Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  “Let’s hope the Duke has brought some proper arms of his own,” said John Clapp, leaning down from his horse. “‘Twill be enough for tonight to point they things at any folk as tries to stop us. We can learn to use ‘em later.”

  “‘Tis not arms we need, but the blessing of the Lord!” boomed the great voice of Israel Fuller, his dark eyes glittering above his black beard in the torchlight. “If we set forth on this venture with a prayer on our lips and righteousness in our hearts, there will be none can stand against us.”

  “Aye, Israel, let us ask the blessing of the Lord before we go,” said Roger Satchell, clattering into the centre of the square on the horse his groom had brought for him. “Do you lead us now. But let it be quick, for we have the Lord’s work to do.”

  For a few minutes all the heads were bowed reverently in the little market square, while Israel Fuller led them in a prayer for victory. The lantern-light made their shadows huge on the walls of the houses round about; and yet so sober was the demeanour of the dark, black-hatted figures clustered around their preacher that Ann, watching from the edge of the square, thought they would have looked like the figures round the crib at Christmas, had it not been for the muskets and scythe-blades glinting red over their shoulders, and the tears of the watching women. Then Israel’s prayer ended, and Roger Satchell took command again.

  “Now, friends, let’s form up and march out of the town soldier-like, as far as is in us. A line of four abreast. Pikemen to the front and rear, muskets in the middle.”

  The column came together, after a fashion. Most of those with ‘pikes’ had either scythes or hedging-tools, but they looked vicious enough as their owners shouldered them in the red lantern-light, as though they had already bathed in blood.

  The little column began to wind its way out of the market place, about thirty men in all, two horsemen riding at its head. The clatter of hooves and the tramp of marching echoed from the walls around, and then was drowned in the sound of wives and families cheering, weeping and waving. Adam saw Ann and the girls and Mary with little Oliver in her arms, and felt the numbness around his heart begin to melt into an agony of pain, so that he could not wave back, but had to look away, his trembling chin held high, his blurring eyes grateful for the dark ahead.

  They turned left at the top of the market-place, past Sir Richard Young’s house, and then were out of the village, quite suddenly, on the road to Colyford. A few women walked with them for a bit, but one by one, they dropped back, waving and calling their farewells. Their voices carried into the vastness of the night. Someone in the column started a psalm, and they all joined in. It would be easy for anyone listening or watching on the road ahead to know that something was afoot, but it seemed to most of the men that the time for caution and creeping silently through the night was past. The Duke had landed. Their hour was come.

  Adam, though, was less easy. He turned to the small, wrinkled figure of William Clegg who marched beside him, clutching his hedging-tool fiercely.

  “Do you think there’ll be anyone at the bridge, Will? That’s their place, if they want to stop us.”

  “Let’s hope not. We’ve moved fast enough. But if there be, us’ll have to trim their beards for ‘em!”

  The psalm ended, and for a while the column tramped in silence. As they came nearer the Lyme road, Adam thought he heard the clink of bridles and the creak of leather from the other side of the Coly. He called out to Roger Satchell.

  “Did you hear that, Roger?”

  “Aye! They’ll be coming down the other side of the stream, to head for the bridge.”

  The Coly, on their left as they had marched south from Colyton, was only a little stream at this time of the year, easily crossed anywhere, though easiest here, at the ford just above its junction with the Axe; but the Axe, a couple of hundred yards further east, was a deep, full-flowing river, crossed by the three-arched stone bridge that carried all the traffic between Exeter and Lyme. It was from a path between the two rivers, that led from Shute and skirted the outside of Colyton, that they had heard the clink of bridles.

  “Quick, lads,” Roger Satchell ordered. “There be horsemen yonder. Best get across the ford smartish so they don’t come between us and the bridge.”

  It was the wrong sort of order for men with no discipline. The company broke into a hurried, shambling run down to the ford, and there was a clatter of falling arms, and curses, as two men tripped over each other in the dark. Adam heard Roger Satchell cry out “Hold steady now! Keep together!” as he splashed across the ford, but it was hard to know who to keep together with. He heard footsteps running ahead, up the road towards the Axe bridge, and others behind him, splashing across the ford, but around him there were only two - no, three; John Spragg, William Clegg and Tom Goodchild. And there on the left, riding out of the shadows on the bank of the Coly, were four horsemen.

