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The following is a Chapter taken from "The Spirit of Herefordshire" by Jill Howard-Jones. It is presented with the kind permission of the author and Logaston Press. This book can be obtained direct from Logaston Press for £7:95 + P&P. Also "The Civil War in Hereford" by Ron Shoesmith. Factual information on the Civil War sieges of Hereford, including the capture of the city by Col. John Birch. £8:95 + P&P 
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Many thanks to Paul and Sylvia Rollinson of Birch's for their help with this article.

JOHN BIRCH OF WEOBLEY


I look up at Weobley's timbered houses. They are at it again: leaning forward to eavesdrop and conspire. 'Here's Colonel Birch,' they whisper, 'the Roundhead Commander who later turned Royalist!'
It's easy to be wise after the event,' I retaliate. Parliaments will always need the restraint of kings. That was something I had to learn.'
Because of my capture of their city, Hereford folk are suspicious of me. But there's no need, for I am a God-fearing man.
I admit I came here first because I didn't want to be stuck down in Bristol in 1645. I was too ambitious to stay on the provincial sidelines during the Civil War and I wanted more than the Governorships of Bristol and Bath, but to achieve my aim of entering politics and gain notice, I needed a sensational military success. Where better to make a mark than in Herefordshire - one of the bastions of Royalist support throughout the Civil War. Hereford reckoned without John Birch!
Influential friends in London soon secured me a commission to "distress the city of Hereford" with an army of some 1,800 horse and foot. I took my troops to Gloucester where I conferred with Governor Morgan and Sir John Bridges, who weren't optimistic. 'To attack Hereford in mid-winter is foolhardy,' declared Sir John, 'the roads out there are poor and the villages newly ransacked, food is scarce and the population hostile.'
I admitted I had never been to Hereford and needed to see for myself. Sir John agreed to accompany me - to prove his point. So we made a secret visit to a remote farm near Ledbury where we met two ex-Royalist captains, eager to furnish us with information.
'Hereford's garrison is around 1,500 strong, and at night a strict guard is kept,' Captain Alderne told me, 'but in the morning, after the gates are opened, the soldiers go drinking and leave only ten or so on guard. 'And the officers?'
'Sleeping off the all night drinking and gambling session,' chuckled Captain Howarth.
To capture the city I must know its routine, so I was particularly interested to learn that each morning peasants arrived from nearby villages to break the ice in the city ditch, while others brought cart-loads of straw and wood into the city. I also discovered that there were two places near Byster's Gate where I could hide my forces; a few could be concealed in the ruins of St. Guthlac's Priory, and the others in a convenient hollow, known as Scots Hole.
Birch and his men advance on Hereford 'Byster's Gate is my way into Hereford,' I muttered to myself and returned to Gloucester to my men, whom I promptly marched to Ledbury .
The following night we set off for Hereford - what an endurance test! The snow was so deep in places it almost buried my foot soldiers. We came within four miles of Hereford but I didn't intend attacking that day: I had come to gauge the lie of the land and to set a trap. 'We shall return to Gloucester and await fairer conditions,' I declared loudly, knowing there were spies abroad.
In fact we returned to Ledbury and were back the next night.
My plan worked well, thanks to Almighty God who provided the heavy frost and covering of snow. Who could believe that a whole army could move so silently through so many villages without a single dog barking? It was a miracle, no less. By morning I had all my men concealed in Scots Hole and St. Guthlac's Priory.
Six of my men were disguised as peasants, with pick-axes and shovels, another had assumed the role of constable and held a false warrant. For two hours we waited in the bitter cold of the Priory ruins, and then at last the gates were opened and we heard the creaking of the drawbridge being lowered.
My rustics and their constable went forward; the officer studied their warrant. For literally one minute my brave 'peasants' held the gate and then my army poured in. Hereford fell in half an hour, with the loss of only ten men. Yes, I took the city without unnecessary loss of civilian life and immediately checked the plundering of my victorious troops.
