And in that same crucible, too, Anthony Wilding’s nature had undergone a transmutation; his love for Ruth had been purified of that base alloy of desire which had driven him into the unworthiness of making her his own at all costs; there was no carnal grossness in his present passion; it was pure as a religion – the love that takes no account of self, the love that makes for joyous and grateful martyrdom. And a joyous and grateful martyr would Anthony Wilding have been could he have thought that his death would bring her happiness or peace. In such a faith as that he had marched – or so he thought – blithely to his end, and the smile on his lips had been less wistful than it was. Thinking of the agony in which he had left her, he almost came to wish – so pure was his love grown – that he had not conquered. The joy that at first was his was now all dashed. His death would cause her pain. His death! Oh, God! It is an easy thing to be a martyr; but this was not martyrdom; having done what he had done he had not the right to die. The last vestige of the smile that he had worn faded from his tight-pressed lips – tight-pressed as though to endure some physical suffering. His face greyed, and deep lines furrowed his brow. Thus he marched on, mechanically, amid his marching escort, through the murky, fog-laden night, taking no heed of the stir about them, for all Weston Zoyland was aroused by now.
Ahead of them, and over to the east, the firing blazed and crackled, volley upon volley, to tell them that already battle had been joined in earnest. Monmouth’s surprise had aborted, and it passed through Wilding’s mind that to a great extent he was to blame for this. But it gave him little care.
At least his indiscretion had served the purpose of rescuing Ruth from Lord Feversham’s unclean clutches. For the rest, knowing that Monmouth’s army by far outnumbered Feversham’s, he had no doubt that the advantage must still lie with the Duke, in spite of Feversham’s having been warned in the eleventh hour.
Louder grew the sounds of battle. Above the din of firing a swelling chorus rose upon the night, startling and weird in such a time and place. Monmouth’s pious infantry went into action singing hymns, and Wentworth, impatient to be at his post, bade his men go faster.
The night was by now growing faintly luminous, and the deathly grey light of approaching dawn hung in the mists upon the moor. Objects grew visible in bulk at least, if not in form and shape, by the time the little company had reached the end of Weston village and come upon the deep mud dyke which had been Wentworth’s objective – a ditch that communicated with the great rhine that served the King’s forces so well on that night in Sedgemoor.
Within some twenty paces of this Wentworth called a halt, and would have had Wilding’s hands pinioned behind him, and his eyes blindfolded, but that Wilding begged him this might not be done. Wentworth was, as we know, impatient; and between impatience and kindliness, perhaps, he acceded to Wilding’s prayer.
He even hesitated a moment at the last. It was in his mind to speak some word of comfort to the doomed man. Then a sudden volley, more terrific than any that had preceded it, followed by hoarse cheering away to eastward, quickened his impatience. He bade the sergeant lead Mr Wilding forward and stand him on the edge of the ditch. His object was that thus the man’s body would be disposed of without waste of time. This Wilding realised, his soul rebelling against this fate which had come upon him in the very hour when he most desired to live. Mad thoughts of escape crossed his mind – of a leap across the dyke, and a wild dash through the fog. But the futility of it was too appalling. The musketeers were already blowing their matches. He would suffer the ignominy of being shot in the back, like a coward, if he made any such attempt.
And so, despairing but not resigned, he took his stand on the very edge of the ditch. In an irony of obligingness he set half of his heels over the void, so that he was nicely balanced upon the edge of the cutting, and must go backwards and down into the mud when hit.
It was this position he had taken that gave him an inspiration in that last moment. The sergeant had moved away out of the line of fire, and he stood there alone, waiting erect and with his head held high, his eyes upon the grey mass of musketeers – blurred alike by mist and semi-darkness – some twenty paces distant along the line of which glowed eight red fuses.
Wentworth’s voice rang out with the words of command.
“Blow your matches!”
Brighter gleamed the points of light, and under their steel pots the faces of the musketeers, suffused by a dull red glow, sprang for a moment out of the grey mass, to fade once more into the general greyness at the word, “Cock your matches!”
