Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles by Michael Arnold Page A
Authors: Michael Arnold
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cowering, sir. He was protecting me.’
The White Hart, Okehampton, Devon, 29 April 1643
Osmyn Hogg watched the candles gutter in their placings and wondered what foul spirits had come to torment him this evening. It was prime territory for them. A dark night, made darker still by the swollen thunder clouds scudding through Okehampton’s skies. He could well imagine the grinning, cackling imps that circled the town, closing in to prevent him from doing the Lord’s work. Perhaps they were already here, shrouded by the shadows dancing along the room’s walls and the food-piled platters. He stared hard at the tablecloth, muttered a short, protective prayer.
‘The war has turned, gentlemen,’ Major-General Erasmus Collings declared, raising his glass of claret in a delicate hand. ‘We bloodied Hopton’s nose at Sourton, and now we’ll strike him down for good.’ He smiled at the growled cheers that his words had elicited, but pursed his lips inquisitively when his little eyes fell on Hogg. ‘You do not share the assertion, sir?’
Hogg looked up from his meditation. He had been invited to take supper in the major-general’s quarters – the rooms directly above his own – that evening, sharing the impressive spread of victuals with some of the most senior staff to be found across Okehampton’s transient martial population. Most of the army, Collings had earlier explained, had ridden or marched north, to Torrington, where the Earl of Stamford was mustering Parliament’s western forces. Tonight the major-general’s big rectangular slab of polished chestnut was surrounded by an eclectic group. In addition to Collings and Hogg, there were two colonels of foot, a cavalry major and a quartermaster, all attired in their most gallant garb, and each as obsequious as the next. Hogg had also insisted that his assistant, José Ventura, join them, and, though the distaste for sharing a meal with a Spaniard was far from subtle, the assembled officers were polite enough.
‘I share your optimism, General, naturally,’ Hogg replied, feeling the eyes of the guests bore into him. ‘But, alas, I do not partake of strong drink.’
The cavalry officer, a squash-nosed man named Matheson, furrowed his bushy, grey-specked brow. ‘Puritan, sir? Can’t say I hold with it, m’self.’
It was Hogg’s turn to frown. ‘Hold with it, Major? I was told the Puritan persuasion carries great sway in the rebellion.’
‘It does, sir,’ Matheson replied, scratching gnarled fingers at the armpit of his russet doublet. ‘There are a great many Puritans in our ranks. Pym, of course, and Hampden, Cromwell, Holles, the list seems endless. But not I, sir. Not on your life. I am a man of tradition. The High Church of Queen Bess, and proud to declare it. But Charles Stuart is a tyrant. Must be stopped at all costs.’
‘Men join our cause for divers reasons, Master Hogg,’ Collings interjected smoothly, spindly fingers still wrapped around the glass. ‘I, for instance, would have Parliament all the stronger.’ He leaned back, taking another small sip of his wine. ‘Give power to those who would govern with intelligence. Reason. I am not opposed to monarchy but, by God, if one should rule with a corrupt heart – paying heed to the viperous whispers of his favourites – then let’s be rid of him.’
‘I see,’ Hogg responded, wondering to what kind of England he had returned.
‘Master Hogg,’ Collings went on, looking at each of his officers as he spoke, ‘has been in the New World these past years.’ Finally his hard gaze came back to Hogg. ‘Is that not right, sir?’
Hogg nodded. ‘Right enough, General. Señor Ventura and I have dedicated our lives to fighting mankind’s greatest foe.’
‘The Papacy?’ growled another of the guests through a mouth crammed full of cheese and bread. He had been introduced as Quartermaster Timothy Ayres, and Hogg was certain he had never set eyes upon a more grossly fat man in all his
The White Hart, Okehampton, Devon, 29 April 1643
Osmyn Hogg watched the candles gutter in their placings and wondered what foul spirits had come to torment him this evening. It was prime territory for them. A dark night, made darker still by the swollen thunder clouds scudding through Okehampton’s skies. He could well imagine the grinning, cackling imps that circled the town, closing in to prevent him from doing the Lord’s work. Perhaps they were already here, shrouded by the shadows dancing along the room’s walls and the food-piled platters. He stared hard at the tablecloth, muttered a short, protective prayer.
‘The war has turned, gentlemen,’ Major-General Erasmus Collings declared, raising his glass of claret in a delicate hand. ‘We bloodied Hopton’s nose at Sourton, and now we’ll strike him down for good.’ He smiled at the growled cheers that his words had elicited, but pursed his lips inquisitively when his little eyes fell on Hogg. ‘You do not share the assertion, sir?’
Hogg looked up from his meditation. He had been invited to take supper in the major-general’s quarters – the rooms directly above his own – that evening, sharing the impressive spread of victuals with some of the most senior staff to be found across Okehampton’s transient martial population. Most of the army, Collings had earlier explained, had ridden or marched north, to Torrington, where the Earl of Stamford was mustering Parliament’s western forces. Tonight the major-general’s big rectangular slab of polished chestnut was surrounded by an eclectic group. In addition to Collings and Hogg, there were two colonels of foot, a cavalry major and a quartermaster, all attired in their most gallant garb, and each as obsequious as the next. Hogg had also insisted that his assistant, José Ventura, join them, and, though the distaste for sharing a meal with a Spaniard was far from subtle, the assembled officers were polite enough.
‘I share your optimism, General, naturally,’ Hogg replied, feeling the eyes of the guests bore into him. ‘But, alas, I do not partake of strong drink.’
The cavalry officer, a squash-nosed man named Matheson, furrowed his bushy, grey-specked brow. ‘Puritan, sir? Can’t say I hold with it, m’self.’
It was Hogg’s turn to frown. ‘Hold with it, Major? I was told the Puritan persuasion carries great sway in the rebellion.’
‘It does, sir,’ Matheson replied, scratching gnarled fingers at the armpit of his russet doublet. ‘There are a great many Puritans in our ranks. Pym, of course, and Hampden, Cromwell, Holles, the list seems endless. But not I, sir. Not on your life. I am a man of tradition. The High Church of Queen Bess, and proud to declare it. But Charles Stuart is a tyrant. Must be stopped at all costs.’
‘Men join our cause for divers reasons, Master Hogg,’ Collings interjected smoothly, spindly fingers still wrapped around the glass. ‘I, for instance, would have Parliament all the stronger.’ He leaned back, taking another small sip of his wine. ‘Give power to those who would govern with intelligence. Reason. I am not opposed to monarchy but, by God, if one should rule with a corrupt heart – paying heed to the viperous whispers of his favourites – then let’s be rid of him.’
‘I see,’ Hogg responded, wondering to what kind of England he had returned.
‘Master Hogg,’ Collings went on, looking at each of his officers as he spoke, ‘has been in the New World these past years.’ Finally his hard gaze came back to Hogg. ‘Is that not right, sir?’
Hogg nodded. ‘Right enough, General. Señor Ventura and I have dedicated our lives to fighting mankind’s greatest foe.’
‘The Papacy?’ growled another of the guests through a mouth crammed full of cheese and bread. He had been introduced as Quartermaster Timothy Ayres, and Hogg was certain he had never set eyes upon a more grossly fat man in all his
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