Of course, I didn't expect gratitude, but frankly I was more unpopular in Hereford than I had expected. 'We are all cousins in Herefordshire' they say and it's a fact! Strangers can be unwelcome! Even the dean abused my regiment in his sermon, and I was forced to place the city under martial law.
Ironically I felt secure and at home, for Hereford was remote from the excesses of Cromwell's stern Protectorate. By the time news of the King's execution (God forgive us all) reached Hereford, its distressing details had misted into legend.
I kept my head down and set about feathering my own nest, availing myself of the glut of property on the market - no less than five episcopal manors and the bishop's palace! But what the Lord giveth with one hand, he taketh away with the other for, after the Restoration, bishops were in vogue once more and the king forced me to restore the episcopal manors and the palace to the Bishop of Hereford. Still, God looks after his own, and being on the Council of State that recalled Charles ll to England in 1660, my reward was the post of Auditor of the Excise.
I needed somewhere to live, now that my manors had been reclaimed and, having taken to the county, I looked for a borough which I could represent as its M.P., and thought of Weobley. Here was my opportunity to ensure political independence in the House of Commons, and at the same time buy a large county property on the village outskirts. Yes, I would buy the Garnstone estate and win one of the two Weobley seats in Parliament.
Weobley was a pocket borough. The inhabitants had no choice but to elect their landowner as Member of Parliament. Not, mind you, that I left anything to chance for they didn't trust me, though they daren't say so - I was the man who had captured Hereford and terrorised the county in the name of Parliament. I had to use my skill in oratory and appeal to their Royalist sympathies. ' Greetings to you, in the name of our gracious Majesty King Charles II,' I began, 'I know you served his father well when he sought shelter in Weobley after the Battle of Naseby.'
No response. These folk don't really care about King or Parliament, I thought. They're too poor. Bribery is the answer, for one glance at their half timbered cottages had told me all I wanted to know - the thatch was rotting and the walls were rat infested.
'Your cottages shall be repaired,' I continued. 'My thatchers, builders and rat catchers will come down from Garnstone. You can always count on your Member of Parliament to look after you.
They nodded in agreement. One man was even bold enough to seize my hand. I was Weobley's M.P. from that moment.
I had made a bold promise. Too bold, perhaps, for I had my own house to put in order. I obtained Garnstone Castle cheaply, for £1,500, in 1661. It was imposing but Roger Vaughan, who sold it to me, had let it fall into disrepair. 'It's a ruin, John,' gasped my wife, Alice. 'It's no better than the ruined Norman castle in the village.'
'It'll be a gentle habitation in no time, my dear,' I replied with my usual characteristic optimism.
'It'll take you all of twenty years. I shall never see it finished,' she muttered.
I looked at her pale face and I knew she was right, but I had dreams for Garnstone. As the years went by, I bought up surrounding farms - even the land between my estate and the centre of Weobley. I dreamt of a road linking Garnstone with Weobley's main street.
Alice settled at Garnstone despite her misgivings. As for the children, they loved it. John and Samuel made friends with local boys. They prevailed on me to let them attend the newly built grammar school, but I was reluctant for I had employed an excellent master to teach my children at home.
Yet I never forgot my own origins. I remembered my mother's face when I left my Manchester home at eighteen - to seek my fortune. I was severely wounded when the Royalists attacked Bristol and the surgeons left me for dead. 'No good wasting precious dressings on him' they said. Then the weather turned extremely cold and congealed the flow of blood.
'Go to school, my sons,' I told them and God go with you.'
Alas, I misjudged. That grammar school might look just like any other timber framed Herefordshire house, but it wasn't. How was I to know that within those walls lurked the Devil? One day, while the master was upstairs in his chamber, the boys, in the big classroom downstairs, read the books he had left on his desk. They learnt about the 'Old Un' and how to raise him. The Devil took over. An ear splitting noise rocked the foundations and objects were lifted into the air. I sent an exorcist to the school as soon as I heard, and promptly dismissed the master for leaving his pupils alone with such sacrilegious literature. The teacher whom I had originally hired to educate my sons at Garnstone was appointed instead.
