McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  ‘Tell him to squeeze the trigger,’ McFeeley answered, indicating Riglar.

  A sinister chuckle came from the colonel. ‘I only asked which you would prefer so that I could deny your request. Take him away, Lieutenant Riglar. He will be hanged at dawn as a Monmouth spy.’

  McFeeley was taken away and doubled back to his tent where he was once more tethered to the stake. An hour later, as the sun did a multicoloured retreat for the day, McFeeley walked on his knees to peer out of the tent when he heard hammering. To his left, back-lit dramatically by the sunset, a crude gallows such as he had come across earlier that day, was being constructed.

  Resigned to his fate and cold now that night had come, McFeeley slept. He was awoken by the movements of someone entering the tent. Opening his eyes, McFeeley’s spirits soared instantaneously as he saw Captain Allenby peering at him in the half light of the moon.

  ‘Just in time, Captain,’ he said, huskily due to the heat of the day having reduced his bodily fluids. ‘A few hours later and you would have found me swinging from Colonel Kirke’s gibbet.’

  McFeeley plunged into an abyss of despair as he saw the look on Allenby’s face. The captain said listlessly, ‘I returned to the camp by chance, Colm, and once I learned of your fate I wanted to see you. But I am simply the adjutant and cannot countermand an order given by my commanding officer, Colonel Kirke.’

  ‘All I ask is that Claude Critchell is informed of what is happening here,’ McFeeley pointed out.

  ‘That is not possible,’ Allenby shook a sad head. ‘I left Lord Churchill’s headquarters at Shepton Mallet earlier today, Colm, and Captain Critchell had left there a day or two before to go on some reconnoitre. I gained the distinct impression that he is not expected back for some time.’

  This was very bad news for McFeeley. Without intervention from Critchell his life would end on the gallows at dawn. There would seem to be only one hope left for him, and he broached it to Allenby. ‘I would say that there is just enough time to get a message to Lord Churchill at Shepton Mallet, and his order saving me from execution brought back.’

  ‘There is time, Colm,’ an unhappy Allenby agreed, ‘but Colonel Kirke would never permit it.’

  ‘You could do it, Captain Allenby,’ McFeeley urged.

  With an emphatic nod, Allenby said, ‘I could do it, but if I did, then I would receive a bullet in the back when the first chance presented itself. I am not proud of myself, Colm, but when it comes down to being a case of my back or your neck, I find myself becoming very fond of my own back.’

  Head bowed, the captain went to the flap of the tent, turning to ask with a tremor in his voice. ‘Would you find it in your heart to forgive a coward, Colm?’

  ‘No, but I could easily forgive an honest man, Captain,’ McFeeley said.

  Going outside, Captain Allenby called back into the tent.

  ‘Goodbye, Colm, and may the Lord bless you.’

  Lady Henrietta looked across the table at a morbid Miss Blake. All the other Taunton dignitaries were saddened by the imminent departure of the Duke of Monmouth, whereas the schoolmistress appeared to be in deep mourning for her virginity. Draped on the wall behind her were the twenty-seven banners made by her young pupils for Monmouth’s army to march with. The material used had been the schoolgirls’ petticoats. What did that imply? wondered Henrietta, who was a self-taught student and graduate in human sexuality. The most auspicious banner was the gorgeously fringed one, embroidered with the initials JR and topped by a crown, which was the creation of senior girl Mary Mead. The girl was fortunate not to be here at the last meal in Captain John Hucker’s house, Henrietta thought wryly. If Monmouth could collect military victories the way he did hymens he would be king of England within a week. He was making a mistake by lingering in Taunton. Monmouth claimed he had agreed to host this meal to repay the townsfolk for their support. Henrietta believed that he was unwilling to move on and face whatever military force James II might have waiting. She had witnessed Monmouth’s nervousness on learning of the Earl of Argyle’s invasion of Scotland petering out mainly due to desertions, and the non-starters that the promised uprisings in London and Cheshire had proved to be. Had there been a chink of a way out with honour, then she was in no doubt that Monmouth would right now be squeezing through it.

