Grey’s coarse, elderly face took on a sulky look, his heavy lips were pouted, his glance sullen. Mr. Wilding, on the contrary, smiled across the table.
“For my part I very gladly give Your Grace the undertaking,” said he, and took care not to observe the sneer that altered the line of Lord Grey’s lips. His lordship, too, was forced to give the same pledge, and he followed it up by inveighing sturdily against the suggestion that they should retreat.
“I do protest,” he exclaimed, “that those who advise Your Grace to do anything but go forward boldly now, are evil counsellors. If you put back to Holland, you may leave every hope behind. There will be no second coming for you. Your influence will have been dissipated. Men will not trust you another time. I do not think that even Mr. Wilding can deny the truth of this.”
“I am by no means sure,” said Wilding, and Fletcher looked at him with eyes that were full of understanding. This sturdy Scot, the only soldier worthy of the name in the Duke’s following, who, ever since the project had first been mooted, had held out against it, counselling delay, was in sympathy with Mr. Wilding.
Monmouth rose, his face anxious, his voice fretful. “There can be no retreat for me, gentlemen. Though many that we depended upon are not here to join us, yet let us remember that Heaven is on our side, and that we are come to fight in the sacred cause of religion and a nation’s emancipation from the thraldom of popery, oppression, and superstition. Let this dispel such doubts as yet may linger in our minds.”
His words had a brave sound, but, when analysed, they but formed a paraphrase of what Grey and Ferguson had said. It was his destiny to be a mere echo of the minds of other men, just as he was now the tool of these two, one of whom plotted, seemingly, because plotting was a disease that had got into his blood; the other for reasons that may have been of ambition or of revenge — no man will ever know for certain.
In the chamber they shared, Trenchard and Mr. Wilding reviewed that night the scene so lately enacted, in which one had taken an active part, the other been little more than a spectator. Trenchard had come from the Duke’s presence entirely out of conceit with Monmouth and his cause, contemptuous of Ferguson, angry with Grey, and indifferent towards Fletcher.
“I am committed, and I’ll not draw back,” said he; “but I tell you, Anthony, my heart is not confederate with my hand in this. Bah!” he railed. “We serve a man of straw, a Perkin, a very pope of a fellow.”
Mr. Wilding sighed. “He’s scarce the man for such an undertaking,” said he. “I fear we have been misled.”
Trenchard was drawing off his boots. He paused in the act. “Aye,” said he, “misled by our blindness. What else, after all, should we have expected of him?” he cried contemptuously. “The Cause is good; but its leader — Pshaw! Would you have such a puppet as that on the throne of England?”
“He does not aim so high.”
“Be not so sure. We shall hear more of the black box anon, and of the marriage certificate it contains. ’Twould not surprise me if they were to produce forgeries of the one and the other to prove his father’s marriage to Lucy Walters. Anthony, Anthony! To what a business are we wedded?”
Mr. Wilding, already abed, turned impatiently. “Things cried aloud to be redressed; a leader was necessary, and none other offered. That is the whole story. But our chance is slender, and it might have been great.”
“That rake-hell, Ford, Lord Grey has made it so,” grumbled Trenchard, busy with his stockings. “This sudden coming is his work. You heard what Fletcher said — how he opposed it when first it was urged.” He paused, and looked up suddenly. “Blister me!” he cried, “is it his lordship’s purpose, think you, to work the ruin of Monmouth?”
“What are you saying, Nick?”
“There are certain rumours current touching His Grace and Lady Grey. A man like Grey might well resort to some such scheme of vengeance.”
“Get to sleep, Nick,” said Wilding, yawning; “you are dreaming already. Such a plan would be over elaborate for his lordship’s mind. It would ask a villainy parallel with your own.”
Trenchard climbed into bed, and settled himself under the coverlet.
“Maybe,” said he, “and maybe not; but I think that were it not for that cursed business of the letter Richard Westmacott stole from us, I should be going my ways to-morrow and leaving His Grace of Monmouth to go his.”
