“What a plague are you doing with that horse?” he cried.
Fletcher paused, one foot in the stirrup, and looked the fellow up and down. “I am mounting it,” said he, and proceeded to do as he said. But Dare caught him by the tails of his coat and brought him back to earth.
“You are making a mistake, Mr Fletcher,” he cried angrily. “That horse is mine.”
Fletcher, whose temper was by no means of the most peaceful, kept himself with difficulty in hand at the indignity Dare offered him. “Yours?” quoth he.
“Ay, mine, I brought it from Ford Abbey myself.”
“For the Duke’s service,” Fletcher reminded him.
“For my own, sir; for my own I would have you know,” and brushing the Scot aside, he caught the bridle, and sought to wrench it from Fletcher’s hand. But Fletcher maintained his hold.
“Softly, Mr Dare,” said he, “Ye’re a trifle o’er-true to your name, as you once told his late Majesty yourself.”
“Take your hands from my horse,” Dare shouted, very angry.
Several loiterers in the yard gathered round to watch the scene, culling diversion from it and speculating upon the conclusion it might have. One rash young fellow offered audibly to lay ten to one that Paymaster Dare would have the best of the argument.
Dare overheard, and was spurred on.
“I will, by God!” he answered. “Come, Mr Fletcher!” And he shook the bridle again.
There was a dull flush showing through the tan of Fletcher’s skin. “Mr Dare,” said he, “this horse is no more yours than mine. It is the Duke’s, and I, as one o’ the leaders, claim it in the Duke’s service.”
“Ay, sir,” cried an onlooker, encouraging Fletcher, and did the mischief. It so goaded Dare to have his antagonist in this trifling matter supported that he utterly lost his head.
“I have said the horse is mine, and I repeat it. Let go the bridle – let it go!” Still, Fletcher, striving hard to keep his calm, clung to the reins. “Let it go, you damned, thieving Scot!” screamed Dare in a fury, and struck Fletcher with his whip.
It was unfortunate for them both that he should have had that switch in his hand at such a time, but more unfortunate still was it that Fletcher should have had a pistol in his belt. The Scot dropped the bridle at last; dropped it to pluck forth the weapon.
“Hi! I did not…” began Dare, who had stood appalled by what he had done in the second or two that had passed since he had delivered the blow. The rest of his sentence was drowned in the report of Fletcher’s pistol, and Dare dropped dead on the rough cobbles of the yard.
Ferguson has left it on record – and, presumably, he had Fletcher’s word for it – that it was no part of the Scot’s intent to do Mr Dare a mischief. He had but drawn the pistol to intimidate him into better manners, but in his haste he accidentally pulled the trigger.
However that may be, there was Dare as dead as the stones on which he lay, and Fletcher with a smoking pistol in his hand.
After that all was confusion. Fletcher was seized by those who had witnessed the deed; there was none thought it an accident; indeed, they were all ready enough to say that Fletcher had received excessive provocation. He was haled to the presence of the Duke, with whom were Grey and Wilding at the time; and old Dare’s son – an ensign in Goodenough’s company – came clamouring for vengeance backed by such goodly numbers that the distraught Duke was forced to show at least the outward seeming of it.
Wilding, who knew the value of this Scottish soldier of fortune who had seen so much service, strenuously urged his enlargement. It was not a time to let the fortunes of a cause suffer through such an act as this, deplorable though it might be. The evidence showed that Fletcher had been provoked; he had been struck, a thing that might well justify the anger in the heat of which he had done this thing. Grey was stolid and silent, saying nothing either for or against the man who had divided with him under the Duke the honours of the supreme command.
Monmouth, white and horror-stricken, sat and listened first to Wilding, then to Dare, and lastly to Fletcher himself. But it was young Dare – Dare and his followers, who prevailed. They were too numerous and turbulent, and they must at all costs be conciliated, or there was no telling to what extremes they might not go. And so there was an end to the share of Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun in this undertaking – the end of the only man who was of any capacity to pilot it through the troubled waters that lay before it. Monmouth placed him under arrest and sent him aboard the frigate again, ordering her captain to sail at once. That was the utmost Monmouth could do to save him.
