Probably had all sorts of natural immunities," said the dead man.
"I doubt that," said Digby. "They were rotten with dysentery at the Standingham Hall siege a week later."
"Both sides were rotten with it," countered the dying man. "I was arguing with a chap from Boxall's Regiment last night in the pub. He said the cavalry was queen of the battlefield, when it came to a killing match. But I reckon squitters was queen. More of the poor bastards crapped themselves to dummy5
death than ever killed each other, for a fact. I had a bad dose of enteritis last summer, and it bloody near killed me, I tell you. And I was full of pills and antibiotics." He nodded wisely. "I should think the safest ingredient in this water back then was probably the blood, and Monson just struck lucky."
As if he had overheard their conversation, the Royalist commander came riding along the bank towards them while his troops surged across the stream in pursuit of the broken Roundheads.
He waved at Digby. "Keep pouring it in, Henry," he shouted.
"We want to make sure it goes all the way down to the road bridge—that's where the crowds will be."
Digby waved back and slopped more dye into the stream. It hadn't occurred to the silly man that it was pointless to waste the dye when everyone was churning up the water, but now most of them were across and he wasn't going to argue the toss. It was enough that he understood better than anyone that his role today, though unglamorous, was probably the most important one of alclass="underline" just as Black Thomas's unhygienic act had fixed Swine Brook Field firmly in the history books, so that it was remembered by people who'd never heard of such crowning mercies as Naseby and Marston Moor, so today's red stream was what would catch the public eye and the public imagination. The afternoon before, when the other officers had been checking out the battle scenario, he had superintended a dress rehearsal of this bit of it for a BBC TV
dummy5
News crew. By this evening with any luck it would be seen in colour by millions, and from those millions there would be some hundreds of would-be recruits. From them the Mustering Committee would be able to raise half a dozen new regiments—good quality regiments of those who knew what they were fighting about, and loved what they knew.
"How long do we have to lie here?" The dying man consulted a wristwatch. "I'm getting damn thirsty—it comes of watching Black Thomas do his thing."
Good quality regiments were composed of better material than the dying man, thought Digby disapprovingly. Wristwatches were strictly forbidden in battle, together with all other anachronisms except spectacles, and even those had to be National Health steel-framed.
He added more dye to the stream. "5.30 for us." The man hadn't even read his scenario properly. "We have to perform for the crowd first."
He pointed towards the ridge, which was already black with spectators who had been released from the retaining ropes by the crowd marshals.
"Don't worry, Phil," said the dead man. "Any minute now we're due for succour from the Angels of Mercy and consolations from the Men of God."
"You can keep the Men of God—you're dead," said the dying man. "Me, I'll settle for an Angel of Mercy to ease my passing. A little bit of succour is just what I need at the dummy5
moment." He peered around uneasily. "You haven't seen the Lord General anywhere, have you?"
"He's in the next gap," said Digby. "Why d'you want to know?"
"Because he's probably keeping his beady eye on me, that's why. I got chewed up for putting my hand up an Angel's skirt at Overton Moor."
"By the Angel?" asked the dead man innocently.
"Are you kidding? It was my own private Angel. But the Lord General doesn't think a god-fearing man ought to fancy the flesh in his last agonies—he's a stickler for bloody accuracy. . . . There are times when I think I ought to have been a cavalier. They expect that sort of thing, lucky bastards."
Digby was slightly shocked by the dying man's profanity. It was true that Jim Ratcliffe was meticulous in his requirements. But it was also true that it was becoming a point of honour in the Parliamentary Army that there should be no swearing on the field or off it. He had noticed the previous evening that even after the beer had flowed freely and the politics had become vehement there had been very little swearing among the men of his own regiment.
"Are you sure you shouldn't change sides?" He tried to sound casual.
"Change sides?" The dying man repeated the words incredulously. "Christ, man—my old dad was a miner. I've dummy5
voted Labour all my life, and I'm not going to change now. . . . Bloody cavaliers, you won't catch me among them."
"Phil talks like a Malignant," explained the dead man loyally,
"but his heart's in the right place."
"Too true," agreed the dying man. "Just happens Dave and I don't happen to be a couple of your Eastern Association men.
We're low-grade cannon-fodder— what Noll Cromwell called
'old decayed serving-men and tapsters'. We run away when things get too hot, but we bloody well come back again. And we died out there too—" he pointed towards the water-meadow "—before there ever were any Ironsides in their pretty uniforms. This is 1643, remember, not '44 or '45."
He could be right at that, thought Digby penitently. But more than that, there ought to be a use for such cheerful rogues because even in defeat there was a marked reluctance among members of both armies to behave shamefully. The dying man and his friend might become the nucleus of a special group prepared to disgrace themselves—a company of cowards. He might usefully raise the idea with Jim Ratcliffe before the next Mustering Committee meeting. Although he was a successful stockbroker, Jim's enthusiasms for the realism and the Roundhead cause were unbounded.
As he emptied the last of the dye from the canister and reached for a fresh one a shadow fell across his hand.
"Keep it up, Henry—keep it up." Bob Davenport's broad American voice followed the shadow. "It's going down great at the bridge, the people there are loving it. If we could bottle dummy5
it I swear we could sell it for souvenirs. . . . Casualties ready to perform?"
"Any real casualties?" Digby's private nightmare came to the surface.
"Just the usual cuts and bruises . . . plus one minor concussion. No fractures— nothing serious," the American reassured him. "The boys are getting pretty good at looking after themselves."
"Have you seen the Lord General?" asked the dying man.
"Not since he was hit. He's just round the next bush."
Davenport looked over his shoulder. "Well, here they come.
Do your stuff now."
Digby screwed the dripper-top into the new canister of dye and fitted it into the recess he had scooped out in the bank between the roots of the willow. When he had checked that the red stain was spreading satisfactorily he camouflaged the plastic with the grass he had cut in readiness and climbed back up the bank to where Davenport stood beside the bodies. As the first of the spectators drew near he dropped on his knees beside the dying man, his hands clasped in prayer.
"Courage, good friends," said Davenport in a loud voice. "We must needs look upon this dread day as the hand of the Lord raised mightily against us poor sinners, for it was only He that made us fly from the ungodly hosts."
"Amen to that," said Digby. "For those that He loveth He first chastiseth, even as the mighty Samson was brought low dummy5
before the Philistines."
"Ye shall be cast down in this wicked world that ye be raised up in the world everlasting," agreed Davenport. "And doubt not that on the dreadful day of judgment the Lord shall know His own."
"He that loseth his life in Thy service shall save it," said Digby.
"Look! He's all covered in blood, mum," said a shrill treble voice in the crowd.
"Sssh!"
"Tomato sauce, more likely," said another voice irreverently.
There was a titter of laughter, which the dying man cut off with a realistic groan. "Lord, Lord—Thy will be done," he croaked.