  Edmund Prideaux and John Trenchard were sitting further down the table, the latter with a cut, bruised and badly swollen face, having brought more bad news for Monmouth. Ignorant of it up to that time, Henrietta had learned of the failed plan to apply pressure on John Churchill by holding his wife and Rachel as hostages. Prideaux had linked the escape of the two women with McFeeley, but Monmouth had refused to believe it. Mention of the untamed McFeeley had awakened arousing memories in Henrietta.

  ‘When teaching future generations, Susan,’ Monmouth smiled across the table at Miss Blake, ‘may I ask that you be kind to me in the history of our great land?’

  The schoolmistress’s face blushed deep red, causing Henrietta to mutter to her husband, ‘For heaven’s sake, you stupid woman, he’s asking you to open your heart this time, not your legs.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Henrietta, or you will cause great embarrassment,’ Lord Grey cautioned her sotto voce.

  Henrietta gave him a sideways smile. ‘Since when have my little indiscretions worried you?’

  ‘Only when they are likely to cause problems, Henrietta,’ he replied tetchily.

  Her husband was in a worse state of anxiety than Monmouth, Henrietta realized. This didn’t surprise her, as, for all his faults, Monmouth had courage, whereas Lord Grey of Werke could not be relied upon even to protect her against anything but a mediocre threat. It had been agreed between Monmouth and her husband that she would remain here in Taunton when they rode out. Being a sensitive person underneath her flippancy and philandering, Lady Henrietta was made miserable by her inner conviction that she would never see either of the two men alive again. Perhaps what she felt for Monmouth was love, while her relationship with her husband was habit. Was there any difference between those two things, she was pondering when Monmouth drained his glass with a finality that said his sojourn in Taunton was coming to an end.

  Standing, Monmouth told his fellow diners, ‘It is time. First I must speak again to the loyal people of this town and then I will lead my mighty army away to fight the good fight. A fight that will not cease until we have successfully defended and vindicated the Protestant religion and have delivered the kingdom from the usurpation and tyranny of James, Duke of York.’

  Dr Robert Ferguson jumped to his feet, mouth open, prayers ready to tumble out, but he was pre-empted by John Whiting, the Quaker unexpectedly made a guest by Monmouth.

  ‘Now let us pray,’ John Whiting said in a quiet, humble way. ‘Let us pray for the man who will be king, and pray to the cities of our God and that the Lord will seemeth it fitting to aid and protect the Duke of Monmouth, protector of our people, a warrior for our faith.’

  As the ‘amens’ went on around her, Henrietta walked between her husband and Monmouth out into the street. Hers was a position of privilege. Others were pushing, struggling, even fighting to get close to the duke. She noticed that Whiting was near. Like her, the Quaker was to stay here in Taunton. His task was to form a team of medics who would then go behind Monmouth’s troops into battle. Uncertain as to what would be asked of her, Henrietta was soon to learn. In the doorway Monmouth lightly took her arm to move her close to him.

  Not knowing what to expect, Henrietta needed to strain to catch Monmouth’s low-spoken words as the crowd outside built up a tumultuous greeting for the duke. He asked. ‘Do you remember the man named McFeeley, Henrietta?’

  A cautionary voice in Henrietta’s head spoke urgently to her. Had the duke while at White Lackington either noticed or had been told of her romp in the garden with the rugged McFeeley?

  ‘I’m not sure. Was he a rough sort of fellow who was at George Speke’s home?’ she asked coyly.

 
Monmouth nodded with a smile of reminiscence. ‘That is the man, Henrietta. A rough diamond, that is for sure, but I have this feeling that he will be coming to Taunton to join me.’

  ‘But …’ she was a little confused. ‘I heard both Edmund Prideaux and John Trenchard denounce him as a traitor, James!’

  ‘Balderdash, Henrietta. McFeeley is worth five hundred Edmund Prideauxs and a thousand John Trenchards. If I am to have any chance I must have men like him fighting at my side. I want you to remain here and send him after me to Bridgwater, Henrietta. I have your promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ she vowed, and they permitted themselves a furtive, brief, but nevertheless stirring touching of hands.