  “Halt! Who’s that there?” called out John Spragg boldly beside Adam.

  “What do you mean, ‘halt’, man? Clear out of the way!” answered a contemptuous, aristocratic voice - a voice that Adam had heard the other night! The horses came closer. Adam felt himself shaking with rage and anxiety. What should he do? No time to prime the musket - he reversed it to use as a club. Then the horsemen suddenly stopped below them at the foot of the bank below the road, and Roger Satchell’s voice came from behind him.

  “Stand back or I’ll fire!”

  Adam realised there were horsemen behind him as well as in front. Roger Satchell and John Clapp.

  “Satchell? What the devil are you doing, man? This is the King’s highway. Clear those men out of the way!”

  That voice - it must be Sir Courtenay Pole! The same men they had met the other night. Adam tightened his grip on the barrel of his musket, and felt the great body of Tom tense beside him. Now Simon would get his revenge! They were in just the right position now. The raised embankment of the road meant that the horsemen’s heads were just below them. If only they would try to ride up!

  “These men are armed and out to serve the Duke of Monmouth. I advise you to stand back and let them pass.”

  The horsemen hesitated, and Adam realised there was now quite a crowd around him, on the embankment. Yet no-one moved forward. He saw William Clegg’s billhook glint in the moonlight.

  “They’ve slowmatch lit,” said a voice from below.

  “Those buffoons have no idea how to fire a musket,” drawled Sir Courtenay. “They’ll probably blow themselves to Heaven without any help from us.”

  “If ‘ee wants to try it, Mister Pole, this one yer’s pointed right down your stomach!”

  Adam looked to his right, and saw that John Spragg had actually managed to get his musket settled in its rest, and held his slowmatch poised above the pan.

  There was a stir and some hurried whispers down below, and Adam thought he recognised the voice of Robert Pole, and the words ‘get to the bridge’. Then the horses turned suddenly, to the left, and disappeared into the darkness beside the road, in the direction of the Axe.

  “They’ll get to the bridge before us! Come on, John!” Roger Satchell and John Clapp turned their horses and trotted off down the road.

  “Come on, boys, quick!” cried William Clegg, but John Spragg held the little man’s arm.

  “No, wait. Slowly does it. Us can’t outrun they horses, so there’s no sense trying. Our job is to stay together. They’m afraid of us like that, but they’ll cut us down if us runs!”

  “Aye, that’s it. You told ‘em just now, Mr Spragg!” Tom said.

  John Spragg laughed. “I did that, boy, but I don’t know if this yer thing’d’ve fired if I’d tried it. You got yours primed, Adam? If we’ve got two, at least one of ‘em should frighten they horses any road, if they goes off!”

  “I should have clubbed ‘em with it before.” Adam muttered, as he primed the pan of his musket from John’s powder horn. He marvelled at his friend’s hearty calmness, not realising the way his own voice, put on as a mask
to hide his trembling spirits, encouraged the others also.

  The grim, cheerful little group set off at a steady walk down the road. They could see the dark outline of the wooded hills against the starry sky, and below it, the pale gleam of the river meandering seawards. Somewhere ahead was the bridge.

  Suddenly there was a terrible bang! and a splash of yellow light, followed by a shrill neigh, two more shots, and a confused yelling from somewhere ahead. There was a clash of metal, a scream, and a cheer.

  Unconsciously, the little group halted, then began to go faster, almost at a half run, towards the sounds. Then there were horses’ hooves coming towards them at a gallop, and two riders appeared out of the darkness, one cursing and trying to hold back the other. The group moved to the side of the road a little, and stopped. Then Adam recognised the voice that was cursing.

  “‘Tis them, John! Come on, let ‘em have it!” he said.

  He lifted his musket to his shoulder, aiming with his left hand, and applied the match to the pan. There was a terrific boom! and a blow on his shoulder. He found himself lying on his back in the road, listening to a whistling in his ears and the tiny, distant sound of retreating horses. Then there were cheers and laughter, nearer at hand, and hands under his armpits lifting him up.

