Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
It was two days before Daniel Rawson found out what had happened to his father. When he heard that his uncle, Samuel Penry, had been shot in action, that his friend, Ralph Huckvale, had been trampled to death by fleeing rebel cavalry and that the massive Joseph Greengage, who owned a neighbouring farm, had been cut to ribbons during the rout, he began to fear the worst. He eventually discovered that Nathan Rawson was one of over five hundred prisoners crammed into St Mary's Church in Westonzoyland. Daniel was not allowed to see him and was dismayed to learn of the appalling conditions inside the church. Prisoners were unfed, wounds went untreated and those who died of their injuries were left unburied. Captives seemed to have no rights whatsoever. By way of retribution, a few of them had already been summarily hanged.
Daniel was still gazing up the dangling figures on the gibbets when he felt a jab in the ribs. He turned to see the anxious face of Martin Rye, an older boy from the village near his farm.
'Go home, Dan Rawson,' he urged.
'But my father is held prisoner in the church,' said Daniel.
'Then there's no hope for him. My two brothers were also captured at the battle but the only time I'll get to see Will and Arthur again is when they string them up like these poor souls.'
'I feel that my place is here, Martin.'
'Go home while you have a home to go to.'
'What do you mean?'
'Haven't your heard?' asked Rye. 'If anyone took up arms in the name of King Monmouth, they're either burning down his house or seizing his property. Your farm won't be spared.'
'Can this be true?' said Daniel in alarm.
'Ask any of these guards and they'll tell you. But don't get too close to them,' cautioned Rye, gingerly rubbing the side of his head, 'or they'll give you a cuff to help you on your way.'
'When will the prisoners come to trial, Martin?'
'Forget about them. Go home — your mother needs you.'
It was a prophetic warning. Daniel had ridden the eight miles to Westonzoyland on a carthorse. On the journey back, he had to go across the battlefield, stained with the blood of the fallen and scarred by the cumulative brutalities of combat. The grim duty of burying the dead was still going on as putrid corpses were tipped into large pits to share a common grave. When he first traversed the moor, Daniel had been struck by the thought that his Uncle Samuel, Ralph Huckvale and Joseph Greengage all lay somewhere beneath that soil but he did not even accord them a passing sigh this time. His mind was on the possible loss or destruction of his home.
Old Nelly, the carthorse, had been bred for her power rather than speed and she could not be pushed too hard. Daniel nursed her along and only forced her into a canter when the farm at last came into view. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it. The house had not been torched and the livestock still grazed in the fields. His fears, it appeared, had been groundless. When he rode into the courtyard, however, his apprehension returned. Three horses were tethered to a fence and laughter was coming from behind the barn.
Dismounting quickly, he tethered Nelly and ran towards the noise. Tinker was barking now and the laughter increasing. When he came round the angle of the barn, Daniel saw two red-coated soldiers. One of them was lounging against the wall while the other was tossing a large twig for the dog to retrieve. Tinker had entered into the game with spirit but he lost interest the moment that he saw his master. Scurrying across to Daniel, he barked a welcome. The soldiers grinned and sauntered across to the boy.
'You must be Nathan Rawson's son,' said one of them.
'What if I am?' retorted Daniel.
'Then you're about to lose your father.'
'And your mother will have something to remember us by as well,' said the other soldier with a smirk. 'The sergeant is with her.' When Daniel turned instinctively to go, the man put a hand on his shoulder. 'You stay here, lad, until the sergeant has had his sport.'
Daniel was enraged. Pushing the hand aside, he ran towards the house. The soldier tried to follow but Tinker bit his ankle and refused to let go. After trying in vain to shake the dog off, the man seized a pitchfork that was leaning against the barn and used it to kill Tinker, jabbing away hard until his squeals of pain finally stopped. Daniel, meanwhile, had burst into the house. Guided by his mother's screams, he hurtled up the stairs and into his parent's bedroom. It was not occupied by his mother and father now. A distraught Juliana Rawson was lying on the bed, struggling hard against the soldier who was holding her down and trying to stifle her protests with guzzling kisses. He had already discarded his coat and lowered his breeches. Daniel's mother was about to be raped.
