From May edition of Blythe Spirit

 Two published in the May edition of Blythe Spirit

By Rob Kingston

 

for as long as it lasts gulls cry 

 

Driftwood

a sea lion appears

to disappear 

 

Spirit & Flesh!   (500 word ~ Flash fiction) 

By Len Morgan

My Scars are evidence that I’m fallible.  I’ve been injured many times, yet always I have survived.  I have beaten faster men, better men, and stronger men.  I beat them because I am too blind stupid to know when I'm beaten! As time passes they begin to doubt; their confidence evaporates; their strength starts to wane, their mind allows vulnerability in.  Then their imagination starts working overtime and they begin to fear.  From then on, their days are numbered.  But, I’m getting older, and slower.  It's just a matter of time…

If killing is wrong then why do I feel so exulted with each cutting thrust of my sword?

Spirit & Flesh! 

The Spirit is immortal and so has eternity in which to enjoy the finer things; beauty of thought and deed; with ample time to contemplate them to the full. 

The Flesh knows it has but a short span on earth. Time in which to taste the riches and pleasures of life: greed, gain, and lust, three of the hungers to be sated in life.  It wants to experience everything in full measure, caring only for its own existence:  The Joy of Life!

Copyright Len Morgan

SANDCASTLES 01

SANDCASTLES 01

By Barbara Thomas 

 When I was around nine years old, my younger sister and I were lucky enough to go to the seaside quite often, mainly because my Dad owned a little black four seater Ford. How many readers can remember back in the days when Henry Ford’s proudly said these famous words, “you can choose any colour as long as it’s black”. I digress. 

As a family of four we would travel as far as Margate or Ramsgate in a day. My sister and I would go to bed early for an early start the next morning usually five am As we slept mum would compile everything needed for a good day out. Kettle, primus stove, cutlery, real plates, none of the paper kind, real cups and even saucers, no mugs for mum!! Then came the frying pan followed by the food, which would be taken out of the cool larder first thing in the morning. Margarine, and lard. Vegetable oil was never on the menu. Followed by eggs, bread and bacon and of course not forgetting the tea leaves and sugar. All ready for our adventure Dad would start packing everything in the back of Little Joey, as us girls had named him. Everything but the kitchen sink, oh hold on!! I forgot the picnic table, small fold up seats and of course the washing up bowl, drying cloths and not forgetting bicarbonate of soda, no such thing as washing up liquid. Dad would crank the starting handle, check the orange indicator lights like tongues, were working. We were off, so early it was still dark outside. Old Joey chugged along, no Motorways then. Around 10am dad drew up on a grass verge away from the road. Then the fun started we all had our jobs to do even my little sister. Last out the table would be erected. Table laid, plates crockery put into place, milk emptied in small jug sugar in a bowl salt and pepper, then my sister and I could relax and go and discover our surroundings. Dad then opened the bonnet, there would be a loud hiss, he would then check the water. Job done. Now for the important part of the ritual, lighting the primus stove, and kettle on for the first cup of tea of the day. Then frying pan followed, lard placed in first, then eggs and bacon. We would be called to come and sit down and hungrily eat our Sunday morning fry-up.