Wilding continued to plead with the Duke after Fletcher’s removal, and to such good purpose that at last Monmouth determined that Fletcher should rejoin them later, when the affair should have blown over, and he sent word accordingly to the Scot. Even in this there were manifestations of antagonism between Mr Wilding and Lord Grey, and it almost seemed enough that Wilding should suggest a course for Lord Grey instantly to oppose it.
The effects of Fletcher’s removal were not long in following. On the morrow came the Bridport affair, and Grey’s shameful conduct when, had he stood his ground, victory must have been assured the Duke’s forces instead of just that honourable retreat by which Colonel Wade so gallantly saved the situation. Mr Wilding did not mince his words in putting it that Grey had run away.
In his room at the George Inn, Monmouth, deeply distressed, asked Wilding and Colonel Matthews what action he should take in the matter – how deal with Grey.
“There is no other general in Europe would ask that, your Grace,” answered Matthews gravely, and Mr Wilding added without an instant’s hesitation that His Grace’s course was plain.
“It would be an unwise thing to expose the troops to the chance of more such happenings.”
Monmouth dismissed them and sent for Grey, and he seemed resolved to deal with him as he deserved. Yet an hour later, when Wilding, Matthews, Wade, and the others were ordered to attend the Duke in council, there was his lordship seemingly on as good terms as ever with His Grace.
They were assembled to discuss the next step which it might be advisable to take, for the militia was closing in around them, and to remain longer in Lyme would be to be caught there as in a trap. It was Grey who advanced the first suggestion, his assurance no whit abated by the shameful thing that had befallen, by the cowardice which he had betrayed.
“That we must quit Lyme we are all agreed,” said he. “I would propose that your Grace marches north to Gloucester, where our Cheshire friends will assemble to meet us.”
Colonel Matthews reminded the Duke of Andrew Fletcher’s proposal that they should make a raid upon Exeter with a view to seizing arms, of which they stood so sorely in need. This Mr Wilding was quick to support.
“Not only that, your Grace,” he said, “but I am confident that with very little inducement the greater portion of the militia will desert to us as soon as we appear.”
“What assurance can you give of that?” asked Grey, his heavy lip protruded.
“I take it,” said Mr Wilding, “that in such matters no man can give an assurance of anything. I speak with knowledge of the country and the folk from which the militia is enlisted. I offer it as my opinion that the militia is favourably disposed to your Grace. I can do no more.”
“If Mr Wilding says so, your Grace,” put in Matthews, “I have no doubt he has sound reasons upon which to base his opinion.”
“No doubt,” said Monmouth. “Indeed, I had already thought of the step that you suggest, Colonel Matthews, and what Mr Wilding says causes me to look upon it still more favourably.”
Grey frowned. “Consider, your Grace,” he said earnestly, “that you are in no case to fight at present.”
“What fighting do you suggest there would be?” asked the Duke.
“There is Albemarle between us and Exeter.”
“But with the militia,” Wilding reminded him; “and if the militia deserts him for your Grace, in what c
ase will Albemarle find himself?”
“And if the militia does not desert? If you should be proven wrong, sir? What then? What then?” asked Grey.
“Aye – true – what then, Mr Wilding?” quoth the Duke, already wavering. Wilding considered a moment, all eyes upon him. “Even then,” said he presently, “I do maintain that in this dash for Exeter lies your Grace’s greatest chance of success. We can deliver battle if need be. Already we are three thousand strong…”
Grey interrupted him rudely. “Nay,” he insisted. “You must not presume upon that. We are not yet fit to fight. It is His Grace’s business at present to drill and discipline his troops and induce more friends to join him.”
“Already we are turning men away because we have no weapons to put into their hands,” Wilding reminded them, and a murmur of approval ran round, which but served to anger Grey the more, to render more obstinate his opposition.