The boy did not hesitate. Grabbing the man's sword from the floor, he hacked madly at him until he rolled off his victim then he put all his strength into one purposeful thrust, piercing the ribs and going straight through the man's heart. The sergeant's eyes widened in disbelief for a second then he emitted a long gurgle before sagging to the floor in a heap. Juliana sat up on the bed and hastily smoothed down her ruffled skirt. She looked down at the dead body of her attacker with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Footsteps pounded up the staircase. Eyes blazing and sword in one hand, Daniel put a protective arm around his mother.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
Major-General John, Lord Churchill was a lean, handsome, debonair man in his mid-thirties with an impressive military career behind him. The critical decisions he had taken at Sedgemoor, while his commander-in-chief was still asleep in bed, had saved the lives of royal troops and hastened the defeat of the enemy. He was entitled to feel proud of his contribution towards the quelling of the rebellion. While he admired their courage, Churchill had little sympathy for those who had taken up arms against King James. But their children were another matter.
'Sergeant Hoskins is dead?' he asked incredulously.
'Run through with his own sword, my lord,' explained the soldier before indicating Daniel Rawson. 'And this is the young villain who killed him.'
Churchill's gaze shifted to the boy. 'Is this true?'
'He deserved it, sir,' replied the boy stoutly.
'I didn't ask you about his deserts. I want simply to establish the facts. Did you or did you not kill Sergeant Hoskins?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And do you regret your action?'
'No, sir,' said Daniel firmly. 'I'd do the same again.'
'What's your name, boy?'
'Daniel Rawson.'
'His father is held prisoner at Westonzoyland,' said the soldier.
'There's no disgrace in fighting for a cause in which you believe,' said Daniel boldly, quoting his father word for word. 'Had I been old enough, I'd have joined the Duke's army as well. My father is Captain Nathan Rawson and he has great respect for you, sir. He served under you in Flanders.'
Churchill's eyebrows rose. 'Really?'
'That's where he met my mother.'
Juliana nodded sadly. They were in the parlour of a house that Churchill had requisitioned for his private use. Though he was not a tall man, he still towered over them. They stood before him with the armed soldier beside them. The bloodstained sword belonging to the late Sergeant Gregory Hoskins lay on a table nearby. His mother was cowed by the presence of so distinguished a man but Daniel met his searching gaze without flinching. Churchill looked from one to the other before glancing at the soldier.
'There's something you haven't told me,' he said quietly.
'I gave you a full report, my lord,' claimed the other. 'Sergeant Hoskins went into the house to inform this woman that the property would be seized from her in due course. She reviled him and the sergeant tried to remonstrate with her. While they were arguing, the boy rushed in and killed him.'
'And he did so with the sergeant's own sword?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'It was very foolish of Sergeant Hoskins to hand the boy his weapon,' said Churchill wryly. 'A lad of this age is no match for a v
eteran soldier. Whatever possessed the sergeant to be so reckless?'
The soldier licked his lips. 'He had put his sword aside, my lord.'
'How do you know? You were not present at the time.'
'It's the only explanation.'
'Very well,' said Churchill courteously. 'You've given me your version of events and I daresay that your companion at the farm will tell the same tale. Now I would like to hear what really happened.'
'I've already told you,' insisted the man.
'Let the others speak — they were actually there. Now,' he went on, looking at Daniel, 'where did this distressing incident take place?'
'In the parlour, my lord,' said the soldier.
'Hold your peace,' advised Churchill, making it more of a polite request than a brusque command.
