The Monmouth Summer

by Vicary, Tim

  "So, you are the last two, are you? Jolly good. Don't get up, don't get up! You look a picture there, the two of you together in that window-seat. A proper picture, don't they, Marianne my love?"

  Marianne nodded her agreement, but Robert got to his feet nonetheless. Ann noticed how strong and lanky he seemed in front of his shorter relatives.

  "No, I must go, Richard, really. We were just saying our goodbyes. With any luck we'll be up with the rebels tomorrow, and settle this thing for good. I don't want to fall asleep in the middle of it."

  "Indeed you don't. But do you think it'll really be so soon? That'd be within a day's ride of the city."

  "It could be, you know. They can't be far away now, and 'twould be folly to retreat much further."

  "Then we could ride out and see it!" cried Marianne impulsively. "I was going for a ride tomorrow - perhaps I'll follow you to watch. And I'm sure Ann would like to see her warrior in action!"

  "Well, I don't know about that," said Robert, frowning. "Battles are dangerous, you know, Marianne. People do get hurt."

  "And only big boys like you can play such games, I suppose. I do know that. But if one sits on a distant hill, one can get a fine view, I'm sure, without any danger. Just like watching the hunt instead of following it. Don't you think so, Richard my love?" She seized her husband's arm eagerly, a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

  "Perhaps, my dear. A very distant hill." He beamed at her protectively. "But we'll see in the morning. Don't forget you have a refugee to look after."

  "Ann? But she can come too. That's excellent - old Blaze needs an outing - he's getting ever so fat!"

  "Well, don't forget I leave Ann in your care, Marianne. She's very precious to me. I would like to see her safe when I return. And you may find she has seen enough of soldiers for now."

  Robert bowed to them all, and went out. So that was it, Ann thought. She was here in safe keeping - a sparrow in a gilded cage. But she was too tired to worry about it now. She got to her feet in turn, swaying slightly as she did so. Marianne rushed to her side.

  "My poor girl, you look exhausted! He has kept you up far too late! You must go to bed immediately. Here, take this candle. I will send for Mrs Taylor to help you undress."

  She showed Ann carefully up the stairs to her room, chattering all the way. Mrs Taylor came, and released Ann from the prison of the corset. Then she helped her off with the long, rich dress, folded it carefully on a trunk, and left.

  At last she was alone. She put on the long silken nightdress and climbed into bed. For a while she watched the shadows dance among the curtain hangings above her, and listened to the sound of doors opening and closing downstairs. She blew out the candle, and lay back, leaving the curtains of the bed open, and let the darkness of the room wash gently into her mind.

  29

  "WHAT'S THAT? There!"

  "Whatever now? Where, Tom?"

  "There - on the hillside. 'Tis someone moving!" Tom Goodchild pointed nervously up the road, to a field on the left of the lane they were guarding. Adam looked carefully, but could see nothing; only the dark outline of the trees silhouetted against the sky to the north.

  "No. You must've been eating carrots, boy, if you can see something there." Adam tried to make his voice sound jocular, to calm Tom down. It was the third time that night the boy had claimed to see something.

  But Tom was not convinced. "Wait till the moon comes back. You'll see him then!"

  Adam sighed and waited. It was a rough, windy night, with dark clouds scudding across the sky. For most of the time they could hardly see each other, let alone men in distant fields. Adam peered at Tom, trying to see the expression on the big, bony face under the pikeman's helmet, but he could barely make out the outline of the strong nose and pale cheeks, and the black pool of the eyes staring intently out into the darkness. Tom had not been the same since the wait outside Bristol, Adam thought, when he had lost confidence in Monmouth's ability to lead them. Ever since then he had been jumpy, looking about him nervously as though they were about to be attacked, and muttering incomprehensibly to himself whenever an officer came past; the antithesis of the loud, boastful youth he had been in Taunton.