“Aye, and I’d go with you,” answered Wilding. “I’ve little taste for suicide; but we are in it now.”
“’Twas a sad pity you meddled this morning in that affair at Taunton,” mused Trenchard wistfully. “A sadder pity you were bitten with a taste for matrimony,” he added thoughtfully, and blew out the rushlight.
CHAPTER XV. LYME OF THE KING
On the next day, which was Friday, the country folk continued to come in, and by evening Monmouth’s forces amounted to a thousand foot and a hundred and fifty horse. The men were armed as fast as they were enrolled, and scarce a field or quiet avenue in the district but resounded to the tramp of feet, the rattle of weapons, and the sharp orders of the officers who, by drilling, were converting this raw material into soldiers. On the Saturday the rally of the Duke’s standard was such that Monmouth threw off at last the gloomy forebodings that had burdened his soul since that meeting on Thursday night. Wade, Holmes, Foulkes, and Fox were able to set about forming the first four regiments — the Duke’s, and the Green, the White, and the Yellow. Monmouth’s spirits continued to rise, for he had been joined by now by Legge and Hooper — the two upon whom Battiscomb had counted — and by Colonel Joshua Churchill, of whom Battiscomb had been less certain. Captain Matthews brought news that Lord Wiltshire and the gentlemen of Hampshire might be expected if they could force their way through Albemarle’s militia, which was already closing round Lyme.
Long before evening willing fellows were being turned away in hundreds for lack of weapons. In spite of Monmouth’s big talk on landing, and of the rumour that had gone out, that he could arm thirty thousand men, his stock of arms was exhausted by a mere fifteen hundred. Trenchard, who now held a Major’s rank in the horse attached to the Duke’s own regiment, was loud in his scorn of this state of things; Mr. Wilding was sad, and his depression again spread to the Duke after a few words had passed between them towards evening. Fletcher was for heroic measures. He looked only ahead now, like the good soldier that he was; and, already, he began to suggest a bold dash for Exeter, for weapons, horses, and possibly the militia as well, for they had ample evidence that the men composing it might easily be induced to desert to the Duke’s side.
The suggestion was one that instantly received Mr. Wilding’s heartiest approval. It seemed to fill him suddenly with hope, and he spoke of it, indeed, as an inspiration which, if acted upon, might yet save the situation. The Duke was undecided as ever; he was too much troubled weighing the chances for and against, and he would decide upon nothing until he had consulted Grey and the others. He would summon a council that night, he promised, and the matter should be considered.
But that council was never to be called, for Andrew Fletcher’s association with the rebellion was drawing rapidly to its close, and there was that to happen in the next few hours which should counteract all the encouragement with which the Duke had been fortified that day. Towards evening little Heywood Dare, the Taunton goldsmith, who had landed at Seatown and gone out with the news of the Duke’s arrival, rode into Lyme with forty horse, mounted, himself, upon a beautiful charger which was destined to be the undoing of him.
News came, too, that the Dorset militia were at Bridport, eight miles away, whereupon Wilding and Fletcher postponed all further suggestion of the dash for Exeter, proposing that in the mean time a night attack upon Bridport might result well. For once Lord Grey was in agreement with them, and so the matter was decided. Fletcher went down to arm and mount, and all the world knows the story of the foolish, ill-fated quarrel which robbed Monmouth of two of his most valued adherents. By ill-luck the Scot’s eye
s lighted upon the fine horse that Dare had brought from Ford Abbey. It occurred to him that nothing could be more fitting than that the best man should sit upon the best horse, and he forthwith led the beast from the stables and was about to mount when Dare came forth to catch him in the very act. The goldsmith was a rude, peppery fellow, who did not mince his words.
“What a plague are you doing with that horse?” he cried.
Fletcher paused, one foot in the stirrup, and looked the fellow up and down. “I am mounting it,” said he, and proceeded to do as he said.
But Dare caught him by the tails of his coat and brought him back to earth.
“You are making a mistake, Mr. Fletcher,” he cried angrily. “That horse is mine.”