'It was in my parents' bedroom, sir,' said Daniel quietly. 'He had no right to be there and to be doing…what he was doing. If you don't believe me,' he added with a hint of truculence, 'you can come to the farm and see for yourself. The bed sheets are covered in blood.'
'A visit will not be necessary,' said Churchill. 'You came to your mother's aid as any good son would do in that situation. You are to be commended, Daniel Rawson.'
Daniel and his mother exchanged a glance of surprise.
'He killed Sergeant Hoskins, my lord,' argued the soldier. 'He must pay the penalty for that. I say that he should hang beside his father and be left to rot.'
'Fortunately,' said Churchill suavely, 'sentence will not be left to you. Indeed, you are more likely to be facing justice than dispensing it. If I learn that you condoned the actions of Sergeant Hoskins, you and your companion will answer to me. I'll not tolerate rape or pillage. I saw enough of both in Tangier to last me my whole life. Men who serve under me have a code of honour and I'll not let one of them besmirch that code.' He pointed a peremptory finger. 'Wait outside.'
'We had no idea what the sergeant was doing, my lord.'
'I gave you an order!'
'Yes, my lord.'
Drawing himself the attention, the man mumbled an apology then left the room quickly. Daniel and his mother could not believe what they had just witnessed. On the way there, they had been warned by the two soldiers to say nothing at all because they would not be believed. The least they could expect, they were told, was lengthy imprisonment. Instead, Daniel had been listened to and exonerated. Churchill had not merely understood what had happened at the farm, he had spared Juliana the embarrassment of having to recount it in detail.
'On behalf of my men,' said Churchill gravely, 'I owe you my profound apologies. You will be given ample time to gather your possessions together before you quit the property. I give you my word that nobody will harass you. As for you,
Daniel,' he continued, picking up the sword from the table, 'I can think of only one way to reward your valour. Take this sword as your own and wear it with more honour than the man from whom you took it.'
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
In the ensuing days, two names were heard on every side — those of Major-General John Churchill and Colonel Percy Kirke. Nothing bad was spoken of the one and nothing good of the other. While Churchill had enhanced his reputation as a soldier and gentleman, Kirke had added to the long record of unrelieved cruelty he had compiled while stationed in Tangier. Kirke's Lambs, so called in ironic tribute to the atrocities they committed after the battle and in mocking reference to the Paschal lamb emblazoned on their regimental crest, consisted mainly of musketeers with a sprinkling of pikemen and grenadiers. Wherever they went, they left a trail of misery and destruction behind them, torturing and executing their captives at will.
It was not long before a third name was on everyone's lips and it soon eclipsed the other two. George Jeffreys was a notably handsome man with a flair for vicious cross- examination and a fondness for low company. Though still in his thirties, he had risen to the exalted position of Lord Chief Justice and was accordingly dispatched to the West Country by King James to supervise the trials of those who had dared to raise their hands against their monarch. Under the strict and merciless control of Judge Jeffreys, the Bloody Assizes commenced.
The circuit began in Winchester and the trial of Dame Alice Lisle was a stark warning of the horrors that were to follow. A widow of eighty, Dame Alice was accused of harbouring two rebels, even though she had no idea who the men were and had little sympathy for the Duke of Monmouth's cause. In a bruising six-hour trial, Jeffreys frightened and confused the old woman so much that she was unable to muster a proper defence. A reluctant jury was bullied into bringing in a guilty verdict and Jeffreys gleefully sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, the penalty for women convicted of high treason. Five days later, after an appeal to the King, she was spared incineration and was instead beheaded by an axe.
Everyone quaked when they heard the news. If an innocent old woman could suffer such a fate, what would happen to those who had actually fought beside Monmouth? The answer soon came. Gallows were erected successively in Winchester, Dorchester and Exeter as the judges continued their assize circuit. When they reached Taunton, Jeffreys and the rest of his judicial team had still not slaked their thirst for blood. With a blatant disregard for any evidence in favour of the defendants, Judge Jeffreys continued his reign of terror. Plagued by a kidney stone, he was sometimes in such agony that he turned into a ranting tyrant, moved to even greater extremes of savagery. Those who trembled in the dock before him did not realise how much money the Lord Chief Justice was making out of the Bloody Assizes by selling pardons and profiting from the traffic of those he sentenced to transportation. Suffering was a lucrative enterprise.
