McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  Taking a mouthful of salt water to prepare him for swimming again, McFeeley spat it out and gestured with his head towards the Helderenberg. Swimming parallel to each other, the two men moved through the water with the graceful ease of dolphins until they came up to the giant hull of the ship. Close in against the side of the ship, Jack used his eyes to ask a question: were they to go up the anchor rope? Shaking his head, McFeeley made a sign that they would climb up the hull. It would be a difficult task in the dark, but if the Monmouth soldiers aboard suspected they might have visitors they would be watching the easy route up offered by the anchor.

  Although occasionally needing to pause for some time while sending out a hand or foot to search for a new hold, the climb presented them with no real problems. The wood was rough against their naked skin, and each small slip caused abrasions that they didn’t really notice. Taking care not to be detected from inside the ship, they went silently and successfully up past the lower deck.

  Everything was going more smoothly than McFeeley had expected. This was his first mission under Captain Critchell, and he had spent long in its planning. Critchell had merely told him of the arrival in Lyme Bay of the Duke of Monmouth. The captain had simply conveyed Lord Churchill’s command for full details of the strength of Monmouth’s army, his arms, ammunition and plans. Both Churchill and Critchell had left it to McFeeley’s discretion as to how he carried out the order. The sergeant knew that this either showed they had great faith in him, or, more likely, leaving the opportunity open to shift responsibility for failure straight onto him.

  As he thought on this, so did failure loom large. Up above them, blocking their way to the upper deck, was an overhang of some three feet. They were stuck. The sea was a long way below, a reminder for them of how well they had done, but the final short distance to the deck was denied them. There was no time to go back down and risk climbing the anchor rope. Dawn would come before they could complete what they had come to do. Even the half-light of day would mean their capture, and the mounted messenger due to rendezvous with them on the hill west of the town would wait in vain.

  Clinging on with his hands, McFeeley first bent his left knee and found a hold for that foot, then did the same with his right knee and foot. First testing the foothold he had, doubled up with his knees against his chest, McFeeley took a deep breath and expelled it sharply as he sprang outwards and upwards, his hands stretched up over his head. He found himself in mid-air without support, the lapping of the sea against the hull of the ship, though far below, was strangely loud to him. The fingers of both his hands clutched only at air. He felt the momentum of his spring slackening, and then he ceased to move through space and was held in mid-air for what seemed an eternity by some invisible support.

  Waiting for the fast downward movement to begin, knowing that it would increase in velocity so that he would hit the sea with a splash that would not only damage him, but would alert the soldiers on board the ship, he was astonished as his fingertips made contact with wood. McFeeley grasped eagerly at a thick beading which ran along the lower edge of the overhang. He held on to it, his naked body swinging this way and that. Tilting his head back, McFeeley looked up and despair hit him hard as he saw only smooth wood between him and the edge, so near but never to be within his reach, which would have allowed him to climb over to drop onto the deck. There were neither handholds nor footholds above him, and his only hope was to build up a swing that would hopefully throw him back to where he had clung to the side of the ship before leaping.

  But the priority was to stop Jack from making the same mistake as he had. McFeeley looked down at Jack, intending to call softly to tell him to remain where he was. It was too late. Even as McFeeley opened his mouth to shout did Jack throw himself out and up. Both of the soldier’s hands smacked against the beading beside McFeeley’s, but Jack’s body was heavier than McFeeley’s, and gravity pulled him down before he could get a grip on the beading.

  With no more than a grunt, Jack plummeted. But he twisted himself sideways so that McFeeley felt his hands slide down the back of his thighs and over his calves before clutching at his ankles. As Jack’s fingers took a firm grip, McFeeley braced himself to take the shock of the full weight of the soldier.

  When it came it was much worse than McFeeley had anticipated. It jolted him right up through every joint, causing pain and strain before reaching his hands, wrenching his left hand from the beading and threatening to tear away the right. Clinging on with one hand, supporting both his weight and that of Jack, McFeeley found that he was under too much physical stress even to breathe. He became aware of a drumming in his ears, and then he was tuned into the blood pumping through his body, a noise similar to the deafening, hissing rush of a waterfall he had stood beside while in Africa.

