What’re you doing ‘ere? A battle’s no place for a woman…Oh, and it’s “Sergeant-Major” when I’m mustered in, my dear.’

She stands her ground and fixes him with her sweetest smile because she knows he has a soft spot for her. ‘Oh Unc…Sergeant-Major Hardwick!’ She throws her shoulder back and straightens her spine, like she’s seen Bill do in their yard when he’s been at his “drilling”. ‘I know, I know,’ she flashes another smile, ‘but Bill ‘n me have only been married a year an’ I am so desperately worried about him.’

He pats her shoulder with one of his huge hands, a surprisingly delicate touch for such a big man. ‘I understand. But don’t you worry, my girl. We’ve got twice the number the damned king’s got and we’re not moving from this place. The damned papist’ll take one look at us and turn tail, just you mark my words! Nothin’ to worry your pretty head about eh?’ He favours her with a grin and is about to turn away when, away in the distance over towards Bill and his forlorn hope, there is a muffled bang that draws everyone’s eyes. A plume of greasy grey smoke is rising slowly into the air. Another bang, another plume. Somewhere in the distance Nell can make out a thin line of men, in pairs, with their heavy muskets pointing towards Bill in the middle of his line of musket men. That’s what Bill’s drilling was all about. Getting used to how this musket-thing works. She, like any newlywed, had taken a keen interest in all this for a while, until more important things like running the house and getting food on the table took her time away. But she is a keen observer and quick on the uptake, and has not forgotten what she saw, as you will soon see.

This time the bang and the smoke come from Bill and his mates, and soon a lively exchange is underway. She cannot tear her eyes away from it. Uncle Matthew’s comforting words are now forgotten as she wrings her hands and shifts from foot to foot to try to see whether Bill is hurt or not. What might happen if he runs out of powder or musket balls? Would the Royalist’s resolve harden when they saw him at such a grave disadvantage? The idea that he is running short of powder and shot takes hold and refuses to let go of her. She casts her eyes about. She is looking for some of the bandoleers that Bill and his mates wear, with twelve wooden bottles filled with enough powder for one shot hanging from a leather strap that he wears over his shoulder. Also for some of the pouches that hold the big lead balls the musket fires. She spies what she seeks, a small heap of bandoleers and pouches lying ready on the ground behind the ranks of pikemen. She does not think, just acts, giving in to her anguish over his safety. No-one sees her pick up the gear. No one stops her as she runs out towards the forlorn hope. No-one shouts after her until it’s too late.

‘Hoi! Nell, come back!’ yells Sergeant-Major Hardwick. ‘Don’t be an addlepate!’ But it is too late. She is already halfway towards her precious Bill with her precious burden to save his precious life.

***

By the time it takes her to cover the two or three hundred yards between the pikes and the Bill’s forlorn hope, the drum-roll of musket fire has increased its tempo to a steady rattle and the air is already thick with powder smoke that coils and swirls in heavy folds, now hiding Bill, now shifting to reveal him. Closer now, she sees he is still safe, kneeling, working his musket with an ease that she knows has cost him much time and no few hangovers. He is paired with John Sutton, a fellow waterman, and they take it in turns to fire and load. Six yard out and John suddenly throws his arms into the air, falls backwards and lays still. She rushes to him. She knows his wife, they have taken dinner together on occasions and she knows they are a solid couple, despite their bickering. No more of that, John lies on his back, a great hole torn in his chest that gushes blood.

Bill turns when John fails to fire. ‘Nell! What in hell’s fires are y’doin’ here?’

‘Don’t you mind me William Hardwick!’ She fixes him with a stern glare, her anxiety gone now that she can see he is safe (Safe?! Don’t ask me; I am as privy to the inner workings of a woman’s mind as a cardinal’s is to God’s). ‘I’m bringing you more powder n’shot. I thought y’might be in need of more to keep them papists at bay.’

‘Ye daft ha’porth! Saint Peter’s prick! You’ve got some guts Nell Hardwick!’ He grins a grin that lights his face, his teeth white against his powder-blackened skin. ‘Get John’s musket. You’ve seen me work it. You load. I fire. then I’ll do the same!’

She nods and stoops to fetch John’s musket and his long forked rest. She knows you can’t fire a musket without a rest. It’s too heavy. She opens the pan- empty. Good. The thing must be unloaded, so she starts the lengthy process of priming and loading and ramming to make it ready to give fire. Bill’s musket goes off and she knows it’s her turn. But what is she to fire at? The smoke is thick and hides the enemy. She waits, hearing the bangs of other muskets going off, dulled by the smoke. Already her lips are gritty and she can taste a smoky, sharp saltiness on them, not like cooking salt, something bitter and saltier that immediately makes her thirsty.

The smoke lifts for a moment at the touch of an unfelt breeze and she sees her target, a Royalist, as clear as day, some hundred yards in front. He has taken his black, broad-brimmed hat off and is waving it over his head, making its white feathers flutter as he rolls it back and forth. He is shouting something encouraging to his men, who are kneeling like Bill and working their muskets, Then he points at her and Bill with his other hand. His men stand and yell, a yell that echoes off the smoke and fills her with dread, her stomach suddenly in knots only slightly less painful than her monthly courses. She brings her musket to her shoulder —no more weight than the piles of fresh bread she used to handle— blows on the match to ensure it’s alight, settles it into its rest and points it at the waving man and exhales. She does not know why, it seems the right thing to do, to steady her aim. Then she squeezes the trigger that brings the match to the pan. The priming fizzles then sparks. A thought floats across her mind for an instant: is this man married? Maybe it’s his anniversary as well? Then the main charge catches and the musket fires, slamming into her shoulder like a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. By some happenstance the breeze catches her smoke and whisks it aside. The waving man staggers, spins and falls, his hat falling forgotten at his feet. His men hesitate, some drop back onto one knee to fire, others turn and run. Soon they are all running back to their lines.

‘Good shot Nell!’ Bill’s voice cuts through her ringing ears. ‘That’s seen them off! Huzzah! Huzzah!’ She is swept off her feet. He grabs her with both arms and gives her a great big hug, He plants a kiss on her lips and she drops her musket and wraps her arms around him and buries her heady in his smoky, powder-gritty shoulder. He is safe. He may not have remembered what today is, but she knows, and she could not wish for any better gift on this Saint Quintian’s day.