CORPSES EVERYWHERE

That night we kept the field where the bodies of the dead were stripped. In the morning these were a mortifying object to behold, when the naked bodies of thousands lay upon the ground and not altogether dead ...

Words of Simeon Ash, parliamentarian chaplain, after the Battle of Newbury

3 October 1643

It was chilly in the laundry wagon and the ride was bumpy. As the shadows lengthened and the wind stiffened, Caroline was grateful for the warmth of William's greatcoat and cowhide hat. It was the one he'd worn on the farm in all seasons and it carried the smoky scents of hay and sheep's wool – and William. She was grateful now for the comfort it gave her, though she had never thought to put on a man's garment before Jane Whorwood suggested it.

'You will attract less attention if you are dressed as a man,' she'd said. 'I will give you a document to get you past the London sentries. If you should be questioned, just say you are the relief driver for the supply wagon. They will probably wave you through without even asking. They are used to our laundry deliveries and Jack is my regular driver for the Berkshire route. Jack will back you up.'

It had not been easy to reconcile the canniness and the courage of this savvy young woman with the innocent manner, blonde coiffure, and smiling blue eyes she also possessed. Mistress Jane Whorwood had from time to time stopped to purchase Ann's fine ale and, being an ardent Royalist and a youngish lady of jolly disposition, was a favorite of Justice Powell. Though they'd had no ale to sell and not much to drink, had none for weeks, the mistress of Holton Manor's neighborly visit to Forest Hill proved timely. It was the very day after Caroline, discovering how desperate things really were at Forest Hill, had naively offered a plan for temporary relief.

When Jane Whorwood had politely asked how they were faring under the occupation, Squire Powell's dire response had been more detailed than such a polite inquiry would usually elicit. Somewhat taken aback, the lady had stuttered out an expression of sympathy and asked if she could do anything to help. But before he could specify exactly how, she had hastened to say that sadly her funds were also depreciated by the war. It was a struggle to keep her business going, what with her contributions to the treasury and the bribes she had to pay to all the guards at all the checkpoints surrounding London – she had stopped here to draw a breath – but if she could help in any other way, anything, just ask. She would of course do whatever she could for so loyal a supporter of their dear King Charles, that most excellent of sovereigns. Caroline had noticed how her expression softened when she said the King's name, her eyes gleaming with the kind of religious devotion usually reserved for saints. Real saints – not the generic term with which the Puritans styled themselves.

Now, on her way to London and huddled in between Jane Whorwood's barrels of soap and her own personal possessions, Caroline pulled the greatcoat around her and withdrew into it, as though to find shelter from the chill of encroaching evening shadows. She inhaled, seeking comfort from the lingering essence of her late husband, but the scent had grown fainter, like her memory of William. She could no longer summon his face at will nor his voice, though it sometimes came to her at odd times, unexpected and heart-stopping, an ambush of crushing loss. She no longer waited, anticipating his sudden appearance or his call from another room, but sometimes still she saw a shadow that startled her. William, is that you? she had even called out once, thinking she had heard his familiar footfall. It was not the only time she had to remind herself that he was never coming home. A letter of condolence from the garrison certified that awful truth.

The wagon stopped, and the driver, appearing at the back of the wagon, nodded his head in the direction of a brush thicket a few yards away. 'Looks like a safe enough place to stop,' he said, his tone low and edged with embarrassment. 'Thou might want to stretch thy legs to make thyself comfortable. I'll keep an ear for trouble. Been a few outbreaks of heavy fighting around here lately, leftover skirmishes ever since Essex turned back the King's forces at Newbury. We won't stop again before Reading. Safer there than on the road since the Roundheads left and our side is occupying the town.'

Caroline did not want to stretch her legs. She wanted to hunch behind the piles of linen with her pistol in her hands, but she needed relief too. She waited until he was out of view and squatted on the ground with the wagon between her and the brush screen. No more privacy than an animal, she thought, as she gathered up the edge of the long coat with one hand, though God knew she should be used to such by now. Forest Hill had become so overrun with soldiers, peeking and poking into every corner, that a woman could scarcely avail herself of any modesty. But Jack was more considerate than the soldiers she'd left behind. He lingered longer than she thought he probably needed to and, climbing back into the driver's seat, he acknowledged with the briefest glance that she had returned from 'making herself comfortable.'

They had not gone very far when, through the open end of the wagon, they encountered, lying in the ditch, what was left of the first dead thing. Even the sharp odor of lye and ash from the barrels could not disguise the smell of decay. She buried her nose in the crook of her elbow. Just a bulky mess of blood and bone. No discernible head. An animal? The cart slowed to a halt as the driver pulled his neckerchief up over his nose and lit a coach lamp against the quickening twilight. A match flared. The wick smoked and spit a niggardly flame. Prompted by Jack's whip, the horses resumed their tired gait. Caroline stood up to risk a look but held onto the rails for support. The wind had stilled. A heavy silence hovered.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the scene unfolding in the field. At first glance, denial stifled what reason would not acknowledge. But all too abruptly the images in the field ghosted to reality, revealing a tableau so nightmarish that it must be real because her imagination was incapable of conjuring such. Scattered like broken branches after a storm, the bodies of men sprawled across the field, a score or more in various stages of undress, some stripped to the waist, most with bare feet, some altogether naked. At the near edge of the field, three of the bodies encircled the ashen remains of a campfire. One corpse sat upright, nothing where his head should be, a tin pot resting in...