  Calling up every reserve of his strength, he forced his aching right arm and hand to hold on while he struggled to bring the left side of his body and his left arm up. He couldn’t do it. The dangling weight of Jack’s body was too much. Dropping his head he threw caution to the winds and yelled down at him:

  ‘Let go with your left hand!’

  Jack didn’t understand, and McFeeley needed to shout again. This time Jack heard him and took him by surprise, releasing McFeeley’s left ankle before he was ready for it.

  Recovering, his right arm stretching, creaking and aching intolerably as it took all the strain, McFeeley swung his left arm out and up; it hit the beading and his fingers fought desperately for a hold. At first gaining a tenuous grip, he was able to consolidate it and then he was supporting Jack and himself with both hands.

  They both understood what had to be done then, and Jack began swinging towards then away from the ship. Picking up Jack’s rhythm, McFeeley went with the swinging. Their pendulum movement increased until the inward swing put Jack within some six feet of the side of the ship.

  Timing it perfectly, Jack released McFeeley’s ankles and went hurtling towards the wooden hull. Looking down, McFeeley saw him hit hard. He could hear the thudding sound of his body and the crack of his head against the side. For one frantic moment McFeeley could see that Jack had been knocked unconscious. He was falling away from the wall when he came round and clutched at the wooden hull, getting a grip and holding on while waiting for his faculties to return.

  McFeeley hung motionless, arms and shoulders aching as he worried over the possibility of Jack’s impact with the ship alerting those on board. He waited, expecting to hear a cry of alarm come from above, but all he heard was the rhythmic wash of the sea against the hull below him. It must be, McFeeley reached the conclusion, that the Helderenberg was built too solidly for such a sound to be heard.

  Satisfied, McFeeley prepared to leave the overhang and return to the hull himself. It was a hazardous exercise, even though he didn’t have to drop the same distance as Jack had. Swinging back and forth, back and forth, he felt that he had it judged right, and let go. Spending a brief time of uncertainty in another bottomless world, McFeeley then collided with the rough wooden side of the ship. Bruised and winded, he quickly gained hand and footholds. Some quick thinking was needed. The insuperable overhang demanded a change of plan, and a scheme was already forming in McFeeley’s head.

  Jack was looking up at him. He was fully conscious but blood ran from his wide-nostriled nose and there was an ugly swelling on his left temple. Either the movement of the sea had increased or slamming against the hull had caused McFeeley giddiness, for he felt sick as he looked down. Blinking his eyes hard a couple of times, he found that the three-master was rocking slightly and slowly as before. As his spinning brain slowed down, McFeeley realized why Jack’s muscles bulged and knotted in his arms and shoulders as he clung to the curved waist of the side of the ship. Jack had to be suffering badly from concussion and was having difficulty in holding on.

  Taking one hand from the hull, McFeeley pointed astern. That was the way they had to go. The stern of the ship was perpendicular, but it had no overhang. Waiting until a no
d from Jack confirmed that he had the message, McFeeley then began edging along the side of the ship. A little below, Jack, every bit as tough as he looked, was following him. Sometimes a little shaky when placing a foot, or fumbling as he tried for a grip, Jack was keeping pace with him.

  They came to the sharp angle at the stern. The unknown that was around the corner made McFeeley apprehensive. Should the precipitous stern of the ship offer no grip for either hand or foot, then he would have to abandon the mission. Not ever having known defeat, McFeeley wasn’t certain that he could handle being a loser. With his right hand and foot he held precariously onto the hull as he leaned out to take a look at the stern. For a fraction of a second he was rocked by a blast of air of surprising force on such a windless night. For that short space of time he was in danger of losing his hold. As his body jerked violently in alarm he experienced an intense sensation of falling, but even though it took him a while to realize that he had done so, he was able to hold on. But it was at the expense of skin torn from his fingertips as he gripped hard until his slipping right foot came up against a projection capable of supporting it.

