McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  Behind the fallen rebel the Monmouth musketeers were colliding with each other in a mad dash to retreat. McFeeley’s voice was hoarse as he yelled the order. ‘Rear rank! Rear rank fire!’

  Hit in their backs as they went, the rebels tumbled into the dust as McFeeley saw that his front and centre ranks had reloaded, and then ordered his rear rank to do the same.

  ‘Take up pursuit!’ he ordered, leading the way by crossing the bridge at a trot.

  The rebels were on the run and the local militia, inspired by McFeeley and euphoric as they leapt over the bodies of those they had slain, was in full pursuit. But then McFeeley held his musket on high as he yelled out a one-word command.

  ‘Halt!’

  Stopping as a disorganized group, the Somersetshires looked up ahead to where rebel cavalrymen were skirting past their retreating infantry and heading for them at a gallop. Fortunes had changed swiftly. The local soldiers were standing exposed and vulnerable as the Monmouth horsemen bore down on them, and they turned their heads to McFeeley in desperation.

  ‘Form up into three ranks,’ McFeeley ordered. ‘As before, wait for my word of command.’

  Recognizing that he and his squad faced annihilation, McFeeley resigned himself to his fate while making a personal pledge to take as many rebels as possible with him. The horsemen were so close now that every steaming breath of the mounts was clearly visible, and he saw the face of the officer commanding as he held his sword high.

  ‘Front rank! Front rank fire!’ McFeeley yelled.

  His musketeers fired. Two cavalrymen were shot straight out of the saddle, while the horse of a third shrieked out its agony and did a nose-dive into the ground, throwing its rider whose neck snapped with a crack that was as loud a shot from a musket.

  With the horsemen close enough to preclude an order for his centre rank to fire, McFeeley was astonished to see the officer in charge of the cavalry, abject fear on his weak-featured face, rein up his mount, scream out an order, then do an about face to gallop off, closely followed by his horsemen.

  McFeeley couldn’t credit what had taken place. The cavalry officer was in such a funk that it was obvious he wouldn’t stop until he had returned to whence he had come – Lyme.

  Realization of their miraculous reprieve slowly dawned on the men of the local militia. One of them did a nervous giggle. This triggered off laughter that turned into cheering as they came forward to pound McFeeley on the back in congratulation.

  Some forty dead rebels lay around them. Monmouth’s first battle had ended in defeat. Bridport had successfully been defended. McFeeley, though pleased with the result, remembered the competent and impressive Duke of Monmouth he had seen on board the Helderenberg and concluded that the battle for Bridport had been a fluke. Once Monmouth was established there would be many hard fights ahead.

  Perplexed by the intrigue that beset her, and exasperated by the inanity of Rachel’s pursuit of Edmund Prideaux, Lady Sarah Churchill ate dinner at White Lackington automatically. Excellent though the food was, she didn’t really taste it. She was aware, however, of John Trenchard’s covert but sensual study of her from across the table. Trenchard, the son-in-law of old George Speke, and Member of Parliament for Taunton, while sitting at his side was Sir John Hooker Vowell, a prominent Devonshire Member of Parliament and an ardent Whig. These two eminent guests were just two in a long line of visitors to the Speke manor since she had been there. They were callers who conversed in whispers, or walked away from the building before engaging in any conversation. She had witnessed many clandestine meetings in addition to hearing Prideaux’s late night visits to her companion’s bedroom. Being accustomed to Rachel’s sexual proclivities, Sarah was unperturbed by them, but was disturbed by the golden-haired beauty’s infatuation with Prideaux, having her scoff at Sarah’s contention that they were both prisoners at the manor. Prideaux, distanced at the table from Sarah by Rachel, was showing the effects of drink. Edmund had in fact been drunk on each of the three evenings they had spent at White Lackington, but on the two previous occasions alcohol had made him merry to the point of being boisterous. In contrast melancholiahad settled on him this third evening, and it had John Trenchard make a comment.

  ‘Why so glum, Edmund? Rest assured that the arrest of your father is nought but a precautionary measure.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Edmund was prepared to concede, ‘but to me it is a dire warning that such measures by the King may preclude any real chance of an insurrection.’