 Meal over, kettle put back on, bowl filled with washing up, then my most hated job, drying up. Everything carefully stacked away, off again to our destination, Margate seafront. Several hours later we arrived, Dad made sure we were settled on the sea-front then kissed my Mum goodbye, as he made his way to the greyhound stadium, promising he wouldn’t be longer than need be? Mum positioned herself on the sand half way down near the waters edge but not that far from the road. It didn’t matter how many bucket and spades we had our parents always bought us new ones. “It wasn’t until later years that I realized how lucky both my sister and I had been” So armed with our new buckets and spades we started to build our sandcastles, we would spend our time trying to outdo each other. Then we needed water for our moats, off we trotted across the sand. If you have never been to Margate beach you are missing a beautiful stretch of golden sands. Which is still looks the same now as it did when I was nine, (except now the sand is imported). Mum had sat down on the sand with her knitting, listening to an old portable wireless she had brought with her. She checked the time and called us back for tea. Out came the flask and orange juice, plus cakes she had cooked the day before. We shared an apple, no such thing as a whole apple or orange to ourselves, everything was quartered. When we had finished and asked to go and play, mum said dad would be back soon and she was just going to pop over the road to get a fresh jug of tea for dad, and we were not to wonder off, stay together and if we were really lucky we might just might pop into Dreamland before we made for home after picking up some fish and chips. We watched mum go then made our way to the water front, then we heard people pointing and shouting, something was in the water that was attracting a lot of attention. So both of us looked, we were terrified and dropped our buckets and ran up the beach to be met by mum, we were crying she calmed us down then asked me what had happened? I said there were Sharks in the sea. Mum kept a straight face and sat us down, drying our eyes, and explained that they weren’t Sharks but Porpoises. When Dad came back mum retold the story, they both laughed. He came with us to collect our toys then packed everything up and took it to the car then took us to Dreamland, our worries soon forgotten, on the way home we eat fish and chips out of newspaper. At home we fell into bed, knowing we had school in the morning. What a story to tell the teacher. The end B.Thomas (This actually happened, my parents were not rich, but hard working. Dad was a window cleaner, self employed and Mum worked on the tills in Victor Values (now Tesco’s).

 Copyright Barbara Thomas

JIT – Journey in Time (Part 3 of 4)

 JIT – Journey in Time (Part 3 of 4)

(Contains scenes of an upsetting/distressing nature)

By John Abbott

Nothing !! - A short conversation to a clerk on the Swedish commanders staff and my documents were handed over, both without praise or explanation. Hours later when I returned to the inn which was our pre-arranged meeting place, I was told of the desertion of nine of our company. These nine had decided that they could gain better sustenance without the help of Fraser's leadership. Whereupon Fraser then made a decision that would forever haunt my life.

The nineteen remaining members of this advance company were to ride South from the town without delay and attempt to seek hospitality from one of the surrounding villages. At least, that was what I was told, which only shows my complete and utter naiveté in the ways of the world. Oh, how much I now regret becoming one of that hungry band of marauders.

It was only much later that I was to find out that the city of Rothenburg effectively upheld the rule of law in this area of Franconia. The companies mood became noticeably more relaxed as we left Wurzburg. The riders within the group seemed happier, they chatted and laughed amongst themselves, but, alas, no smiles from Presten. At the time, I thought that I was somehow missing out on being part of the companies good humour, later it became much more obvious why their spirits were raised.

 

I shall NEVER forget the day that we appeared on the outskirts of that village. It was a Monday, the twenty-eighth of January in the year of our Lord 1634 and it was on this day that I was to forever break whatever rules of morality I had set myself.

We approached the village of Linden at approximately Midday, having finished our last meagre rations of wine a little earlier. Fraser had, by this stage, already given out various instructions to the members of our Company. My understanding of the situation was quite simple. The villagers had been paid regularly to supply sustenance and would do so willingly, and any failure to do so, or any disagreements that might have occur, would be dealt with by discussion with Fraser himself. In extraordinary circumstances, problems would be dealt with by using the absolute minimum of force - hopefully by threat rather than by action, which to this participant seemed quite reasonable considering the food situation in this area in general. The only man who appeared to dislike all this was our moody friend Presten, whose demeanour was not exactly endearing. As we calmly rode into Linden, through the trees skirting its north-western edge, there was no sun showing itself in the sky, only endless tumbling thick grey clouds. All our riders entered this small village of but nine or ten dwellings quite openly. 

There was no brandishing of arms, no blatant hostility, just nineteen hungry, thirsty horsemen.

Fraser was calm and measured as he split us into two's and told us to inquire at each dwelling for supplies. I was obviously paired with Sil, which, for a reason still unbeknown to me, was treated with great humour by the rest of our party. It was presumably an insult of some kind but I did not, nor did I wish to, examine the content of the derisory remarks. Sil was definitely upset by these comments and reacted angrily.

 

As our horses were dismounted and tied up to the nearest horse rails, a few of the inhabitants began to appear. Sil had dismounted in an angry petulant fashion. He rushed to the nearest building and hammered with his fist upon the door. I stepped quickly after him. The door opened and the occupier appeared. This German had grey hair, he looked frail and thin and must have been all of fifty plus years in age. In his native tongue of German, he demanded of Sil an explanation.

" What do you want ? What do you want of us?