  Taking deep breaths to regain his equilibrium, McFeeley looked up at the stern and released a rushing sigh of relief. Some careless god who had been looking the other way until then had arranged for a net to be left drooping over the rail. It dangled within easy reach of Jack and himself.

  McFeeley and Jack exchanged pleased grins and began their ascent.

  At the time the two intrepid soldiers were climbing to the stern rail of the Helderenberg an anxious Lord John Churchill took his seat at an extraordinary meeting of the Privy Council in the Palace of Whitehall. Presiding was His Majesty King James II, whose eyes were red-rimmed and face haggard from worry and fatigue. Ready to share his monarch’s problems, Churchill had personal worries that threatened to take precedence. The unease of the assembly was such that he found it to be almost tangible. Each and every member of the board still grieved for the attractive, smooth charm of the late Charles II. They found it difficult to come to terms with the conscientious industry of the abrasive James. That very day the new king had stripped the Duke of Monmouth of his title, leaving him as plain James Scott with a reward of £5,000 on his head. It was now a treasonable offence to say that the illegitimate Scott was the legitimate son of the late Charles II.

  In Churchill’s judgement the only comfortable member present was Henry Jermyn, Catholic adviser to the king. Jermyn had no need to straddle the fence between religions that dug painfully into the crotches of every other member of the Council. At the age of fifty-one King James had time to reconcile a country divided by Catholicism and Protestantism, especially if he soft-pedalled the former as had his brother. Monmouth was the immediate threat to a long and peaceful rule for James. No one could be sure if the duke was the legitimate son of Charles, but the fact that he represented the Protestant religion had the majority of the people behind him.

  At that moment the Duke of Monmouth was causing Lord Churchill great concern. Churchill’s wife, Lady Sarah, and Rachel her companion, were staying at Forde Abbey near Axminster in Devon as the guests of Sir Edmund Prideaux, who had served as Oliver Cromwell’s Attorney General. Mellowed and politically castrated by age, Sir Edmund was no danger, but his wealthy son, also Edmund, had strong Whig sympathies and had been plotting with Monmouth over many years. If Edmund should capture the women, Sarah in particular, then they could be used as hostages to negate Churchill’s effectiveness as a soldier against Monmouth.

  As he sat there watching James get to his feet, Lord Churchill wasn’t sure where his loyalties would lie if it came to a case of king and country or wife and sister. It was a possibility too distressing to contemplate.

  ‘I was awakened at four o’clock this morning,’ King James began, addressing an assembly that was droopy-eyed and befuddled by wine and lack of sleep, ‘by customs officers who had ridden from Lyme to inform me that the ships of James Scott had anchored in that Dorset bay. Since that time I have taken certain necessary measures. Important though those measures be, the essential is a military solution, which is the purpose of this extraordinary meeting of the Council.’

  ‘If it please Your Majesty,’ Lord Chief Justice George Jeffreys began, getting to his feet, disturbing the air with a foul gas comprising alcohol, stale sweat, and medicinal tinctures, ‘I understand that the mobilization of the West Country militia is already in hand under the second Duke of Albermale. I would respectfully remind His Majesty that Colonel Percy Kirke has recently returned with his troops from Tangier. May I humbly offer the advice that five companies of Colonel Kirke’s foot regiment should be moved to a position west of Salisbury, together with four troops of the Blues and two companies of the Royal Dragoons. I am confident this would refute beyond doubt any military action likely to be instigated by the Duke of Mon— James Scott.’

  ‘Reactionary poppycock,’ snorted Baron Guildford, the Lord Keeper, a squat, obese man who had become increasingly irritable in his two-year period of tenure on the Woolsack.

  ‘You hold a different view, my Lord Keeper?’ the King asked sharply.