“Guard your pans!” came a second later the captain’s voice, and then: “Present!”
There was a stir and rattle, and the dark, indistinct figure standing on the lip of the ditch was covered by the eight muskets. To the eyes of the firing party he was no more than a blurred shadowy form, showing a little darker than the encompassing dark grey.
“Give fire!”
On the word Mr Wilding lost the delicate, precarious balance he had been sustaining on the edge of the ditch and went over backwards, at the imminent risk – as he afterwards related – of breaking his neck. At the same instant a jagged, eight-pointed line of flame slashed the darkness, and the thunder of the volley pealed forth to lose itself in the greater din of battle on Penzoy Pound, hard by.
Chapter 23
MR WILDING’S BOOTS
In the filth of the ditch, Mr Wilding rolled over and lay prone. He threw out his left arm, and rested his brow upon it to keep his face above the mud. He strove to hold his breath, not that he might dissemble death, but that he might avoid being poisoned by the foul gases that, disturbed by his weight, bubbled up to choke him. His body half sank and settled in the mud, and seen from above, as he was presently seen by Wentworth – who ran forward with the sergeant’s lanthorn to assure himself that the work had been well done – he had all the air of being not only dead but already half buried.
And now, for a second, Mr Wilding was in his greatest danger, and this from the very humaneness of the sergeant. The fellow advanced to the captain’s side, a pistol in his hand. Wentworth held the light aloft and peered down into that six feet of blackness at the jacent figure.
“Shall I give him an ounce of lead to make sure, Captain?” quoth the sergeant. But Wentworth, in his great haste, had already turned about, and the light of his lanthorn no longer revealed the form of Mr Wilding.
“There is not the need. The ditch will do what may remain to be done, if anything does. Come on, man. We are wanted yonder.”
The light passed, steps retreated, the sergeant muttering, and then Wentworth’s voice was heard by Wilding some little distance off.
“Bring up your muskets!”
“Shoulder!”
“By the right – turn! March!” And the tramp, tramp of feet receded rapidly.
Wilding was already sitting up, endeavouring to get a breath of purer air. He rose to his feet, sinking almost to the top of his boots in the oozy slime. Foul gases were belched up to envelop him. He seized at irregularities in the bank, and got his head above the level of the ground. He thrust forward his chin and took great greedy breaths in a very gluttony of air – and never came Muscadine sweeter to a drunkard’s lips. He laughed softly to himself. He was alone and safe. Wentworth and his men had disappeared. Away in the direction of Penzoy Pound the sounds of battle swelled ever to a greater volume. Cannons were booming now, and all was uproar – flame and shouting, cheering and shrieking, the thunder of hastening multitudes, the clash of steel, the pounding of horses, all blent to make up the horrid din of carnage.
Mr Wilding listened, and considered what to do. His first impulse was to join the fray. But, bethinking him that there could be little place for him in the confusion that must prevail by now, he reconsidered the matter, and his thoughts returning to Ruth – the wife for whom he had been at such pains to preserve himself on the very brink of death – he resolved to endanger himself no further for that night.
He
dropped back into the ditch, and waded, ankle deep in slime, to the other side. There he crawled out, and gaining the moor lay down awhile to breathe his lungs. But not for long. The dawn was creeping pale and ghostly across the solid earth, and a faint fresh breeze was stirring and driving the mist in wispy shrouds before it. If he lingered there he might yet be found by some party of Royalist soldiers, and that would be to undo all that he had done. He rose, and struck out across the peaty ground. None knew the moors better than did he, and had he been with Grey’s horse that night, it is possible things had fared differently, for he had proved a surer guide than did Godfrey the spy.
