Monmouth whispered to him, “What would you have me do, Grey? We’ve already lost, can’t you see? If we stop now, there may be a chance that he will show some mercy.”
“We still have greater numbers – we can destroy them!” Grey responded.
“If you leave now, you are a coward!” Ferguson spat. “You have always been too gentle to be an effectual leader.”
“No one could ever claim that I was an ineffectual leader, Ferguson, you should know that. We should die gloriously upon the battlefield like Protestant martyrs.”
Chapter 27
After retreating to Bridgwater, Monmouth, closely followed by Grey, entered St. Mary’s Church, at the heart of the town. The church, with its tall and narrow steeple built in the 1300s, held one of the best views of the surrounding area.
Monmouth took off his plumed hat from his brown peruked head as he stepped inside the holy place, and made his way towards the centre. It was a massive structure, with an intricate timber ceiling above.
They made their way towards the southeast corner of the building, where the Norman tower was located, and Monmouth held onto his spyglass as they climbed the circular staircase, with its ninety narrow steps. It was cramped and dusty, and the steps only became narrower as they neared the top of the sixty foot structure. He unlatched the heavy oak door, which creaked as it opened, and he stepped onto the red sandstone top of the tower, where the base of the one hundred and fourteen foot high hollow spire stood.
He walked to the right and took in the view: the Polden Hills in the distance on the left, the swampy land of Langmoor, straight ahead, beside Westonzoyland, which was next to the Bussex Rhine. The villages of Middlezoy and Othery lay beside Westonzoyland, and to the left, Chedzoy, Bawdrip, Sutton Mallet, and Moorlinch. Without his spyglass he could see the little houses and shops of Bridgwater that surrounded the church.
He opened the spyglass and looked in the direction of the Royalist encampment, but he could see little other than the smoke from their campfires.
“I cannot see very clearly, but this is the best position we’ll be able to spy on them from,” he stated to Grey.
“What do you advise we do?”
He turned to his friend, “I think we have no choice but to attack during night-fall.”
***
Heavily pregnant now, Henrietta waddled slightly as she walked from the bed to the window. Since her lying-in began the time Monmouth had left, she had been left filled with anxiety about him, but with only about a month left before the baby was to be born, she had little to do but worry. Where was he? Had any harm come to him? Was the Rebellion as strong and powerful as he had hoped?
He had sent a few letters, which at first seemed quite positive, and did much to assuage her concern; but recently, however, they had become troubled.
Now there was no news at all. His last letter spoke of desertions, but that he still believed the people would rally to his cause.
Her Dutch servants knew little about it, only that it all was uncertain; for though Monmouth had more supporters, King James’s army was more powerful.
It would have to come to a head soon.
Chapter 28
The Tudor-style alehouse, with its thatched roof and visible timber beams, seemed to Monmouth a good enough place to rest his head that night. After dining upon a hearty meal of meat pie, potatoes and a frothy tankard of ale, Monmouth trudged upstairs to his bed. He placed his flintlock pistol and sword upon the small wooden table by the wall. As it was a hot night, and the room stuffy, he wrenched off his waistcoat, unfastened the lace cravat at his chin, slipped off his stockings and padded over to the window to let in some fresh air.
He slumped down his elbows against the timber frame and closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of summer in the countryside, the odour of horse manure, and listening to the chirping crickets in the thicket below and the lowing and bawling of cattle in the distance. A loud blast from a musket, followed closely by a musket-ball hitting the wooden frame beside him jolted him back into reality and he threw himself to the floor.
It had only narrowly missed him.
“Assassin!” shrieked one of the tavern wenches below, as the sound of a galloping horse’s hooves echoed into the darkness of night.
There could be more than one assassin, and from his position upon the floor, he could see his weapons on the table across the room. He scrambled over and made ready his gun.
Grey suddenly burst in, armed, and Monmouth almost shot him before he recognised him. Monmouth, his nerves in tatters now, wept, for he had never before been the target of an assassination attempt, though he knew full well that, ever since James declared him a traitor, there was a price on his head. Grey bent over and helped his friend off the planks of the wooden floor and walked him over to his bed. After ascertaining that he was not injured, he left him to try to get some much needed rest.
Monmouth blew his nose on his handkerchief, knowing he had to get some sleep, for it was vital if he wanted to stay alert the next day, when they might be plunged into battle.
His dreams that night were vivid and beautiful, counterbalancing the things that he had seen, and the horrors which would undoubtedly now come. He dreamt of Henrietta, naked save for the mass of tumbling ash blonde hair, and lying upon a field of English wildflowers, languidly enticing him towards her with her index finger.
How he wanted her, how he yearned for her.
“Harriet,” he whispered in his sleep.
Chapter 29: Sedgemoor
On the morning of the fifth of July 1685, Monmouth was awakened by the dawn chorus of West Country birds, which sang songs of joy and of sorrow, of the sweetness that summer brings. He swilled his face with water. He had slept poorly that night, with the shock of the assassination attempt, the weariness brought on from stress, he finally managed to fall asleep for three hours.
He cast his eyes upon the weary faces of the men who filled the encampment. Some had chickens roasting above fires; others were sharpening their swords, others filling their leather flasks with lead shot.