  Standing, his heavy, red cheeks wobbling from both the movement and indignation, the Lord Keeper replied, ‘More of an observation than a view, your Majesty. When words are to be manipulated or the law to be interpreted so as to benefit one side to the detriment of the other, then indeed I would not hesitate to turn to the Lord Chief Justice. But this could quickly become a matter of war, your Majesty, which surely must dictate that we turn to a soldier.’

  Face red with anger, lips moving to spew out silent angry words in advance of an irate tirade, Jeffreys was getting to his feet once more, but James gestured for him to be seated, and turned to Baron Guildford.

  ‘And who say you this soldier should be, My Lord Keeper?’

  ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to deal with this, Your Majesty,’ Henry Jermyn said in a low, controlled voice. He was aged around forty, and although not handsome had a powerful personality and a high intelligence that disguised the irregularity of his features. A too-large nose was bent at a sharp angle by a high bridge, and his lower jaw had an overbite that was so unpleasant that Jermyn went to great lengths to avoid being viewed in profile.

  Knuckling both of his eyes, turning the red rims a deep crimson, the King raised a questioning eyebrow at Baron Guildford. ‘Have you any objection, Lord Keeper?’

  ‘None, Your Majesty,’ Guildford stood with a jowl-jiggling bow. ‘I admit that Jermyn is far better qualified than I to deal with this.’

  ‘Nay, Your Majesty, I would go no further on matters military than to introduce a brilliant soldier whose father, Sir Winston, is fittingly the Member of Parliament for Lyme,’ Henry Jermyn said, certain that his proposal would be accepted by a king strongly influenced by popery. ‘We should place the matter in the capable hands of Lord John Churchill.’

  However, the king looked somewhat miffed, and Churchill knew why. James would want his friend, the Earl of Feversham, a Frenchman who had been trepanned after a falling beam had crushed his skull during the Great Fire of London, at least nominally in charge of the army that would oppose Monmouth. Churchill himself had received his military training under Feversham’s uncle, the famous Marshal Turenne.

  ‘I have a military commander in mind,’ James said, proving Churchill’s supposition to be right, ‘but I would welcome hearing from you on this, Lord Churchill.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Churchill bowed, hoping that concentrating on the matter in hand would quell his worries over his wife. It was a forlorn hope. Only half his mind handled his address to the Privy Council, while the rest gnawed at all the daunting possibilities of what could be taking place down in Devon. But he made a good job of it, warning against alienating West Country folk by using Colonel Percy Kirke and his ‘lambs’ as the men of his regiment were known, a regiment whose brutality had it notorious.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Churchill,’ James nodded, so worn-looking n
ow that he appeared ill. ‘I recognize the sagacity of your words on what we should not do. Can you suggest some constructive action?’

  ‘I have already commenced constructive action, Your Majesty. By dawn I confidently expect a messenger carrying details of James Scott’s military strength and his projected campaign.’

  This impressed the king and some two thirds of the Privy Council, with the sceptical remaining third openly scoffing the notion that military intelligence could be gathered so swiftly, especially so when, as far as was known, neither Monmouth nor any of his soldiers had yet set foot on land.

  As the meeting broke up, so did the enormity of what he had taken on hit Churchill for the first time. He had effectively gambled his reputation, his career, perhaps even his very peerage, on an undisciplined army sergeant whose record read something like that of a transportee on a convict ship.

  There were still a few hours left before dawn, but Churchill knew that anxiety over his wife would prohibit sleep, while frantic worry about the trust he had vested in Colm McFeeley would make the sleepless hours drag past intolerably slowly.

  They came over the ship’s rail together, landing lightly on bare feet; McFeeley pulled his body into the shadows at one side of a wooden stanchion while Jack concealed himself at the other side as an armed sentry slowly walked the deck towards them. Wearing old-fashioned back-and-breast armour and dressed in a campaign coat of red laced with purple, a uniform that belonged to an age long gone, the soldier was a strange sight.

  The two men stayed in hiding, regulating their breathing so as to make no sound. Not looking in their direction, the sentry walked up to the rail, looked over it down at the sea, muttered to himself what could have been a curse and then ambled back the way he had come.