  It was understandable enough. Heaven knew they had had plenty to bear in the forty-eight hours since Bristol. Adam shuddered as the memory of Philip Cox's head came back to him. He had thought he would go mad with that sight, for a time. All yesterday night, as they marched to Bath, he had seen the face in his mind, or in a chance shape of the moonlight in the branches. The face was never quite dead - it leered at him with that strange grin of fury that Philip Cox had meant for his attacker, and muttered soundless words that never quite became sense.

  At the dawn halt to Adam's relief, Israel Fuller had led them in prayers of remembrance, assuring them that Philip's conduct had always been that of one of the Elect, and that the manner of his dying had made it certain that he was called to sit at God's right hand. Adam had felt himself strangely comforted by the thought of the nearness of death and the final judgement on their strife. He yearned for the comfort of knowing that he, too, was one of the Elect; if he could be sure of that, it would be so easy to die. But perhaps it was possible. He had not shown real fear so far. He had faced the enemy and he had not run. Not yet!

  And so for once he even managed to sing the psalm of remembrance with a passable attempt at good cheer. Then for the rest of that long Friday he had been too tired to think any more, as they left Bath and slithered in their filthy wet boots to this village of Philip's Norton, struggling to help heave the carts and cannon through the narrow lanes, up and down the unending repetition of little coppiced hills with their few sheep and cattle and poor, muddy farms, whose inhabitants gaped at them in ignorant wonder.

  Towards the end of the day, a soldier in the company ahead of them had shot a countryman as he held a gate open for them, apparently for no more reason than that the countryman, confused no doubt about who they were, had said he was for the King. As they marched by, the men of Colyton had glanced curiously at the limp body sprawled in the mud. The jaw hung open in stupid surprise, and a dirty red stain discoloured the smock. At the time they said nothing, which was the worst thing of all. Only later that night, when they were making camp, did Roger Satchell say he hoped no man of his company would sink so low as to shoot unarmed countrymen. They all nodded in sober agreement, and glanced surreptitiously round at those amongst them they thought weakest.

  "There! He's in the lane now. There's two - three of 'em!"

  The moon shook itself free of the entangling clouds. and the muddy lane they were guarding glistened like a snail's path with sudden silver. Ahead, about a hundred yards away, the silhouettes of three men were picking their way carefully along it on foot.

  "You'm right this time, then, boy," Adam murmured softly. He set his musket firmly in its rest, aiming at the man in the middle, the taller of the three. Something about his stride seemed oddly familiar. As they came nearer Adam could see that two of them were quite well-dressed - tall. with feathered hats and high riding boots. The third was shorter, with a plain round helmet. They were talking softly to each other. He could still not see their faces. They were about twenty yards away when another cloud caught the moon, and Roger Satchell called out a challenge.

  "Halt! Who goes there?"

  There was a muttered consultation, and then a voice Adam thought he recognised replied:

  "Friends of King Monmouth. Who are you?"

  "King Monmouth's army. And the password?"

  "Psalms 27, 3. 'Though an host shall encamp against me, I shall not fear.' And the answer?"

  "'Though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.' Advance then, friends, and identify yourselves."

  The three men came forward solemnly. "I am Colonel Wade, Mr Satchell - you should know my voice by now," said the shorter man in the helmet.

  "I thought I did, sir, but 'tis best to check in the dark."

  "Indeed it is, Mr
Satchell, though I hope you know my voice also," said one of the taller men. "I am glad to find you keeping such good watch."

  "Thank you, Your Grace." Roger Satchell bowed, the straps of his breastplate creaking as he did so. "I hardly expected to find you wandering beyond our lines."

  "Is that a criticism, Mr Satchell?" Monmouth's usually pleasant voice sounded sharp and nervous. "But no matter. I have been out surveying the land behind us, in case we are attacked ... and also, in the hope of being the first to welcome my friends from the Horse Guards, when they come in to join us. But they are delayed, it seems."

  The moon escaped from the clouds again, and Adam and the others saw their leader glance wistfully back over his shoulder up the silent. silver lane.

  "You have hopes, then, that they will come over to us, Your Grace?"