“But all that come in are not unprovided,” was his lordship’s retort. “There are the Hampshire gentry and their friends. They will come armed, and so will others if we have patience.”
“Aye,” said Wilding, “and if you have patience enough there will be troops the Parliament will send against us. They, too, will be armed, I can assure your lordship.”
“In God’s name let us keep from wrangling,” the Duke besought them. “It is difficult enough to determine for the best. If the dash to Exeter were successful…”
“It cannot be,” Grey interrupted again. The liberties he took with Monmouth and which Monmouth permitted him might well be a source of wonder to all who heard them. Monmouth paused now in his interrupted speech and looked about him a trifle wearily.
“It seems idle to insist,” said Mr Wilding; “such is the temper of your Grace’s counsellors, that we get no further than contradictions.” Grey’s bold eyes were upon Wilding as he spoke. “I would remind your Grace, and I am sure that many present will agree with me, that in a desperate enterprise a sudden unexpected movement will often strike terror.”
“That is true,” said Monmouth, but apparently without enthusiasm, and having approved what was urged on one side, he looked at Grey, as if waiting to hear what might be said on the other. His decision was pitiful – tragical, indeed, in the leader of so bold an enterprise.
“We should do better, I think,” said Grey, “to deal with the facts as we know them.”
“It is what I am endeavouring to do, your Grace,” protested Wilding, a note of despair in his voice. “Perhaps some other gentleman will put forward better counsel than mine.”
“Aye! In Heaven’s name let us hope so,” snorted Grey; and Monmouth, catching the sudden flash of Mr Wilding’s eye, set a hand upon his lordship’s arm as if to urge him to be gentler. But he continued, “When men talk of striking terror by sudden movements they build on air.”
“I had hardly thought to hear that from your lordship,” said Mr Wilding, and he permitted himself that tight-lipped smile that gave his face so wicked a look.
“And why not?” asked Grey, stupidly unsuspicious.
“Because I had thought you might have concluded otherwise from your own experience at Bridport this morning.”
Grey got angrily to his feet, rage and shame flushing his face, and it needed Ferguson and the Duke to restore him to some semblance of calm. Indeed, it may well be that it was to complete this that His Grace decided there and then that they should follow Grey’s advice and go by way of Taunton, Bridgwater, and Bristol to Gloucester. He was like all weak men, of conspicuous mental short-sightedness. The matter of the moment was ever of greater importance to him than any result that might attend it in the future.
He insisted that Wilding and Grey should shake hands before the breaking up of that most astounding council, and as he had done last night, he now again imposed upon them his commands that they must not allow this matter to go further.
Mr Wilding paved the way for peace by making an apology within limitations.
“If, in my zeal to serve your Grace to the best of my ability, I have said that which Lord Grey thinks fit to resent, I would bid him consider my motive rather than my actual words.”
But when all had gone save Ferguson, the chaplain approached the preoccupied and distressed Duke with counsel that Mr Wilding should be sent away from the army.
“Else there’ll be trouble ’twixt him and Grey,” the plotting parson foretold. “We’ll be having a repetition of the unfortunate Fletcher and Dare affair, and I think that has cost your Grace enough already.”
“Do you suggest that I dismiss Wilding?” cried the Duke. “You know his influence, and the bad impression his removal would leave.”
Ferguson stroked his long lean jaw. “No, no,” said he; “all I suggest is that you find Mr Wilding work to do elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” the Duke questioned. “Where else?”
“I have thought of that too. Send him to London to see Danvers and to stir up your friends there. And,” he added, lowering his voice, “give him discretion to see Sunderland if he thinks well.”
The proposition pleased Monmouth, and it seemed to please Mr Wilding no less when, having sent for him, the Duke communicated it to him in Ferguson’s presence.
Upon this mission Mr Wilding set out that very night, leaving Nick Trenchard in despair at being separated from him at a time when there seemed to be every chance that such a separation might be eternal.