Sil's response to the old man surprised me enormously! He simply punched the old man full in the face, knocking him to the floor inside his home. He then stamped his way inside and began to shout what I presumed to be abuse in German at whoever else was within. I stooped to help the old man to his feet, whilst he vigorously attempted to staunch the flow of blood escaping from his nose. I glanced outside and as I pivoted around, the truth began to dawn upon me. Loud shouting and cursing, some Swedish but mostly German, had become the order of the day. The whole company was armed and acting belligerently towards the inhabitants of this village. Doors were being battered on and homes were being forcibly entered. I turned back as the old man, right hand firmly on his nose, half-closed the door with his left. As I quickly surveyed the interior, I felt a cold creak of horror screaming through my mind.

There was a large table and chairs centrally placed in the room and there were three other doors, two on the wall to my right, and another to the left side. Sil was standing just to my left in front of the table. I was horrified to see that he had drawn his rapier and was threatening a young woman seated in the corner, who appeared to be the only other occupant of this building. I remonstrated with Sil.

 

" What are you doing ? Put your sword away, you don't need it here!"

He only had a laconic reply for me." Shut up, English!"

 

I decided to try and calm the situation. I sat at the table and quietly asked the young woman for food and wine whilst carefully surveying her features. She was young, possibly similar in years to my good self. Her hair was the colour of bright chestnuts and she had a plain look about her without being unattractive. She had a slim figure, and she wore a long simple high-waisted dress of deep blue with a white low cut front revealing ample bosom. Although she was obviously frightened, she attempted a brave smile towards me. Sil sat gruffly down next to me, banged his free fist upon the table and shouted.

"Yes ! Food, wine. Now!"

He put his rapier into its scabbard and shouted again.

"Now, woman! Wine! Now!"

The old man, who was still dabbing his nose with a handkerchief, waved the girl away to one of the doors on the right.

"Go, Hanna, fetch some wine."

The woman called Hanna rose and walked swiftly into what was presumably their kitchen. The old man explained to us that they only had a little bread, no real food, but they could gather some old vegetables to make a broth of sorts but it would probably not cure our hunger. Sil gave the impression that he was an oaf by staring around the room with a moronic gaze and occasionally muttering the German word for "Wine". The old man now sat at the table, to our right, blocking my view of Hanna in the other room. I cautiously tried to begin a conversation.

"Jonathon, my name is Jonathon."

His queer expression left little doubt that he did not understand English. We had a strange situation here; an Englishman versed in his native tongue along with Latin and French and understanding a little German, with a Finn who could speak a little German and English, both in a German household where they appeared to only fully understand German. Then the old man, still tentatively dabbing his nose with a bloodied hankerchief, spoke to me. Perhaps he did understand?

"Georg Rosch and my wife - Hanna."

Sil broke up whatever conversation might have followed between this Rosch and my good self with a loud scream of, "Woman, wine!"

 

I would have attempted to calm him again, but at that moment, Hanna appeared from the kitchen with a large wooden tray with six bottles and two jugs upon it. Sil rose from his seat and as a childish grin appeared upon his face he shouted, "Good! good! wine!"

 

The tray was placed upon the table and Hanna sat sheepishly back in the corner. Rosch looked at me, then switched his eyes to Sil as Sil glumly uncorked a bottle and set the glasses in front of himself. He poured into both slowly and as he did, Rosch, whose nose now seemed to have stopped bleeding, narrowed his eyes at Sil in an evil look of hatred. Sil sat, then pushed a jug to me, which I picked up and began to sip. Unfortunately, Sil had other ideas, he emptied his jug in one mouthful, poured another and made a gesture to me indicating that I should follow suit. I did and the drinking like this continued for quite a few minutes. Sil and I had almost finished two bottles whilst Rosch and his wife Hanna simply watched, afraid to speak and scared of provoking Sil into any additional violent acts. Sil drained the second bottle and then began to drink the third at a more conservative pace and I made the mistake of joining him. I was already feeling light-headed when Sil again rose from his chair and spoke to Hanna.

"Woman, come here."

She looked at Sil, glanced to Rosch and flicked her eyes to me. Somehow she looked less plain than earlier. She was very cautious, but she slowly moved closer to Sil. She sat herself opposite him at the table.