  "Hopes, Mr Satchell? I have promises, firm promises from men with whom I have spent half my life!" The anxious voice rose sharply, and then stopped, as they all listened to the ghostly silence from the lane.

  "That is good news, then, Your Grace. We need good horsemen."

  “And we will have them, Mr Satchell, do not fear. My Lord Feversham's army will melt like butter in his hand when he tries to use it against me. My friends will not desert me. I know them, far better than I know anyone here. And I also have promises of a hundred and fifty horsemen from Mr Adlam in Wiltshire, who should reach us soon. Then we shall have a proper regiment of horse indeed - enough to make my Lord Grey here into another Prince Rupert."

  "Yes, Your Grace." Roger Satchell stared stolidly at the third man beside Monmouth, the effete languid Grey, whom he and all the others had seen flee from the militia at Bridport. There was another awkward pause, broken by the sudden eerie shriek of a nightjar.

  "So all is far from lost, you see. You will have your Protestant King in London by the end of the month." Monmouth drew a deep breath, as though to steady himself, and let it out in a long, slow sigh. "But even royalty must rest. Come, gentlemen, back to the George. Keep good watch, Mr Satchell, and send for me instantly if a troop of horsemen should appear. Are you coming, Colonel Wade?"

  "If you have need of me, Your Grace. But if not, I would go the rounds of my regiment before I sleep."

  "Of course, of course. It is only pleasant talk I need now, and Grey can give me that."

  The two aristocrats strode away down into the village, and the men from Colyton listened until the splash and squelch of boots in the mud turned to the distant click of their heels on the cobbles.

  "So we're to expect reinforcements, then?" said Roger Satchell quietly to Colonel Wade.

  "So it seems," the quiet, sturdy young officer answered shortly.

  "And tomorrow? Are we to march further south?"

  "It may be. We are to meet and decide it in the morning.”

  "Let us hope we can get some rest first."

  "Agreed." The two men stood silently watching the moon flit from cloud to cloud, feeling the night wind cool on their faces.

  "Excuse me, sir, for asking, but did he say why we are marching south at all?" Sergeant Evans's lilting voice broke in on their reverie, asking the question for the silent men in the dark ranks around him.

  Colonel Wade grunted impatiently. "No, sergeant, he did not. Or rather yes - it is to meet the horsemen that Mr Adlam is bringing from Wiltshire, and to find an easier road to London." The answer was not satisfactory. Wade knew it, and so did Roger Satchell and the sergeant. The others guessed it, from the exasperation in Wade's voice.

  Adam felt the little flutterings of panic begin again in his stomach. Could it be that Monmouth did not know what he was doing, and had marched an army of eight thousand men two days through muddy hills to the point of exhaustion, just to make a rendezvous with a few hundred horsemen who were as yet no more real than a promise? But that was the sort of thing that Tom had said before. Adam knew that he himself must not, dare not, think it.

  Sergeant Evans persisted. "It seems a pity to me, sir, that we did not take our chance at Bristol. Especially if the Duke had friends among Lord Feversham's horse."

  "Friends!" Tom burst out bitterly. "Was that his friends that rode through our camp t'other night?"

  "Aye, they got a fine way of showing their friendship," said William Clegg. "Spill a man's supper and then cut his throat! 'Twas more like a bunch of Assyrians or Amalekites!"

  "Don't be foolish, man!" Wade woke irritably from his contemplation. "We cannot expect all the enemy horse to desert to us. But if my lord the King has promises from officers amongst some of them, I am sure he is to be believed!"

  For a moment they were cowed by the anger in his voice. Adam though how strange it seemed to hear Monmouth spoken of now as the King. A week ago, in the euphoria of Taunton, they had all been speaking of King Monmouth, even those who wanted a republic; now they all tried to find their way around it when they spoke. At length Sergeant Evans began again, respectfully, yet insistent.

  "Nonetheless, sir, it seems to me that the best way to remind such officers of their promises would be to beat the enemy without them. Even if my Lord Grey is no Prince Rupert, I think our foot could match theirs, if we are not worn out first by marching away from them."