Fletcher, whose temper was by no means of the most peaceful, kept himself with difficulty in hand at the indignity Dare offered him.
“Yours?” quoth he.
“Aye, mine. I brought it from Ford Abbey myself.”
“For the Duke’s service,” Fletcher reminded him.
“For my own, sir; for my own I would have you know.” And brushing the Scot aside, he caught the bridle, and sought to wrench it from Fletcher’s hand.
But Fletcher maintained his hold. “Softly, Mr. Dare,” said he. “Ye’re a trifle o’er true to your name, as you once told his late Majesty yourself.”
“Take your hands from my horse,” Dare shouted, very angry.
Several loiterers in the yard gathered round to watch the scene, culling diversion from it and speculating upon the conclusion it might have. One rash young fellow offered audibly to lay ten to one that Paymaster Dare would have the best of the argument.
Dare overheard, and was spurred on.
“I will, by God!” he answered. “Come, Mr. Fletcher!” And he shook the bridle again.
There was a dull flush showing through the tan of Fletcher’s skin. “Mr. Dare,” said he, “this horse is no more yours than mine. It is the Duke’s, and I, as one o’ the leaders, claim it in the Duke’s service.”
“Aye, sir,” cried an onlooker, encouraging Fletcher, and did the mischief. It so goaded Dare to have his antagonist in this trifling matter supported that he utterly lost his head.
“I have said the horse is mine, and I repeat it. Let go the bridle — let it go!” Still, Fletcher, striving hard to keep his calm, clung to the reins. “Let it go, you damned, thieving Scot!” screamed Dare in a fury, and struck Fletcher with his whip.
It was unfortunate for them both that he should have had that switch in his hand at such a time, but more unfortunate still was it that Fletcher should have had a pistol in his belt. The Scot dropped the bridle at last; dropped it to pluck forth the weapon.
“Hi! I did not...” began Dare, who had stood appalled by what he had done in the second or two that had passed since he had delivered the blow. The rest of his sentence was drowned in the report of Fletcher’s pistol, and Dare dropped dead on the rough cobbles of the yard.
Ferguson has left it on record — and, presumably, he had Fletcher’s word for it — that it was no part of the Scot’s intent to do Mr. Dare a mischief. He had but drawn the pistol to intimidate him into better manners, but in his haste he accidentally pulled the trigger.
However that may be, there was Dare as dead as the stones on which he lay, and Fletcher with a smoking pistol in his hand.
After that all was confusion. Fletcher was seized by those who had witnessed the deed; there was none thought it an accident; indeed, they were all ready enough to say that Fletcher had received excessive provocation. He was haled to the presence of the Duke with whom were Grey and Wilding at the time; and old Dare’s son — an ensign in Goodenough’s company — came clamouring for vengeance backed by such goodly numbers that the distraught Duke was forced to show at least the outward seeming of it.
Wilding, who knew the value of this Scottish soldier of fortune who had seen so much service, strenuously urged his enlargement. It was not a time to let the fortunes of a cause suffer through such an act as this, deplorable though it might be. The evidence showed that Fletcher had been provoked; he had been struck, a thing that might well justify the anger in the heat of which he had done this thing. Grey was stolid and silent, saying nothing either for or against the man who had divided with him under the Duke the honours of the supreme command.
Monmouth, white and horror-stricken, sat and listened first to Wilding, then to Dare, and lastly to Fletcher himself. But it was young Dare — Dare and his followers, who prevailed. They were too numerous and turbulent, and they must at all costs be conciliated, or there was no telling to what extremes they might not go. And so there was an end to the share of Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun in this undertaking — the end of the only man who was of any capacity to pilot it through the troubled waters that lay before it. Monmouth placed him under arrest and sent him aboard the frigate again, ordering her captain to sail at once. That was the utmost Monmouth could do to save him.
Wilding continued to plead with the Duke after Fletcher’s removal, and to such good purpose that at last Monmouth determined that Fletcher should rejoin them later, when the affair should have blown over, and he sent word accordingly to the Scot. Even in this there were manifestations of antagonism between Mr. Wilding and Lord Grey, and it almost seemed enough that Wilding should suggest a course for Lord Grey instantly to oppose it.