"You, woman, drink wine too!"

"No!" was her short answer.

"Yes, drink!" said Sil.

With a worried soulful look she again answered "No!"

 

Sil looked at her without a change of expression, stood up and whilst continuing to drink, began to slowly walk around the room. The drinking was progressing too quickly for me, I could not hold my drink at this pace. My head was beginning to feel as though it was spinning when Sil again gestured to Hanna and demanded.

"Woman, drink wine with me!"

She again glanced at all the three men in the room then answered a third time, "No, I cannot!"

Sil leant slowly towards her and suddenly grabbed her by the hair.

"You drink wine!"

 

Rosch jumped up immediately. There was nothing I could do, the alcohol was having an effect. Sil glared at Rosch and screamed at him some German that I did not understand. As Rosch, helpless against a man of such bulk, sank into his seat again, Sil twisted Hanna's hair and pulled her upwards. She moaned in pain but said nothing. I spoke to Sil.

"Leave her, we can drink the wine."

His response was again straightforward. "Shut up, English!"

Although it numbs me to remember, I will never forget what we did that afternoon. I do not really wish to go any further into the squalid detail, but I must exorcise these events somehow. Sil twisted Hanna's hair tighter and, using his free hand, ripped open the front of her dress. Her breasts sprang free of the torn clothing, as she screamed. Rosch simply buried his head into his hands in anguish. Sil slapped Hanna to stop her screaming, but to no avail Sil literally picked her up by her hair and slammed her back against the table.

"Woman, I want you!” he stated.

He lifted her easily, and threw her upon the table, face up. The tray was knocked to the floor. One bottle shattered, the others rolled over and over, adding to the noise of Rosch crying and Hanna screaming to God for help. Hanna went limp, in fear or shock, or both, I knew not. She was wide-eyed, but did not struggle much, only whispering, " God... God..." as Sil roughly stripped her of every stitch of clothing she was wearing. Not gently, he simply tore it off, the dress, her underskirts, her long lacy knickers, and her footwear were thrown across the room. Rosch fell to his knees with his back to us and began weeping and whining heavily whilst huddled on the floor.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright John Abbott

THE CHALLENGE

 THE CHALLENGE

By Peter Woodgate 

It stands before me

A challenge to end all challenges

Where do I begin?

How do I tackle the immense task ahead?

I see several openings

Each leading to a fresh challenge

A steep slope spirals upward

And I glimpse yet other openings

I see a well but my throat remains dry,

The task looks daunting,

Energy sapping,

Soul destroying,

Time consuming

And costly.

 

I slump down, close my eyes

And let my mind wander,

I need to break through

The walls of resistance,

Open the doors of expectancy,

Climb the stairway of fulfilment

In order to reach my goal.

 

I clear my mind

Of negative distractions

And see it framed

In all it’s glory

Magnificent colours edged with white

Rising from the lush ground underfoot

To a sumptuous sky

Where twinkling lights burst forth

From beautiful roses.

 

I sigh with satisfaction

The task complete,

Then, recognize the sound of heavy feet,

A voice booms out and I hear it bawl

“Come on you have to decorate the hall”

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

JIT – Journey in Time ~ (Part 2 of 4)

 JIT – Journey in Time ~ (Part 2 of 4) 

By John Abbott

The Colonel called in his Captain, spoke a few unintelligible sentences, presumably in Swedish, and the Captain then beckoned me to follow him. I bowed my head in appreciation to Colonel Stalhaus, and followed his Captain, whilst attempting to slow my surge of silent celebration. The Captain led me to another room further down the hall, whereupon he gestured that I should wait outside. As I stood with my back to the room, he entered and I heard more of his native tongue, also someone replying. I pivoted as I heard footsteps approaching.

"Hello me lad!" bellowed a somewhat overweight soldier who was obviously a Scot by his accent. He shook me by the hand.

"So, you're for enlisting, are you lad?"

For the first time in days I appeared cautious.

"I want to travel to Wurzburg for the Colonel."

The Scot bellowed back

"Yes laddie, I know. But first you must sign the necessary paperwork!” 

It seemed as though paperwork would haunt me to the end of my days. I showed him my letter of introduction from Sir Edward Conway, who had been the English Secretary of State since 1623.