At first he thought of making for Bridgwater and Lupton House. By now Richard would be on his way thither with Ruth, and Wilding was in haste that she should be reassured that he had not fallen to the muskets of Wentworth’s firing-party. But Bridgwater was far, and he began to realise, now that all excitement was past, that he was utterly exhausted. Next he thought of Scoresby Hall and his cousin Lord Gervase. But he was by no means sure that he might count upon a welcome. Gervase had shown no sympathy for Monmouth or his partisans, and whilst he would hardly go so far as to refuse Mr Wilding shelter, still Wilding felt an aversion to seeking what might be grudged him. At last he bethought him of home. Zoyland Chase was near at hand; but he had not been there since his wedding-day, and in the meantime he knew that it had been used as a barrack for the militia, and had no doubt that it had been wrecked and plundered. Still, it must have walls and a roof, and that, for the time, was all he craved, that he might rest awhile and recuperate his wasted forces.
A half-hour later he dragged himself wearily up the avenue between the elms – looking white as snow in the pale July dawn – to the clearing in front of his house.
Desertion was stamped upon the face of it. Shattered windows and hanging shutters everywhere. How wantonly they had wrecked it! It might have been a church, and the militia a regiment of Cromwell’s iconoclastic Puritans. The door was locked, but going round he found a window – one of the door-windows of his library – hanging loose upon its hinges. He pushed it wide, and entered with a heavy heart. Instantly something stirred in a corner; a fierce growl was followed by a furious bark, and a lithe brown body leapt from the greater into the lesser shadows to attack the intruder. But at one word of his the hound checked suddenly, crouched an instant, then with a queer, throaty sound bounded forward in a wild delight that robbed it on the instant of its voice. It found it anon and leapt about him, barking furious joy in spite of all his vain endeavours to calm it. He grew afraid lest the dog should draw attention. He knew not who – if any – might be in possession of his house. The library, as he looked round, showed a scene of wreckage that excellently matched the exterior. Not a picture on the walls, not an arras, but had been rent to shreds. The great lustre that had hung from the centre of the ceiling was gone. Disorder reigned along the bookshelves, and yet there and elsewhere there was a certain orderliness, suggesting an attempt to straighten up the place after the ravagers had departed. It was these signs made him afraid the house might be tenanted by such as might prove his enemies.
“Down, Jack,” he said to the dog for the twentieth time, patting its sleek head. “Down, down!”
But still the dog bounded about him, barking wildly. “Sh!” he hissed suddenly. Steps sounded in the hall. It was as he feared. The door was suddenly thrown open, and the grey morning light gleamed upon the long barrel of a musket. After it, bearing it, entered a white-haired old man.
He paused on the threshold, measuring the tall disordered stranger who stood there, his figure a black silhouette against the window by which he had entered.
“What seek you here, sir, in this house of desolation?” asked the voice of Mr Wilding’s old servant.
He answered by one word. “Walters!”
The musket dropped with a clatter from the old man’s hand. He sank back against the doorpost and leaned there an instant; then, whimpering and laughing, he came tottering forward – his old legs failing him in this excess of unexpected joy – and sank on his knees to kiss his master’s hand.
Wilding patted the old head, as he had patted the dog’s a little while ago. He was oddly moved; there was a knot in his throat. No home-coming could well have been more desolate. And yet, what home-coming could have brought him such a torturing joy as was now his? Oh, it is good to be loved, if it be by no more than a dog and an old servant!
In a moment Walters was himself again. He was on his feet, scrutinising Wilding’s haggard face and disordered filthy clothes. He broke into exclamations between dismay and reproach, but these Wilding interrupted to ask the old man how it happened that he had remained.
“My son John was a sergeant in the troop that quartered itself here, sir,” Walters explained, “and so they left me alone. But even had it not been for that, I scarcely think they would have harmed an old man. They were brave fellows for all the mischief they did here, and they seemed to have little heart in the service of the Popish king. It was the officers drove them on to all this damage, and once they’d started – well, there were rogues amongst them saw a chance of plunder, and they took it. I have sought to put the place to rights; but they did some woeful, wanton mischief.”
Wilding sighed. “It’s little matter, perhaps, as the place is no longer mine.”
“No…no longer yours, sir?”
“I’m an attainted outlaw, Walters,” he explained. “They’ll bestow it on some Popish time-server, unless King Monmouth can follow up by greater victories tonight. Have you aught a man may eat or drink?”