Satanic dallying wasn't restricted to the school. I have myself caught folk walking round the preaching cross in the churchyard at midnight saying the Lord's Prayer backwards - to conjure the Devil. 'You whoreson rogues!' I yelled and they ran like the wind! They feared the Birch more than the Devil!
As principal landowner I had to be conscious of my responsibilities to the community, especially to the church. My family and I attended regularly, sitting in the Chapel of St. Nicholas on the south of the nave.

"Poor Weobley, Proud People
Low Church, High Steeple."

So goes the saying. But the lofty spire fell with its cross in the great storm of 1640. I arranged for it to be replaced in 1675, but it was an expensive job, even though it was twenty feet shorter than the original!
I rebuilt and repaired the chancel too - at the request of Bishop Croft who, as dean, had previously attacked my soldiers from his pulpit in the cathedral. My willing response was proof that I had turned my sword into a ploughshare.
I told him how the glory of Nature surveyed from the high ridge of Garnstone banishes all thoughts of war. But what I didn't tell him was that Garnstone with it's orchards and hopyards is more than a Garden of Eden: it's my retreat! I campaign for religious toleration at Westminster, and when the House of Commons turns hostile, I can escape to Weobley. No-one is likely to pursue me to a place where the roads become impassable after autumn rains until the following spring!
At such times local morale is bolstered by our famous Weobley Ale. But cider is becoming increasingly popular, which proved an opportunity I couldn't miss. Just wait till they tasted cider in London! So I promptly leased 55 acres in Hyde Park for the purpose of planting cider apple trees.
Charles II was eager to share in my enterprise so I agreed to deliver half the annual crop to the Palace. Unfortunately the Dutch War intervened in 1665 - before the orchard could be planted and when the king needed cash not apples. I busied myself in the House of Commons where I came up with the original idea of a poll-tax 'for charging all people that pay no land tax.'
I liked the king. I believe King Charles was sincerely devoted to the Church of England and that he genuinely wanted religious freedom for his subjects. His brother and heir was another matter! James was a Catholic through and through. All were agreed in Parliament that he should be excluded from the throne, as the Protestant religion could no more be preserved by a popish successor than water could be kept cold in a hot pot!
What a shock when King Charles dissolved Parliament to prevent our excluding James from the throne. How glad I was then to be able to retreat to Weobley where I devoted my time to performing duties as chief landowner. I exchanged small parcels of land with my neighbours and it became a pleasure to consolidate my holdings and enclose them. I worked extremely hard at improving my estate and I was sorry that Alice never lived to see the improvements. But a positive approach was now necessary and I used the opportunity to marry again - a Weobley girl. She's no beauty, but she looks after me well.
James II only survived on the throne for three years and I was still looking to the future, not just for my estate and Weobley, but also for England. Aged 73, I was fit enough to ride out to meet William of Orange who had just landed on the south coast of England and was very pleased to see me. The benefit of my experience may have been initially lost on him but I'm sure he will value it in retrospect. I thank God that I have lived to see a constitutional sovereign receive the crown from the hands of Parliament. I've fought for that with words and the sword, all my life. Long live William III! What saddens me, though, is that people have become so selfish. Where is the religious fervour of yesterday? Self interest and materialism are the order of today. A thousand attended church last Sunday, yet only thirty received the sacrament. He that is unworthy of one is unfit for the other.
All I want now is to be buried in Weobley Church, as near my son Thomas as possible. I wanted so desperately to establish a family line for Garnstone - but in my old age, I am denied a male heir. My only surviving son has failed to produce one.
I am flesh and therefore must perish, but I must have a life size replica of me in marble. It shall stand forever on the right hand of God's altar at Weobley. They may not heed the whispering eaves of Weobley's leaning houses, but woe betide those who misread the message in the marble eyes of Colonel Birch: kings need the restraint of Parliament, but Parliaments also need the restraint of kings!