It appeared to have little affect as I was taken through reams of rules and regulations. The paperwork was in German, of which I understood some when spoken, but little when written. The Scot, a Campbell by birthright I understand, tried to explain most of it to me. Essentially, it meant that as long as I complied with the regulations laid down, then I would receive a small sum of coinage every month along with food and lodging. The lodging was not yet arranged, but would be dealt with upon arrival at Wurzburg. My contract was to expire on the last day of December 1634. I was to join a small advance company the next day, and would take all further instructions from a Captain Fraser - yet another Scotsman.

The next morning I rose from my slumbers early, to find myself a little nervous. Although I felt a tiny amount of expectancy, it seemed heavily outweighed by grave misgivings; my fears, no doubt of the unknown, were hard to suppress.

I think it prudent at this juncture in time to make one point abundantly clear. My knowledge of war, and life, come to think of it, had been relatively limited. Of course, I had heard stories and read pamphlets, but seen little. My schooling was the basis for my experience so far; which although extensive, hardly prepared me for a trip on foreign soil, and a war. The skills I had learnt at school, first at Ludlow Grammar then at Grays Inn in London, were heavy with lectures, and notebooks crammed with instruction were crucial. The hours had been long and the discipline severe; flogging was frequent. Holidays had been very short, and I had often wrote long letters home to my father. I had trained for service abroad at Grays Inn, where I had struggled to master Latin and obtain some knowledge of French, whilst gaining some valuable experience in administration and law. It was much easier to excel at fencing, dancing and the riding of the high horse. All said and done, I later found that this had definitely not prepared me for the experiences ahead. How foolish of me to think otherwise!

I carefully packed my few belongings into my haversack, rolled my bedroll tightly and tied it. As I threw my cloak around my shoulders, I took a final glance around the spartan surroundings; one small, low wooden bed, one chair, a small washbowl, and a single unlit candle upon the floor. I contemplated the future and wondered when I would next have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, or indeed, when I would next have any sleep at all. As I left the room and went down the stairs towards the inn's kitchen, I steered my thoughts towards acquiring some bread and sausage for breakfast rather than allowing myself any more careless musing upon the future.

Fortunately, I had already made an arrangement with the innkeeper about breakfast. For a few coins, he had promised that his wife would leave enough to sustain me for the day. I found a small loaf, two medium-sized leberwurst - or liver-sausage to us English, and a carafe of wine: a veritable feast. I gathered the food and wine into a spare sack which had thoughtfully been left, no doubt, by the innkeeper's wife. As I strode off under a grey January sky to meet Captain Fraser and to begin my journey to Wurzburg, my spirits were high.

When I reached the small square, my muster point, my anticipation increased. Within the square, the sides of which were certainly no more than a hundred yards each, was all manner of military paraphernalia, the like of which I had not seen since Briel. There were two wagons and, at a glance, twenty to thirty horses, surrounded by a couple of hundred people, at least. Not that they were all soldiers; far from it, in fact! There were all sorts of people, and even some women.

When I spotted Captain Fraser, unmistakable because of his fiery orange beard, it became obvious to me that the majority of these people were the inevitable hangers-on. He was gesticulating wildly at the crowd and his roaring voice was easily the loudest I had ever heard. It was some minutes before I managed to assess exactly what was happening. Of actual troops, there were but twenty-five to thirty, and one of the wagons appeared heavily laden with barrels of wine and beer. So heavily laden, in fact, that the soldiers had decided to transfer half its load to the second wagon, which had the effect of bringing forward a small collection of the local populace set on acquiring anything that the opportunity might present. Hence the apparent chaos and the bellowing Scotsman. Mr Fraser, or the Captain, as I should now refer to him, was slowly gaining control of the situation. Half of the soldiers were ordered to force the crowd back, not only to stop them hindering the movements from one wagon to the other, but also to prevent the scaring of the horses which, for the moment, were being kept relatively calm by a few soldiers on my right. As things quietened the crowd began to disperse realizing that there were to be no easy pickings here - not today, maybe tomorrow.

 

The Captain introduced himself to me.

“Mister Vincent, no doubt!"