The effects of Fletcher’s removal were not long in following. On the morrow came the Bridport affair, and Grey’s shameful conduct when, had he stood his ground, victory must have been assured the Duke’s forces instead of just that honourable retreat by which Colonel Wade so gallantly saved the situation. Mr. Wilding did not mince his words in putting it that Grey had run away.
In his room at the George Inn, Monmouth, deeply distressed, asked Wilding and Colonel Matthews what action he should take in the matter — how deal with Grey.
“There is no other general in Europe would ask that, Your Grace,” answered Matthews gravely, and Mr. Wilding added without an instant’s hesitation that His Grace’s course was plain.
“It would be an unwise thing to expose the troops to the chance of more such happenings.”
Monmouth dismissed them and sent for Grey, and he seemed resolved to deal with him as he deserved. Yet an hour later, when Wilding, Matthews, Wade, and the others were ordered to attend the Duke in council, there was his lordship seemingly on as good terms as ever with His Grace.
They were assembled to discuss the next step which it might be advisable to take, for the militia was closing in around them, and to remain longer in Lyme would be to be caught there as in a trap. It was Grey who advanced the first suggestion, his assurance no whit abated by the shameful thing that had befallen, by the cowardice which he had betrayed.
“That we must quit Lyme we are all agreed,” said he. “I would propose that Your Grace march north to Gloucester, where our Cheshire friends will assemble to meet us.”
Colonel Matthews reminded the Duke of Andrew Fletcher’s proposal that they should make a raid upon Exeter with a view to seizing arms, of which they stood so sorely in need.
This Mr. Wilding was quick to support. “Not only that, Your Grace,” he said, “but I am confident that with very little inducement the greater portion of the militia will desert to us as soon as we appear.
“What assurance can you give of that?” asked Grey, his heavy lip protruded.
“I take it,” said Mr. Wilding, “that in such matters no man can give an assurance of anything. I speak with knowledge of the country and the folk from which the militia is enlisted. I offer it as my opinion that the militia is favourably disposed to Your Grace. I can do no more.
“If Mr. Wilding says so, Your Grace,” put in Matthews, “I have no doubt he has sound reasons upon which to base his opinion.
“No doubt,” said Monmouth. “Indeed, I had already thought of the step that you suggest, Colonel Matthews, and what Mr. Wilding says causes me to look upon it still more favourably.”
Grey frowned. “Consider, Your Grace,” he said earnestly, “that you are in no case to fight at present.”
“What fighting do you suggest there would be?” asked the Duke.
“There is Albemarle between us and Exeter.”
“But with the militia,” Wilding reminded him; “and if the militia deserts him for Your Grace, in what case will Albemarle find himself?”
“And if the militia does not desert? If you should be proven wrong, sir? What then? What then?” asked Grey.
“Aye — true — what then, Mr. Wilding?” quoth the Duke, already wavering.
Wilding considered a moment, all eyes upon him. “Even then,” said he presently, “I do maintain that in this dash for Exeter lies Your Grace’s greatest chance of success. We can deliver battle if need be. Already we are three thousand strong...”
Grey interrupted him rudely. “Nay,” he insisted. “You must not presume upon that. We are not yet fit to fight. It is His Grace’s business at present to drill and discipline his troops and induce more friends to join him.”
“Already we are turning men away because we have no weapons to put into their hands,” Wilding reminded them, and a murmur of approval ran round, which but served to anger Grey the more, to render more obstinate his opposition.
“But all that come in are not unprovided,” was his lordship’s retort. “There are the Hampshire gentry and their friends. They will come armed, and so will others if we have patience.
“Aye,” said Wilding, “and if you have patience enough there will be troops the Parliament will send against us. They, too, will be armed, I can assure your lordship.”
“In God’s name let us keep from wrangling,” the Duke besought them. “It is difficult enough to determine for the best. If the dash to Exeter were successful...”
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 176