  Adam could hear the earnestness in the sergeant's voice; he was a professional soldier, he knew what he was talking about. In the last few days Adam had come to listen, more carefully than ever in his life before, to the tone of what men said, as well as the meaning of the words they used. Perhaps that was the result of fear; but it was his life that was at stake in Monmouth's decision, as were Wade's and the sergeant's and those of all the other eight thousand men in the village and fields around them.

  "I agree with you, sergeant," said Wade gruffly. "But such decisions are not made by a sergeant, or even colonels like myself, as you know. Still, you may rest assured that I shall press the counsel of attack at the Council of War tomorrow."

  "I'm glad to hear it, sir," said the sergeant. There was a deep murmur of approval from most of those in the ranks around him.

  Colonel Wade grunted thoughtfully. "But when I do so, I should like to feel quite sure that the men of my regiment, at least, are completely prepared for battle, whenever it comes. So before I leave you, Captain Satchell, perhaps I should inspect these men, now, to see that they are as ready to fight as they are to give opinions."

  So there and then, in the grey darkness and fleeting intervals of moonlight, the resolute young colonel, himself only on his first campaign, inspected each man of the detachment as they stood in their positions guarding the main road into the camp. First he checked their equipment, ensuring that each musketeer had sufficient powder, bullet, and charge, and that each musket was loaded and primed and the powder dry. Twice he found men with damp powder in their pans, and cursed them thoroughly for fools who were as likely to endanger their friends as help them during any battle. He inspected the pikes, both the real sixteen-foot ones, and those makeshift instruments made by nailing a scytheblade to a long pole. He found three of these to be coming loose and ordered them to be replaced, along with one whose scythe had a split pole.

  Only after he had finished each man's weapons did he enquire into his clothing and equipment, checking first the straps and fittings of those who had breastplates and helmets, and examining their other clothes, particularly their boots, many of which were sodden and splitting after the continual marching and slithering through mud. For the footwear he could offer little but promises that he would remember them when there were new boots to be found or bought; for the armour he had a sharp curse and simple advice for the man like Tom whose helmet straps were hanging loose, and another, one of the very few who had been given a breastplate at all, who was beginning to let it rust.

  "You've not got your mother with you now, boy," he snapped at Tom. "So you'll have to learn to dress yourself and see to your own clothes. But we didn't bring a breastplate all the way from Holland for you to grow mould on it, or a helmet to collect eggs! 'Tis to shiel
d your brains, you great loon, if you've got any - how do you think it's going to do that if it falls off the first time an enemy pike touches it, eh? Or have you got a skull made of steel as well?"

  "No, sir - 'tis just that it's uncomfortable sometimes." Tom muttered awkwardly.

  “And how comfortable do you think you'll be when a troop of royal horsemen comes down that hill and knocks your brains out, eh? And when this musketeer next to you hasn't got a pikeman to defend him because you feel like scratching after lice? If you don't want to wear it, boy, give it to me now and I'll find someone who does!"

  Tom hesitated for a moment. and Adam had the awful fear that he would give up the helmet out of simple anger and bravado. But he muttered that he would keep it.

  "Then see that it's properly fastened when you're on duty, or on the march. I don't want to see any man in my regiment without his equipment in proper order at all times. Remember, you're not in this for your own profit or comfort now, but for the glory of God and to save the souls of your fellow men, especially those who are standing beside you. And the better prepared you are, the more that fellow man's going to be able to rely on you when the time comes. 'Tis doing the devil's work for him to be thinking of your own comfort, or getting your powder damp, at a time like this."

  At last Wade was finished. He left his list of improvements with Roger Satchell and tramped vigorously away into the camp. They were silent for a while after he had gone, letting his words settle into their minds under the sigh of the night wind. At last sergeant Evans hawked and spat, and Adam could tell by the satisfied grunt that followed that he was amused.

  "A man of your own style, sergeant?" he asked quietly.

  "He's got a good headpiece under that steel cap, for all his youth. If you lads listen to him, you might keep yours."