He must have got a decent description of me from Mr Campbell, which would not have been as hard as one might imagine. Although my clothes were similar to many in the crowd, breeches, tunic, white shirt and a cloak, my hair was cut pretty short, just below my ears, and it was very blonde - almost white. We exchanged pleasantries, then Fraser went on to explain the situation surrounding his merry band.

 

Captain Fraser's advance company consisted of the two wagons, whose contents were to be quietly delivered to Wurzburg with the aid and protection of twenty-seven stout-hearted soldiers of the Swedish army. I was to become number twenty-eight. Much to my surprise, Fraser pointed out to me that I should not mention the documents to another soul within the group. It seemed that with every day that passed, my documents seemed to acquire a greater significance. He assumed that I could ride, which was one of my few skills. I was given a choice of two horses, one black and one dun. Although both appeared to be strong and healthy, I opted for the black horse, which bore the germanic name, 'Frederick'. I decided to rename him. 'Umbra', meaning shadow in Latin, would be his name whilst I rode him. It took another half an hour or so to finish loading the second wagon and sort out certain practicalities with the men and horses. I was vaguely introduced to one or two of the men, but Fraser said that I would get to know them better during the journey. He was right in a small way, I suppose, but fundamentally, he was wrong.

It was still early morning when we finally set off. I remember it well. There was a mass of large cloud formations as our two wagons and twenty-eight shrouded riders headed South under a sky that was a hundred shades of grey. I could almost smell the rain that seemed imminent.

 

Yet again, I shall not dwell upon our journey except to describe our environs. En route, the weather was relatively pleasant for winter, not too cold, much cloud with only a gentle sprinkling of January rains. The journey itself was uneventful, simply a series of long sore rides interspersed with short rest periods and small encampments around a single fire at night. Fraser showed every sign of wanting this journey to pass quickly, whilst the remainder of the party wished to travel slower and all appeared to resent Fraser's apparent haste. I had expected the countryside that we were crossing to be a little bare, after all it was winter, but as we traveled further South, the more barren it became. I attempted to close my mind as to the reasons why. It was during these winter days that I struck up a friendship of sorts with one of the company. I found myself having the opportunity to converse with one of them, a Finn named Sil.

 

I am often reflective on how little I knew about this motley group, and I find myself, especially now, realizing that I am little different to any of them deep down inside; just so much flotsam swimming against the tide. My first impressions were not wildly astray, only the judging of my own character now seems amiss. I only knew the names of four of my fellow travelers. Fraser with his fiery orange beard and resounding bellow of a voice, a true Scotish reiver from some mist-laden glen. Sil, whose minor problems of weight and birthright made him different from the rest. He was overly heavy, plump, and the fact that he emanated from the loins of a Finnish father was the constant source of teasing and merriment from within the company. But what really brought this sad outcast closer to me was the fact that he spoke some broken English, and was therefore the nearest I had to a colleague in this party. Fraser, being the Captain deliberately attempted to maintain an aloof air, and distanced himself from me regardless of our linguistic similarities. Then there was Presten, who, to be quite frank, scared me. This dark, brooding, sullen Swede, tall and strong, would sit deep into the night by the fire, and, as if hewn from rock, stare unsmiling into the darkness. He, if indeed any of us were, appeared perfectly crafted for the devil's work. The only other individual that I knew was Moss, which I felt certain was not his name but some old nickname from his past. He too, was tall and strong, with long golden hair, and sometimes, at least, he smiled at me, which had the effect of breaking down one or two of the many barriers that existed between us. He did not appear to be particularly intelligent, probably a farmhand or similar back home.

 

As for me, as I have already stated, only God will have the final opinion.

Under Fraser's guidance it only took us a few more days to reach our destination. Wurzburg itself held few surprises. Fraser had warned us that food was far from plentiful and grain prices were ridiculous. As soon as we arrived, Fraser arranged for the wagons to be delivered, whilst I was simply told where to deliver my documents. This I promptly did, and although I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, I soon found out.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright John Abbott

JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

 JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

By John Abbott

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - November 1990

As I stood there on that joyous November morning in the imperial city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, having flown from London via Nuremburg, it became extremely hard to guide my thoughts across the clouded years that stood between my long-lost relative and me. Situated near to the river Tauber and its peaceful valley was the old walled imperial free city. Here I was amongst its houses with tall pointy roofs, turrets and beams, old signs overhanging the streets, its old fountains alive with scarlet geraniums. Although I had been heavily impressed with the famous winged high altar in the great parish church; it had actually been painted by Hans Herlin in 1466 (over 500 years ago), nothing could have quite prepared me for what I was to find.