Meat and wine, fresh linen and fresh garments did old Walters find him; and when he had washed, eaten, and drunk, Mr Wilding wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and laid himself down to sleep on a settle in the library, his servant and his dog on guard.
Not above an hour, however, was he destined to enjoy his hard-earned rest. The light had grown, meanwhile, and from grey it had turned golden, the heralds of the sun being already in the east. In the distance the firing had died down to a mere occasional boom.
Suddenly old Walters raised his head to listen. The beat of hoofs was drawing rapidly near, so near that presently he rose in alarm, for a horseman was pounding up the avenue, had drawn rein at the main entrance.
Walters knit his brows in perplexity, and glanced at his master, who slept on utterly worn out. A silent pause followed, lasting some minutes. Then it was the dog that rose with a growl, his coat bristling, and an instant later there came a sharp rapping at the hall door.
“Sh! Down, Jack!” whispered Walters, afraid of rousing Mr Wilding. He tiptoed softly across the room, picked up his musket, and, calling the dog, went out, a great fear in his heart, but not for himself. The rapping continued, growing every instant more urgent, so urgent that Walters was almost reassured. Here was no enemy, but surely someone in need. Walters opened at last, and Mr Trenchard, grimy of face and hands, his hat shorn of its plumes, his clothes torn, staggered with an oath across the threshold.
“Walters!” he cried. “Thank God! I thought you’d be here, but I wasn’t certain. Down, Jack!”
The hound was barking madly again, having recognized an old friend.
“Plague on the dog!” growled Walters. “He’ll wake Mr Wilding.”
“Mr Wilding?” said Trenchard, and checked midway across the hall. “Mr Wilding?”
“He arrived here a couple of hours ago, sir…”
“Wilding here? Oddsheart! I was more than well advised to come. Where is he, man?”
“Sh, sir! He’s asleep in the library. You’ll wake him, you’ll wake him!”
But Trenchard never paused. He crossed the hall at a bound, and flung wide the library door. “Anthony!” he shouted. “Anthony!” And in the background Walters cursed him for a fool.
Wilding leapt to his feet, awake and startled. “Wha… Nick!”
“Oons!” roared Nick. “You’re choicely found. I came to send to Bridgwater for you. We must away
at once, man.”
“How – away? I thought you were in the fight, Nick.”
“And don’t I look as if I had been?”
“But then…”
“The fight is fought and lost; there’s an end to the garboil. Monmouth is in full flight with what’s left him of his horse. When I quitted the field, he was riding hard for Polden Hill.” He dropped into a chair, his accents grim and despairing, his eyes haggard.
“Lost?” gasped Wilding, and his conscience pricked him for a moment, remembering how much it had been his fault – however indirectly – that Feversham had been forewarned. “But how lost?” he cried a moment later.
“Ask Grey,” snapped Trenchard. “Ask his craven, numskulled lordship. He had as good a hand in losing it as any. Oh, it was all most infernally mishandled, as has been everything in this ill-starred rising. Grey sent back Godfrey, the guide, and attempted in the dark to find his own way across the rhine. He missed the ford. What else could the fool have hoped? And when he was discovered and Dunbarton’s guns began to play on us – hell and fire! we ran as if Sedgemoor had been a racecourse.
“The rest was but the natural sequel. The foot, seeing our confusion, broke. They were rallied again; broke again; and again were rallied; but all too late. The enemy was up, and with that damned ditch between us there was no getting to close quarters with them. Had Grey ridden round, and sought to turn their flank, things might have been – oh, God! – they would have been entirely different. I did suggest it. But for my pains Grey threatened to pistol me if I presumed to instruct him in his duty. I would to Heaven I had pistolled him where he stood.”
Walters, at gaze in the doorway, listened to the bitter tirade. Wilding, on the settle, sat silent a moment, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, his eyes set and grim as Trenchard’s own. Then he mastered himself, and waved a hand towards the table where stood food and wine.
Anthony Wilding Page 26