Monmouth and Ferguson may have conceived they did a wise thing in removing a man who was instinctively spoiling for a little swordplay with my Lord Grey. It is odds that had he remained, the brewing storm between the pair would have come to a head. Had it done so, it is more than likely, from what we know of Mr Wilding’s accomplishments, that he had given Lord Grey his quietus. And had that happened, it is to be inferred from history that it is possible the Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion might have had a less disastrous issue.
Chapter 16
PLOTS AND PLOTTERS
Mr Wilding left Monmouth’s army at Lyme on Sunday, the 14th of June, and rejoined it at Bridgwater exactly three weeks later.
In the meanwhile a good deal had happened, yet the happenings on every hand had fallen far short of the expectations aroused in Mr Wilding’s mind, now by one circumstance, now by another. In reaching London he had experienced no difficulty. Men travelling in that direction were not subjected to the scrutiny that fell to the share of those travelling from it towards the West, or rather, to the scrutiny ordained by the Government; for Wilding had more than one opportunity of observing how very lax and indifferent were the constables and tything-men – particularly in Somerset and Wiltshire – in the performance of this duty. Wayfarers were questioned as a matter of form, but in no case did Wilding hear of anyone being detained upon suspicion. This was calculated to raise his drooping hopes, pointing as it did to the general favouring of Monmouth that was toward. He grew less despondent on the score of the Duke’s possible ultimate success, and he came to hope that the efforts he went to exert would not be fruitless.
But rude were the disappointments that awaited him in town. London, like the rest of the country, was not ready. There were not wanting men who favoured Monmouth; but no rising had been organized, and the Duke’s partisans were not disposed to rashness.
Wilding lodged at Covent Garden, in a house recommended to him by Colonel Danvers, and there – an outlaw himself – he threw himself with a will into his task. He heard of the burning of Monmouth’s Declaration by the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and of the bill passed by the Commons to make it treason for any to assert that Lucy Walters was married to the late King. He attended meetings at the “Bull’s Head,” in Bishopsgate, where he met Disney and Danvers, Payton and Lock; but though they talked and argued at prodigious length, they did naught besides. Danvers, who was their hope in town, definitely refused to have a hand in anything that was not properly organized, and in common with the others urged that they should wait until Cheshire had risen
, as was reported that it must.
Meanwhile, troops had gone West under Kirke and Churchill, and the Parliament had voted nearly half a million for the putting down of the rebellion. London was flung into a fever of excitement by the news that was reaching it. The position was not quite as – before coming over from Holland – Monmouth’s advisers had represented that it would be. They had thought that, out of fear of tumults about his own person, King James would have been compelled to keep near him what troops he had, sparing none to be sent against Monmouth. This, King James had not done; he had all but emptied London of soldiery, and, considering the general disaffection, no moment could have been more favourable than this for a rising in London itself. The confusion that must have resulted from the recalling of troops would have given Monmouth not only a mighty grip of the West, but would have heartened those who – like Sunderland himself – were sitting on the wall, to declare themselves for the Protestant Champion. This Wilding saw, and almost frenziedly did he urge it upon Danvers that all that London needed at the moment was a resolute leader. But the Colonel still held back; indeed, he had neither truth nor valour; he was timid, and used deceit to mask his timidity; he urged frivolous reasons for inaction, and when Wilding waxed impatient with him, he suggested that Wilding himself should head the rising if he were so confident of its success. And Wilding would have done it but that, being unknown in London, he had no reason to suppose that men would flock to him if he raised the Duke’s banner.
Later, when the excitement grew and rumours ran through town that Monmouth had now a following of twenty thousand men and that the King’s forces were falling back before him, and discontent was rife at the commissioning of Catholic lords to levy troops, Wilding again pressed the matter upon Danvers. Surely no moment could be more propitious. But again he received the same answer, that Danvers had lacked time to organise matters sufficiently; that the Duke’s coming had taken him by surprise.
Anthony Wilding Page 17