 

I could only marvel at the startling journal in front of my eyes. To have found such a jewel amongst this haystack was nothing short of miraculous. And to think that upon being told of this particular collection, my initial thoughts were almost blasphemous. I remember them clearly." Bloody waste of time! What's the point?”

 

Some strange compulsion to find the truth led me to continue. I had been in correspondence with quite a lot of people in Germany and Holland for some time concerning various aspects of my family's heritage, when a friend in Germany mentioned for the first time, the personal library of the Beadle of Rothenburg. In the next few weeks, it became obvious that although this collection was enormous and had been scoured in the past by numerous authorities on German history, a large proportion of the manuscripts contained therein were still unread, (obviously, none of this had been held electronically).

 

After many discussions and much heart-searching with Mansfeld, my closest friend, I decided it would be best to travel to Rothenburg and leave poor old Mansfeld behind. I left him in the care of dear old Mrs Stambridge. She would look after him; she liked dogs.

Imagine the scene from the past, on the eleventh of August, in the year of our Lord 1650, in the imperial free city of Rothenburg, an immense celebration of peace and thanksgiving had taken place. Now that the Swedish soldiers had departed, the populace fully believed the war to be over.

 

The schoolchildren of Rothenburg, the majority of them carrying bouquets and wearing wreaths, with a lavish accompaniment of musicians were assembling in the broad marketplace of the city, where it seemed as if the entire population was present.

Some nineteen years earlier in 1631, their parents and grandparents had knelt in this same square, praying and begging the dreaded General Tilly to spare their city from the fate of Magdeburg. Still to this day, the city holds a festival that commemorates the drinking feat that had saved it from destruction in 1631. General Tilly, who had conquered the city had initially ordered that it be burnt to the ground. Legend has it that he then offered to save the city on condition that one of it's councilors empty, with a single draught, a three pint mug of wine. The old mayor, Nusch by name, took up the challenge. He succeeded in draining this somewhat sizeable container and behold, the city was saved. The city of Rothenburg had been a focus of military activity for two decades at least; the children, both boys and girls who gathered that morning in 1650 had hitherto known only war. Peace was now at hand, the children marched in a slow and solemn fashion from the marketplace to the large parish church, where hymns of thanksgiving were sung before the city's populace and they heard a sincere and earnest sermon by Pastor Johann Dummler. 

Similar scenes were being enacted in cities, towns and villages all over Germany it seems. Rothenburg itself had ruled over some four hundred square kilometres of south-western Franconia back then, and as the church bells tolled over this, the northernmost region of Bavaria, sermons of thanksgiving were heard in village churches across the territory. But not everywhere: not, for example, in Linden.

 

This is where our story really begins: I have attempted to eliminate any linguistic anachronisms from the manuscript that my relative has recorded. I do hope that you appreciate my efforts. For my own sake, I am glad that he chose to record his tale in English and not in the customary Latin.

 

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - January 1634 

It is the year of our Lord 1634 and I have little idea of the underlying reasons for my attempt to record these events, but, nonetheless, I feel compelled to do so. Whether I am writing this as a record of historical events or simply to preserve my dignity and to purify myself I do not know. Only God can make the final judgment. I have convinced myself that what has happened, what I have witnessed and been a part of here in Linden is a monstrous perversity, a truly terrible act of impiety.

 

I came here almost by chance; alas, my inherent honesty requires me to accept that I had a choice. Oh, how much I regret that fated choice.

I could easily have stayed in Briel and maintained a reasonable existence alongside the English regiment residing there. But no, I was finding my stay a little tedious, to say the least. The constant stream of correspondence back to England, the many letters that, no doubt, were still unwritten, and the confusion that passed for the regimental accounts. All were boring me, a callow youth of twenty summers. I desired more. Why, why!!? - such impetuosity, such folly.