  ‘Absolute nonsense!’ snorted Trenchard, an ugly, bombastic man who would forsake caution for self-promotion. ‘You have seen the patronage of my rebels’ club in the Red Lion Inn at Taunton, Edmund.’

  George Speke, old and frail and suffering from an illness that made him shake, particularly when reaching out a hand for something, looked troubled and appeared to be about to say something, but his son-in-law was continuing, trying to reassure the still doubting Edmund Prideaux.

  ‘Nothing can stop the rebellion, Edmund,’ Trenchard said, his enthusiasm having him stand from his chair, turn a circle and sit once more. ‘I have personally committed 1,000 foot and 200 to 300 horse soldiers.’

  Clearing his throat noisily to make a gap in the conversation for the words he wanted to say, George Speke advised. ‘I say, John, show some prudence with your assertions while we have lady guests present.’

  By that time entirely convinced that she and Rachel were prisoners here, Sarah realized that the old man was not in on the plot. Though he was too old and feeble to offer any help, she felt better knowing that he wouldn’t stand for his home to be used for a kidnapping. Speke was a Whig and a member of the Green Ribbon Club squires of the West, but he was a straight-dealing, honest old man.

  ‘We are free to talk, sir,’ Edmund Prideaux told Speke, suddenly nowhere near as drunk as he had earlier appeared to be. ‘Both ladies will remain as your guests for some little time. Lady Sarah will shortly be writing a letter to Lord John Churchill, and what she has to tell him will ensure that the King’s enemies will not come rampaging through the West Country.’

  ‘I will not be a party to so despicable a plot, young Prideaux,’ Speke said, shaking his old head in emphasis and unable to stop the movement.

  ‘It is already in hand, sir, and your conscience is absolutely clear,’ Prideaux said.

  ‘It is my understanding that King James has placed the Earl of Feversham in command,’ the old man said, looking pleased at having found a flaw in Prideaux’ s plan for Lady Sarah.

  ‘That appointment was made out of sentiment – a favour to an old friend, not military strategy,’ Trenchard said with a little laugh. ‘Feversham is a French fool with a plate in his head, whose only activities are eating and sleeping. He is in nominal command, Father. Doesn’t the fact that the King has raised Churchill to the rank of brigadier illustrate who is really running James’ armies?’

  This was the first Sarah had heard of her husband’s promotion. She was initially thrilled but then confused, for it all meant nothing while she was here at White Lackington and John was wherever he was. It was daunting to think of the inner battle that would rage inside of loyal soldier John Churchill when he was faced by a choice between King and country or his wife. What would he choose? Her’s was but one life and should her husband decide to save it, then it was likely to be at the expense of thousands of other lives.

  Sarah’s anguished pondering was broken in upon by the clatter of many horses’ hoofs outside.

  ‘That’s John back with the first batch,’ Edmund said, a pleased smile on his face as he stood.

  This answered another question for Sarah, who had noticed that John Speke, the son of old George, had been absent from the manor since Rachel and herself had been there. Apparently he had been out buying mounts for the rustic cavalry that the rebel duke would be forming.

  ‘I hope that our first gift to his Grace Monmouth will not be too motley a bunch of nags,’ Trenchard said in what sounded like semi-prayer a
s he stood and left the room with Prideaux.

  ‘Don’t judge us too hastily, Lady Sarah,’ the old man pleaded when he was left alone with Sarah and Rachel.

  ‘I am aware that you have no role in it, sir,’ Sarah replied, trying to sound benevolent where the old man was concerned, but unable to remove haughtiness from her tone, ‘but I cannot be expected to take kindly being kidnapped and held for ransom.’

  ‘Quite so,’ George Speke nodded sadly as indistinct voices and the movement of horses came from outside. The white head still bobbed up and down long after the nod had served its purpose. ‘I will do all that I can to assist you within the limitations imposed by my age and frailties.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir,’ Sarah managed a smile despite the desperation of her situation.