  “I told ‘ee ‘twould put the wind up ‘em, Adam!” chuckled John Spragg. “I don’t reckon they’ll stop this side of Sidford!”

  “Did I hit ‘em, though?”

  “I wouldn’t like to swear to that, friend. There’s more to this musketry lark than you first think. I reckon you blowed a hole in my ears, though!”

  “What about the other two?” asked William Clegg. “Be this they?”

  Another horse was coming towards them out of the dark. William and Tom Goodchild stepped forward cautiously, the pike and billhook held menacingly before them. Two other men followed.

  “Who’s that there? Is that you, Pole?”

  “No! ‘Tis I, John Clapp. We drove Pole’s lot off from the bridge. Was that you fired at ‘em?”

  They sighed with relief as John Clapp’s horse trotted up quietly beside them.

  “No, ‘twas this fire-eating friend of ours here! Only he’s so overcome by it, ‘e lay down for a little sleep after!”

  Adam rubbed his shoulder ruefully in the darkness, absurdly pleased by the leg-pulling. He had made a fool of himself perhaps, but at least he had fired, at least he hadn’t run.

  “No-one hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s get on down to the bridge then, and stay together. I don’t reckon we’ll have any more trouble with they tonight. Israel Fuller thinks ‘e hit one, and t’other rode off downstream.”

  So, more by luck than design, they had their first successful battle within an hour of forming. While Adam and the others had been disputing at Colyford, some others had run on with Israel Fuller and reached the Axe bridge in time to hold it against the surprised Poles when the four horsemen had ridden up out of the dark. Then, as the horsemen recoiled, Roger Satchell and John Clapp had surprised them from the rear. It had only been four horsemen against thirty of them, and only one of those horsemen had - perhaps - been hit, but nonetheless it was a terrific boost to the morale of men unused to arms, and Adam, even more than Tom, rejoiced at the change of fortune from the other night. They waited awhile at the bridge, and then, when no-one returned, began the long six-mile trek over the high empty moors under the stars to Lyme, psalms of praise and triumph on their lips.

  11

  THEY REACHED Lyme early in the morning, marching down off the high moors with the sun rising in their faces across the glittering waters of Lyme Bay. Squinting in the reflection from the water, they could make out the black spars of Monmouth’s ship, the Hereldenburg, and the two others moored near it; and around them small rowing boats, scurrying like water-spiders from ship to shore. Then they forgot their aching legs, and the silent doubts that had crept into more than Adam’s mind in the grey chill before dawn, and quickened their steps, stumbling slightly in their hurry to reach the town below them. All night they had kept together, drawing comfort from marching together in ranks of three or four; but now they began to break ranks and spread out, like any group of friends walking along the highway.

  “Halt! Who goes there? Stand forth and present yourselves, sirs, if you please!” A man appeared suddenly in the middle of the road, barring their way; a short, youngish man, in a bright red coat, beaver hat, and short military wig. A young gentleman about town, Adam would have thought if he had met him elsewhere; yet for all his lack of age and stature there was a quiet determination about his stance that commanded liking and respect. As they stopped, they saw light flash from metal in the hedges on either side of the road, and realised there were a dozen muskets trained down on them.

  “By Heaven! ‘Tis a trap! The militia be here afore us!” William Clegg raised his billhook menacingly, and dashed forward at the red-coated men.

  “Wait, sir! We’re no militia, but the Duke of Monmouth’s army, guarding Lyme! Calm yourselves.” The man held up his hands, daring William Clegg to come on; and as he halted, there were laughter and cheers behind him. But William was still angry.

  “Then what be you devils pointing muskets at us for, and barring our way, when we come to help the Duke?”

  The man in the red coat smiled. “Only to check that you are for the Duke. friend, and not Lord Albemarle’s militia, as you thought we were. You can’t read a man’s allegiance in his face, as you know. And you look fierce enough yourselves, if a trifle disordered in your line of march. But you’re all for the Protestant Duke, are you?”

  He was answered with a fierce roar of assent, at which there were several heartfelt cries of ‘The Lord be praised!’ and ‘The children of Israel are coming in!’ from the musketeers behind the hedge. The young man’s smile grew even broader.