  Eight

  SADDEND BY THE duke’s departure, and full of shame because of the warm anticipation of the possible arrival of McFeeley, Henrietta turned with the intention of going back into Captain Hucker’s house, but she paused to listen to a conversation between a group that had formed since having given the rebel army a rapturous send-off. A tall man with an expensive tricorn hat was addressing an audience of eminent persons who were nodding and murmuring, ‘Yes, yes, quite right, quite right!’ all through a speech that was delivered both guardedly and, contrarily, fervently.

  ‘There is no time to be lost,’ the tall man warned. ‘If we hesitate or delay in any way then we will sacrifice every man, woman, child and building in this town. He must not be allowed to return here. Should he do so, then the king’s army will burn Taunton to the ground. A deputation must be arranged immediately to ride out and plead with him, beg him and, if necessary, demand that he does not return. Are you with me?’

  There came a shouted chorus of, ‘Aye!’

  Realization came to Henrietta, sickening her as she was walking in through the door of the house. They were discussing Monmouth, the man the townsfolk had minutes before unreservedly acclaimed. Now they were adopting measures to ensure that he would never return to Taunton. Having suspected that it could happen; now she knew it for sure. The Duke of Monmouth was doomed.

  As she went up the steps to the door of the house, some clouds, strangers in the sky this long, hot summer, darkened the sun to deepen her depression. Moving away from where he had been standing just inside the lobby, eavesdropping on the speakers outside, John Whiting saw her despondency and placed a consoling hand upon her arm.

  ‘These people and their fickle loyalties distress me as they do you, dear lady,’ he told her with a weak smile. ‘But take heart, for I have good news. I hear from a most reliable source that at this very moment a Quaker is riding to acquaint His Grace the duke with the fact that the club-army that now comprises ten thousand well armed men is soon to join him.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ a bemused Henrietta said.

  ‘It is magnificent news, Lady Henrietta, for the country is rising for Monmouth.’

  ‘But what is the club army?’ Henrietta asked.

  Seemingly uncertain, Whiting replied, ‘It is a gallant band of men who originally gathered together for mutual protection but will now lend their strength to the Monmouth cause.’

  ‘I see,’ Henrietta said walking up the stairs, heading for the room Monmouth had secured for her.

  What the Quaker had said did nothing to lift her spirits with regard to Monmouth, yet she guiltily felt warmth and slipped into a much brighter mood as she anticipated the arrival of McFeeley in Taunton. At White Lackington they had rolled in the grass like a pair of wandering gypsies, whereas here in Taunton she had a comfortable room and a luxurious double bed for them.

  A slight sound that he couldn’t identify brought McFeeley fully awake. Until he realized that it was still dark outside of the tent, he was convinced for one blood-freezing moment that the execution party had come for him. The barely audible noise was coming from the rear of the small tent that was his prison. Blinking his eyes, he saw the tip of a knife slicing up through the canvas of the tent.

  Guessing at first, that Captain Allenby had decided to risk everything to free, him, McFeeley dropped the idea when a much younger, far more agile figure than that of Allenby, came quickly into the tent on all fours. Without even a whisper likely to alert the sentries outside the figure came silently to McFeeley’s side. One hand feeling for the ropes that bound McFeeley’s wrists, the newcomer used his knife to slice through that rope and also the one by which he was fastened to the stake.

  A long length of hair brushed against McFeeley’s face, tickling so much that he had to lift one of his arms to rub at the itch. Romantic ideas raced through his mind. Perhaps Rachel or Sarah had come to rescue him. Then the true and less exotic identification came to him. It had to be Jonathan Piper.

  Starting to follow Piper to the long slit the soldier had sliced up through the back of the tent, McFeeley found himself temporarily but severely disabled by cramp from having been too long in one position. An urgent Piper reached back with one hand to grasp McFeeley’s jerkin and pull, which had a psychological effect that got McFeeley moving painfully, but moving.

  A pale moon gave enough light for McFeeley to read the question on Piper’s lean face, and he gave a nod. He was ready to go. Building up his strength to force his body upright, McFeeley was about to move when he saw Jonathan Piper tense and bring his musket up. A shadow fell across McFeeley and he looked up to see one of the sentries, his feet astride and his musket aimed at them.