  ‘Though I will not condone you being used in such a way, Lady Sarah, I will never deny James Duke of Monmouth,’ Speke said, then his eyes misted over as he visited that far place of reminiscence that is only accessible to the aged. ‘He stayed here five years ago, you know. A truly marvellous man, and that was a really wonderful time. Never has White Lackington known anything like it, Lady Sarah, Miss Rachel, before or since.

  ‘2,000 persons on horseback brought him to the Manor, and there was another 20,000 here to receive him. It was necessary to tear down the railings all around the Manor to accommodate the multitude. He ran races and wrestled with the local gladiators, ladies. It was August then, and I can still see that fine, handsome young man winning every time to have applause and cheering echo over the lush meadows. He picnicked with us on the cornflower-bordered heaths.

  ‘He laughed and joked with us, drank our cider and our elderberry wine under the park trees. I am in no way a religious fanatic, Lady Sarah; it is that man that I worship. Bear in mind when the fighting starts that it is erroneous to regard it as a war of religion. King James is Catholic, but the man who will lead his armies, your good husband, is a Protestant. Religion is often the excuse but rarely the issue, Lady Sarah.’

  Sarah was sure that it wasn’t tiredness that caused tears to leak from George Speke’s eye’s he finished speaking. Prior to hearing his descriptive recall, Monmouth had been for her no more than a distant memory, and since just a name spoken in speculation, in anger, or in fear. Now he had become a man. A man who loved life and knew how to live it to the full. Hatred and the wars it spawned were impersonal. Would a soldier be able to slay an enemy he knew well?

  ‘I must get away from here, sir. Can you take me to Ilminster tonight?’ Sarah asked hurriedly, aware that Trenchard and Prideaux would return at any minute.

  ‘To do that would be to endanger you even more, Lady Sarah.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ she protested. ‘I have friends there who will help me.’

  Tilting his skull-like head to listen for the return of the men who had gone outside, George Speke told her in a low voice. ‘This is a most difficult and dangerous time, Lady Sarah. It is impossible to tell where loyalties lie. You would be wise, and certainly safer, to remain here at White Lackington.’

  There was much truth in what the old man said. With the Monmouth rising so close it was possible that she would ask someone she believed to be a Royalist for assistance, only to have her throat slit by a supposed friend who was really a rebel. It disheartened her to do so, but Lady Sarah Churchill had to agree with George Speke.

  There were troop movements throughout the south of England. The militia of Gloucestershire, Herefordshire and Monmouthshire had moved in to defend Bristol from an anticipated attack by Portsmouth. 12 companies of the Foot Guards, and seven companies of the Coldstream, some 1150 men in all, were heading for a rendezvous with the Wiltshire militia. Not far behind them were 16 large cannon with carriages, powder, ball, shovels, pickaxes, etc., the trundling main artillery train from the Tower of London. While at the same time a smaller train of eight lighter guns – four iron 3-pounders and four brass falcons – had set out from Portsmouth with Sherborne in Dorset as its destination. Lieutenant Colonel Charles Churchill, the brother of John, was commanding five companies of infantry, most of them veterans from Tangier. A total of 1,800 foot soldiers, 150 cavalry, together with 26 cannon, heading for the West Country. John Churchill himself was riding ahead of his infantry and reached Bridport with an advance guard of 300 horsemen. The commander-in-chief, Lord Feversham, was moving down from London with a troop of Life Guards and sixty Horse Grenadiers. The net was closing on the Duke of Monmouth.

  Colm McFeeley, having been promoted to lieutenant in the field for the action that had saved Bridport, was serving as a temporary attachment to the five companies of foot that were under the command of Colonel Percy Kirke. They were camped on a low hill above Axminster, and on the afternoon of a blisteringly hot day, McFeeley, restless and bored, was doing some rifle practice assisted by Jack who had, as insisted upon by McFeeley, been promoted to sergeant. There was tension in the camp and much talk of the coming battles with Monmouth. In the way McFeeley had noticed before, most veterans were made anxious by anticipation, whereas the unblooded were blissfully ignorant.