  “Then welcome, in God’s name.” He bowed; a short, military bow that was neither clumsy nor affected. “Nathaniel Wade, at your service. Late lawyer of Bristol, now Colonel in the Army of Deliverance. And you?”

  Roger Satchell answered for them all. “Men of Colyton. Allow me to present the best of that town, men who have already fought a successful skirmish on the way to join you.”

  “Indeed! Then you are doubly welcome. But first you should lead your men down to the town, and present yourselves to our quartermaster, who will supply you with arms and victuals and decide where your services are most needed. I hope to see you again later.”

  And so they squared their shoulders and marched down the steep hill into Lyme, leaning back to counter the effects of the steepest parts of the slope.

  The centre of the town was alive with people, swarming purposefully in all directions, like an ants’ nest that had been kicked open and must bring itself to order before it is attacked again. The focus of the hubbub was the Town Hall, where a small group of officers were busily enlisting new arrivals, issuing them with arms which were still being ferried ashore from the Hereldenburg, forming them into squads and sending them out with their officers to learn the drill of using the weapons at the same time as they guarded the hedges and roads on the outskirts of the town.

  The group from Colyton was larger and better organised than most that had come in so far. Several heads turned as they marched down the steep slope, and there was a ragged cheer as they drew up outside the Town Hall. Adam looked about himself curiously as they stopped, surprised by the intense activity everywhere. Down by the beach a group of sailors were heaving a gleaming field-gun up the slope with ropes and tackle; and a group of a dozen labourers and craftsmen like themselves were being pushed and pulled into some semblance of order by a squat, military-looking man in short-cropped hair and a faded red coat, while a preacher in a wide- brimmed Geneva hat read aloud to them out of the Bible. Everywhere there were women and children urgently carrying baskets of food or clothes for the soldiers, or dodging out of the way of a herd of bullocks which were being shooed down the
street by a group of farmers, to feed the army.

  As Adam watched, there was a sudden alarm as one of the bullocks bore down on a table outside the Town Hall, where a group of fine gentlemen in brightly coloured frock-coats and long periwigs were poring over some papers; but at the last moment a tall gentleman in a purple coat leapt up, waved his hat and yelled at the animal, which veered wildly away to the other side of the street, chasing two women and a boy up onto the high pavement. There were cheers and laughter from the group around the table, and then one of them pointed out Satchell’s group to the man in purple. He immediately strode over to meet them, his eyes alight with pleasure.

  “So! A fine addition to our forces, indeed! Who have we here?”

  “The men of Colyton, my lord, so many as could come. And we have already fought a skirmish for you on the way.” Roger Satchell swept off his dusty hat as he spoke, and held it down by his side as he sat his horse; a strange, formal gesture from so blunt a man.

  “A skirmish, indeed! D’you hear that, Ford?” The man in the purple coat called to a tall, rather puffy-faced, effete-looking gentleman in a blonde wig and blue riding coat, who raised his eyebrows in reply. “And won it, no doubt. So who are you, sir, who have the honour to lead such heroes? You must tell me about it.”

  “Roger Satchell, my lord, at your service.” Roger bowed again as he spoke.

  Adam felt a sharp nudge in his ribs. “Be that the Duke, then?” William Clegg whispered urgently.

  “I don’t know. Looks like it, don’t it?” Adam craned his neck anxiously over John Spragg’s shoulder to get a better look at the man in the purple coat. He had seen the Duke once, five years ago in Taunton, but only from a distance. He had not pictured him quite like this. He had expected him to be rich, certainly, but not quite so young. This man was tall, athletic, in his mid-thirties, with an eager, almost boyish look under his brown, curling periwig. A handsome man, certainly, but not a man to fear and respect, as Adam had hoped; not the prophet of which Israel Fuller had preached, but rather a young, disdainful aristocrat of the sort who had so often mocked him and his packhorses on the road, or broken the peace with noisy laughing brawls in the towns he had visited. Surely such a man could not be the leader of the Lord’s Protestant army - sober Puritan family men like William and John and himself? Adam watched the young Duke standing, his hands on his hips thrusting back his purple coat, listening in delight to Roger Satchell’s story, and felt his own doubts reflected in more than one of the solemn, seamed faces in the ranks around him.