Lost in the battlefield

Cannon-shot reverberated through the air. Horses whinnied and galloped past me, cloaked riders gripping tight to their reins with one hand and wielding long swords with another as they charged towards opponents, bellowing. Large flags swirled in the air and endless groups of soldiers marched past in regiments with long wooden pikes and muskets, firing sporadically. Terrifying cries echoed around me as young and old men were shot and spiked through with the pikes, falling to the ground with blood-curdling yells.

Noise swamped my tender ears. Drummers beat a relentless tune as conflicting orders were bellowed across the Warwickshire field. Fear exploded in my chest, and I turned to bury my head in my mother’s comforting arms, but she was nowhere to be seen.

I was four or five years old and had felt excited to wear my new yellow poncho and bobble hat. My mother had plaited my long ginger hair neatly that morning, and I was busy swishing it from side to side, like a giddy foal let out onto fresh grass. We were on a family day out and I’d been told to stay close to my family but had become distracted almost straight away.

I ran, crying, tripping on the ridged and slippery grass as I attempted escape from the battle surrounding me. As cannon shot exploded, I screamed and fell to the floor.

A young man crouched down beside me.

“Are you alright, Miss?” he said.

Clearly, I was not. I shook my head and cried uncontrollably, especially as I had now noticed how muddy my beautiful new poncho was.

Somehow, that unfortunate young man got me to a beige tent, in a field away from the main battleground, where a woman in a tall, black hat and long dress soothed me and offered me a drink of nettle juice. I declined politely as stories had taught me you really shouldn’t take things from ladies in pointy, black hats.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “This is the lost property tent, and your parents will be along any minute.”

She let me play with sixteenth century artifacts such as a wooden, carved doll, a small whistle, a bit like my recorder at home, and a pig’s bladder that I discovered could be used as a ball. It was quite fun really, throwing that strange, inflated object in the air and catching it again.

At last, my parents arrived and there was a new hullabaloo as they expressed their both anxiety at losing me and their annoyance at finding me again. They did not seem happy that I was clearly enjoying myself. Grown-ups were very strange, I thought, as they marched me away, gripping my hands tightly in theirs, across the battlefield.

Strangely, we never went to a civil war re-enactment again.