“As I have already discussed with Lord Grey, we will lead an attack under the mask of night, and surprise our enemies whilst they slumber,” declared Monmouth. “The Queen Dowager’s Regiment is here, and the Lord Admiral’s Regiment, here.” He pointed to different areas upon the map. “We shall leave at eleven this night, and there will be no moonlight to guide us, so we must be vigilant. Stealth is our only ally. Any man who utters a sound is to be silenced by the man beside him.”
Monmouth was worried. These men, proud, brave, and full of devotion to him and their cause, were woefully ignorant of battle. He had only had three weeks to prepare them, but the continuous stream of new recruits from neighbouring areas meant it was impossible to train them all to a good standard, and then the desertions began, and some training had been completely in vain.
The element of surprise was the best card he had to play, and it was the only option, for they were trapped at Bridgwater.
It was a network of ditches and arable farmland, with windmills and fields of corn. The tallest building in sight was the top of the Westonzoyland Church; it’s four Gothic pinnacles shooting up towards the sky.
“I know a fjord we could cross which will lead us directly into Lord Feversham’s encampment,” said one of the men, a local farmer.
“A crossing other than the Lower and Upper plungeons? Are you certain of this?” asked Major Holmes.
“Aye, Sir,” the man replied.
“Grey, you will lead the cavalry, do what you see fit.” Grey had five hundred cavalry under his lead. They were running low on horses and munitions, and Monmouth thought Grey the most capable of maintaining them.
“Wade, you take the vanguard of foot. You know what to do.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
And so, in the dark of night, they set off towards the Royalist encampment. The horses’ hooves had been wrapped with rags to muffle the sound of their approach. Monmou
th’s cavalry and his rebel fighters cautiously moved across the wet marshy moors, but something was amiss. Adding to the already black night, the fog obscured everything, and they were soon lost.
Unease began to spread amongst them as it this became clear, and twice they nearly ran into a patrol of Royalist cavalry scouts. No one was to utter a sound. Fate had other plans. The faintest glimmer of metal caught the eye of a Royalist soldier and suddenly…
Bang!
A shot rang out in the still night, reverberating like thunder throughout the area. Monmouth’s heart leapt as soon as he heard the shot, for immediately after it, the Royalists troops awoke.
The Royalist shouted at the top of his voice, “Beat your drums, the enemy has come. For the Lord’s sake beat your drums!”
The beating of the war drums commenced, and the Battle of Sedgemoor had begun…
Monmouth, upon his brown horse, unsheathed his sword and hacked and thrust into his Royalist foes. Grey, nearby on horseback, and sliced through a man’s neck, the streams of blood spurted out in torrents.
Though they had greater numbers, the remnants of Monmouth’s rag-tag rebel army, comprised of farmers and peasants, many armed with pitchforks, scythes, hatches, and their antiquated matchlock muskets were no match for Feversham’s and Churchill’s combined military genius and their smaller, but well-equipped, well-trained and disciplined soldiers.
“King Monmouth! A Monmouth!” roared the rebels as they fought with zeal.
Cannons roaring, the clash of swords, the crackle of musket shots and the screams as men dying upon the battlefield reached deafening levels. But it was all over soon. The stench of men who had gone incontinent with fear combined with the strong smell of gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood pervaded the air.
The dream was dying all around him, and for the first time in his life, he felt lost – his father would not be able to help him this time.
Monmouth, panic and fear rising in his chest, gestured to Grey and several of his men to withdraw, and they raced away from the scene of his defeat, leaving their brothers-in-arms to the mercy of the Royalists with heavy hearts.
But Nathaniel Wade’s heroic regiment fought whilst they retreated back towards Bridgwater. Wade refused to go down without a fight. For around three hours, the beautiful landscape of the King’s Sedgemoor was the site of Hell on Earth.
Already the scavenger birds circled above the field of slaughter; the air smelt of blood, and of death. Those who lay, hacked and mangled, upon the battlefield were quickly dispatched with a sword through the heart. Some went around picking the cadavers of their personal effects, anything of value.
The tower of the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary stood tall in the distance during the battle, rising nobly one hundred feet in the air, built of grey Lias stone and decorated with elaborate quatrefoils and topped with gloriously Gothic pinnacles that reached towards the Heavens. Five hundred Rebels, many of them wounded from the melee, were marched to this church and imprisoned within its sacred walls to await their fate. Their cries echoed off the stones of the Mediaeval building, and the heat and stench was so foul that it took a concerted effort on the part of the Church to rid itself of the putrid odour. And so ended the last great battle on English soil.
***
With several of his men, including Lord Grey, following close behind, they stopped for breath at the Polden Hills and looked back upon the fields of carnage. Plumes of smoke from the cannons rose from thence.
Grey, splattered with blood, and clamping down on a small wound upon his arm cried, “Monmouth! You must try to reach New Forest, and at Lymington will be a ship to take you across to Holland.”
“I shall. Farewell, Grey.”
“Fare thee well, my King.”