  A young private soldier came up to him and saluted smartly. ‘Compliments of Captain Allenby, sir. He would like to see you right away.’

  Tossing the carbine he had been using to Jack, who deftly caught it, McFeeley said laconically. ‘Keep practising, Jack. I have a feeling I’ll need you to cover my back.’

  Following the soldier to the adjutant’s tent, he found Allenby to be a small man with quick movements and intelligent eyes. As McFeeley entered the tent, the adjutant had two glasses in one hand and a bottle filled with dark alcohol in the other. Raising the bottle by way of invitation, Allenby asked McFeeley in a broad North of England accent, ‘Which do you prefer, Lieutenant, abstention or horse piss?’

  ‘If those are my only options, Captain, I’ll go for the piss.’

  Pouring them a glass each, Allenby wryly gave some advice. ‘Never let the army manipulate you into becoming adjutant, McFeeley. I’ve ceased to be a soldier to become a general manager. I could be running a mill back home, taking my pick of the comely maidens looking for work.’

  ‘Why do I feel like a maiden under threat right now, Captain?’ McFeeley enquired with a grin as he accepted a glass and took a sip.

  ‘I was told that you are a perceptive man, Lieutenant,’ Allenby smiled. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘It could be best to leave the “other things” for now,’ McFeeley suggested.

  Allenby chuckled. He was McFeeley’s kind of man. ‘I’d like to discuss them with you, but duty dictates that I must brief you for a mission.’

  ‘I have been selected because I am not one of the “lambs”,’ McFeeley stated rather than questioned.

  ‘Indeed, indeed. This is a delicate matter, McFeeley, involving as it does, Lieutenant Lawrence Peters, the nephew of Colonel Kirke.’

  The place part way down McFeeley’s spine that was infallible in sending him warnings was acting up now. If what he was here for was straightforward, then one of “Kirke’s lambs” would have been entrusted with the task, not a temporary newcomer like himself. The fact that a close relative of the commanding officer was involved was sure to be an added, serious complication.

  About to speak, Allenby paused while orders were bellowed outside at a squad doing drill. When the foghorn voice of a sergeant lost some of its volume and the sound of many feet beat a retreat, the adjutant began to speak without looking at McFeeley. ‘Lieutenant Peters, who is the son of Colonel Kirke’s sister, is a man that I judge to be more suited to life as a poet than a soldier, and I imagine that he shares my view. But, what with family tradition and all that sort of thing, he found himself serving under his uncle and …’

  ‘… and he’s run off,’ McFeeley filled in for the adjutant, who spun to look at him sharply.

  ‘They didn’t warn me just how perceptive you are, McFeeley!’

  ‘Forgive them,’ Captain,’ McFeeley grinned. ‘They didn’t know.�
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  ‘I’m amazed that you are only a lieutenant.’

  McFeeley laughed. ‘You’d have been more amazed yesterday – I was only a sergeant then.’

  Uncertain as to whether the lieutenant was joking, Allenby became serious as he got down to the business he had called McFeeley there for. ‘Lieutenant Peters left on foot, taking a musket and no rations with him, McFeeley. As you will be mounted, and he will need to stop to find food, catching up with him shouldn’t prove to be difficult. The problems begin after you have found him. Colonel Kirke will deal personally with his nephew when you bring him back to camp. The thing is, Lieutenant, only the commanding officer and myself, you, too, now, of course, know of Lieutenant Peters’ absence. Colonel Kirke wants him brought back in with the utmost secrecy.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ McFeeley promised.

  ‘It would be in your own interest to do better than that by ensuring that you do exactly what the commanding officer wants,’ Allenby cautioned. ‘Colonel Kirke is a difficult man, McFeeley.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about Colonel Kirke, Captain,’ McFeeley said grimly, then lightened up as he stretched out a hand with his emptied glass in it. ‘That must have been a fine horse. I’ll have another and then be on my way.’

  Filling both glasses, Allenby enquired. ‘Where will you start?’

  ‘Peters would have headed for Axminster straight off,’ McFeeley replied, draining his glass. ‘It should be easy to pick up his trail there.’