  The sentry represented a serious problem, but McFeeley was thankful that it was Piper beside him. They would both be thinking alike. While the sentry’s musket covered them, Piper’s musket was pointing at the sentry. Yet there was no option other than to shoot the sentry and make a run for it. Piper should have fired! Then he put himself in Piper’s position and the truth dawned on him. The sentry was a comrade, serving in the same army, was wearing the same uniform.

  The sentry was equally as reluctant to shoot. But his eyes went into their corners to keep a watch on them while he turned his head, opening his mouth, ready to shout to the other guard. Something had to be done, but what? McFeeley was aware of Piper, but only to lay down his musket. Still turned from them, the sentry’s shout of warning was rising up out of his throat.

  ‘You have been through a most traumatic time, Sarah, and it is I who should be begging your forgiveness for being so thoughtless.’

  John Churchill spoke out of the shadows at the far end of the tent that served as his military headquarters during the day and their home at night here at Shepton Mallet. Sarah knew that she had failed him as a wife yet again. A patient man, her husband had tried many times to coax out the other her. There had been a few times when her sexuality had been tantalizingly close, but it had always escaped before John and she were able to embrace it.

  For a short while Sarah listened to the sound of activity outside: the sharpening of swords, the filling of powder flasks and the cleaning and oiling of firing pieces. When they were still infants their families had decided that they would be man and wife. Sarah didn’t envy hard-working serving girls their lot but she was jealous of their relative freedom of choice in relationships. John was kind, considerate and protective, but did she love him? That was impossible to answer, for Sarah didn’t know what love was. Her confusion over this had been added to by the strange feelings evoked in her by McFeeley.

  Striving to sound casual, she inquired; ‘John, is the man who rescued me back in camp?’

  ‘I have yet to have word of him. Why do you ask, Sarah?’

  ‘I feel that I owe him so much. My life, in fact!’

  ‘That’s true,’ Churchill agreed, standing upright and stamping both feet to complete the fitting of his boots. ‘I am most mindful of that. I am waiting for the return of Captain Claude Critchell, to have him seek out the man. Lieutenant McFeeley is a very special soldier, Sarah.’

  Sarah was pondering on how different her life would have been had she belonged to the world that McFeeley inhabited, when a call came from outside of the tent.

  ‘Are you awake, sir? I
have an urgent message from Captain Allenby.’

  Going to the flap of the tent, Churchill took a letter from a young soldier, ordering him. ‘Remain there, soldier.’

  As Lord Churchill read the missive he had been handed, Sarah watched his face darken and a frown crease his brow. Churchill then turned to the tent opening. ‘Return to Captain Allenby and advise him that, though it fills me with regret, there is no action that I am able to take.’

  Her husband was so agitated that he needed to confide in someone. She was the only available listener. ‘Colonel Kirke has captured Lieutenant McFeeley and will execute him as a spy at dawn.’

  She asked, ‘Is he a spy, John?’

  Churchill shook his head, ‘No, not against the king.’

  ‘Then Kirke must be stopped,’ she said, more vehemently than she had intended.

  ‘I am afraid that it is not that simple, Sarah,’ Churchill said gravely. ‘I suspect that Claude Critchell could, in his devious way, find a way to have the man freed, but Claude is at Bristol.’

  ‘Then you must take immediate action, John,’ Sarah half-ordered her husband.

  ‘There is no opportunity open to me,’ he said, suspicious Sarah thought, of her intense concern. ‘I need Feversham’s permission, and McFeeley will be long gone before I can contact him.’

  That was Churchill’s final word. He went out of the tent then, leaving behind a tormented Sarah. Dressing swiftly, she knew that she had to do something, hoping that an idea would come to her. It did. Putting her head out of the tent opening first, checking that the immediate area was clear, she slipped noiselessly out into the night. She needed a horse to take her to Colonel Kirke’s camp. In the past, his advances had disgusted her. To repay the rugged lieutenant for rescuing her, she was now prepared to sacrifice herself to save him.

  Coming quietly up behind a sentry she made a low hissing sound to attract his attention. The soldier spun on his heel, bringing up his musket.