Nathan Rawson faced him with great courage and endured his cross-examination with calm defiance. His trial was brief. He was one of five hundred or more prisoners who were rushed through the court in a mere two days. Since Taunton was seen by the authorities as a hotbed of revolt, Jeffreys and the other judges were especially severe. Along with many others, Nathan was condemned to death. His wife and son were in the large crowd that gathered on the day of execution to watch their family members and friends being hanged. As her husband was taken up on to the scaffold, Juliana Rawson could not bear to look but Daniel did not take his eyes off the grisly proceedings. Most of the rebels showed fear and one pleaded aloud for mercy but Nathan Rawson met his end with fortitude, even managing a farewell smile to his son as the noose was put around his neck. Daniel had never felt so proud of him.
Later that night, when the guard had dozed off to sleep, Daniel cut down his father with the help of two friends and drove him away in the cart. They buried him with dignity in the churchyard of the village where he had been born. As dawn was breaking, Juliana and Daniel Rawson were driving away from the farm towards the coast. The cart was loaded with their possessions. Mourning the death of her husband, Juliana sat in silence with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. All she could think about was returning to the safety of her native country.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
As he drove the cart along the winding track, Daniel wrestled with a welter of emotions. He was hurt, sorrowful, shocked, indignant, vengeful and bristling with rage. Too young to understand the full implications of what had happened, he knew one thing for certain. He was no longer a boy. Indirectly, the battle of Sedgemoor had turned him into a young man. He had killed a soldier with the sword that had now been presented to him. It was a weapon he could not wait to hold in his hand again.
CHAPTER ONE
March, 1704
Daniel Rawson had always disliked Paris. As he rode through its streets in the gathering darkness, he was reminded why he hated the place so much. It was the noisiest, dirtiest, most foul-smelling city in Europe. It was also the most crowded. Broad avenues and magnificent public buildings had been introduced to give it status and splendour but they could not hide the fact that the majority of Parisians lived in tiny, squalid, ugly, vermin-ridden ho
uses or tenements. But the main reason why Daniel loathed it so much was that it was the capital city of a country against which he had been fighting ever since he had joined the army. He was at the heart of enemy territory.
In his opinion, however — and it was an opinion based on long experience — Paris had one redeeming feature. It was the home of some of the most beautiful women in the world, exotic birds of paradise with wonderful plumage, gorgeous ladies who were steeped in the arts of love and eager to pass on their secrets to the select few. That was what had enticed Daniel to enter the city in disguise and to ride with an anticipatory smile of delight on his face. He had an assignation.
Thoughts of what lay ahead did not distract him from the ever-present danger in the streets. Beggars had accosted him at every turn and prostitutes had tried to lure him brazenly into hovels where he could be overpowered and robbed. When he went down a narrow lane and saw two ragged men ahead of him, therefore, he knew instinctively that trouble was at hand. Though they were lounging against a wall on opposite sides of the lane, they were not really engaged in casual conversation. They had been waiting for someone to fall into their trap. As soon as Daniel drew level with them, they pounced. One man seized the reins of his horse while the other tried to haul him roughly from the saddle.
They had chosen the wrong victim. A swift punch from Daniel broke the nose of the man who had grabbed him and sent him reeling to the ground with blood streaming down his chin. Slipping a foot out of the stirrup, Daniel kicked the other man so hard in the chest that he yelled in agony and let go of the reins, thudding against the wall with a force that knocked the breath out of him. Daniel urged his horse into a brisk trot and left them to nurse their wounds and rue their mistake.
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