All the others who had accompanied him from the battlefield dispersed. Monmouth rode on for what seemed an eternity. His richly embroidered purple suit was now torn and soiled with blood, sweat, and mud. Both man and beast exhausted, he jumped off the animal, whose mouth was foaming, and jogged aimlessly in search of food and shelter.
As he roamed, he encountered a passing shepherd with his son, and begged him to switch clothes with him, which he did. The boy looked poor, and turned his eyes up at the Duke in a way that made him pity him. “Here,” he said, taking off the buckle that Henrietta had given him and pressing it into the boy’s outstretched palm. “Perhaps this will help your family.”
An old woman came into view a few yards from them, and saw him change his clothes with the shepherd. Her beady little eyes followed him as he came upon a crop of peas and quickly and quietly took the pods into his pocket, as he wandered off.
He had to be fast now, with the temptation of the five thousand pound reward for his capture looming over him. So he searched frantically for a place to hide, for some salvation in the midst of all this bitterness. He ran and ran, through thickets and brambles, which tore his clothes and clawed at his flesh.
At last he found refuge inside a ditch by a large ash tree, he shelled a few peas and emptied them hungrily into his mouth, the rest he left in his pocket; and he soon fell asleep.
He dreamt again of Henrietta, that they sat in woodland covered in a vibrant sea of blue-and-purple bluebells; her favourite pink roses swaying, canopy-like, above them in the gentle breeze of springtime.
Speckles of golden sunlight drifted through the fragrant petals to highlight the flowing curls of his beloved’s hair. A robin sang and a bee buzzed around, hopping from one blossoming bud to the next as it suckled upon the sweetest nectar and pollen.
It was such bliss, such a welcome respite from the fresh horrors he had seen and contributed to upon the field of battle.
In the midst of this beautiful make-believe world, Henrietta seemed to register some unknown intrusion, and her lovely face grew suddenly sad.
“They are here for you, my love. You must be brave now.”
Chapter 30
“Look ‘oo we’ve found ‘ere!”
He awoke from his dream and into the nightmarish present with a jolt, as beefy hands roughly wrenched him up by his dirty brown coat. With his heart pounding like a drum, he registered what was happening. He recognised the landscape – he was near Ringwood.
The old woman who he had briefly seen earlier had informed passing Royalist soldiers that he must be the rebellious duke, and they knew he could not be far.
They took all the possessions he carried upon his person. His black pocket book fell to the muddy ground with a splat, and as it was picked up, a single, dried bluebell floated out and was crushed under a boot.
A soldier called him a coward to his face, for running away from the battlefield as his men lay dying for him, and perhaps he was. He looked around at some of the others who had come, he recognised some of their faces and could see the conflict in their eyes. These were men he had fought side by side with upon previous battlefields, when they were comrades and friends chatting saucily around the campfires.
But they were no longer his allies, his friends; they had for these weeks of hell been his enemies. And he was sorry for it.
His hands were bound and he was hauled east towards London, to face the mercy of the King his uncle. Along the way, he saw with great sadness and terror, the corpses of many of his followers, hanging like rag dolls, and rotting from the limbs of the trees he passed. He silently prayed for those who had given their lives for him, and for the England they had hoped he would safeguard for him and for future generations.
But King James the Second had no mercy for traitors, even if they were family, and he had long held his suspicions that his brother Charles hadn’t even been Monmouth’s father. In his steely grey eyes, Lucy Walter had been a stupid little slut who slept around with any man she could get her hands on. Any of a handful of men could have been the father, but gullible Charles claimed paternity. Lucy had spread her legs for Algernon Sidney, and James was certain that it was Sidney, and not Charles, who had fathered Monmouth. James failed t
o recognise that the boy had his brother’s chin, his brow and his length of limb and height. In this as in some other things, he was blind to the truth.
Monmouth was taken by boat, through the Traitor’s Gate, and into the Tower of London, whose White Tower he looked up at with dread. He had been incarcerated within its walls before, when he came to London with his mother Lucy as a boy of six, and Cromwell’s men had arrested them, but this felt so much different. His mother could not protect him now…
As he waited, the hours seemed like days, and he rested his sweaty brow against the cold stone of his prison. He was soon visited by his uncle – an unexpected action that gave him hope for the very first time since his arrest, that he would be exiled and not doomed to live the rest of his life in the Tower, or worse, executed.
As the King entered the chamber, his face held the expression of disdain that so often could be seen therein. But amidst that sneering disdain was also smugness – he was very pleased that the Pitchfork Rebellion had been crushed, and pleased that its pathetic leader now stood before him weeping like a girl.
“Your Majesty!” the Duke exclaimed, falling to his knees, his hands bound tightly behind his back.
“Why did you betray us?” asked the King, his voice cold.
“I meant no disrespect to you, Sire. I was forced into it! Ferguson is the bloody villain who coerced me into taking up arms against you. It is he, not I, that should feel your displease. I am your kin, your nephew, please, save me, and all the days of my life shall be devoted to your service.”
“You have always been such a fool, James, since you were a boy. You were always mixing with the wrong sort of fellows, and you have never become a real man. You’re weak and pathetic, and your present predicament is the natural outcome of your blind ambition and your senseless folly.”
His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth Page 10