My original thoughts were crisp and clear enough when the opportunity presented itself. A messenger was required for a long journey into Franconia. The task seemed simple enough; deliver various documents to a Swedish Colonel Stalhaus and await a response. It seemed at once a golden opportunity to become involved in this war. After all, I told myself, that was why I had entered into this endeavour at the outset; the possible excitement and the constant danger of military service abroad, the chance of gold and glory beyond compare - all this and more I had hoped. I was sure that I had little concern for the defense of the Protestant faith.

 

I shall not dwell at any length upon the journey that brought me to the outskirts of this hell, except to describe the method and route taken.

I joined a small group of merchants who were taking a large sailing barge up the Rhine to Mainz, which was indeed a journey of tortuous length. During calm weather, the barge was drawn upstream by a team of eight horses and riders, with a spare team towed behind on a raft, together with a small rowing boat which was used for the acquisition of provisions. Whilst aboard the barge, few signs, if any, of the much-talked about war were readily apparent to me. The occasional drift of grey-black smoke in the distance, small groups of wretched souls who were given very short shrift by the merchants leading this trip, and, significantly, only once, an array of well-armed horsemen passing a tiny burned out village, heading for some unknown destination. There was little obvious suggestion of the calamitous events that had happened around this river in the recent years; mighty clashes of armies and the death of the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus at Luton in Saxony.

 

From Mainz, I managed to find a smaller vessel which was traveling up the River Main to Frankfurt, where, with God's help, I hoped to find Colonel Stalhaus. It took very little effort indeed to find Colonel Stalhaus, for Frankfurt, it seemed, was alive with the arrival of the Swedes. Everybody was talking about how much longer they would stay, certainly in the southern suburbs that I now found myself in.

 

I asked a few simple questions at the beadle’s residence, and within two days I had arranged an audience with the Colonel.

 

When I arrived for my audience with Colonel Stalhaus, which had been assigned to an ungodly early hour of Wednesday morning. I was somewhat surprised to find such hustle and bustle, clerks and soldiers alike, all carrying boxes to and fro. The reason, I discovered, was that the colonels staff were to move South across the River Main later that day.

 

I must admit to a little nervousness as I entered the drawing room within the sumptuous residence of the beadle. There he was, Colonel Stalhaus, not, as I had imagined, surrounded by servants or guards, but alone.

 

He turned slowly and cast his gaze upon me. He was a stout-looking man, tall - over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed built for bearing large burdens. His hair was long and fair, but thinning, and his face, although weathered, seemed a touch youthful. As I approached him cautiously, I then realized that this youthfulness belied the truth: his deep-socketed brown eyes were a colour similar to that of an oak barrel, and for all the world appeared to shout the word despair. His apparel was simple and workmanlike. His voluminous breeches were of grey, and he wore a sleeveless waistcoat of a similar dark colour over his white linen shirt, which, although having a collar that was very plainly cut indeed, both wrists showed a touch of lace. He also wore a large red sash diagonally across his breast from his left shoulder, which ended in a large bow almost hiding the hilt of his rapier from view.

The most surprising aspect of him was his shrill voice.

"You have the documents, young man!"

I had expected a gruff bark of a voice, but it was quite the opposite, high-pitched and sweet sounding, not at all authoritative. The English he spoke was clear, but still sounded unnatural. Had I heard it without seeing him, I would immediately have guessed that he was a foreigner.

I replied calmly."Yes, I have them. I hope you understand why I did not mention them to your clerks."

He replied carefully," of course... very commendable.  If only more of my own staff were as careful."

I tried to apologize "Sorry, I did not mean to belittle your st..."

The Colonel broke in sharply "No matter, the documents are bound for Wurzburg anyway."

I decided upon playing my trump card "Colonel, is it possible that I may continue the journey to Wurzburg?"

"I have a letter of introduction from Sir Edward Conway," I quickly added.

"Perhaps ... ummmh ... " his face showed a dour quizzical smile.

He stared resolutely at me. I hoped my expression told him what he wanted to know, that I desperately wanted the task.

"Have you enlisted," he asked?

As it trailed off, I heard the faint whispering echo of his words...

“You young pups, so eager to die."

"Talk to my Captain outside, show him your letter. If you have one."

I remember the moment well; my heart leapt a somersault of joy. What a mistake not to recognize this wise mans words for what they were: a salutary lesson in caution.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright John Abbott