by Tim Vicary
“He already has, at Bridport, by now,” said young Paul, “I wish I’d been there. I bet they smote ‘em proper!”
“Perhaps all the Duke’s army has gone there by now, then. How many men did you say there were, at Lyme?” Ann looked inquiringly at Paul.
“Hundreds. A thousand. I don’t know, mistress Ann, ‘tis hard to count that many. But the whole town was full of us. We had to sleep outside to give folk room to breathe.”
“A mighty host. The Lord hath sent us an army of heroes like unto those that marched with Joshua,” murmured the old surgeon, his eyes still shut, a smile deepening the wrinkles on his old, lined face.
“Amen to that,” said Paul. “But what I can’t understand is why any man would enlist for the militia, like those buggers who came over from Ottery yesterday. They’m only ordinary folk like us, aren’t they?”
“With wives and families to be threatened,” muttered old Nicolas. “I reckon their officers do see to that.”
“Then they get their own back on us,” said Ann bitterly, thinking of last night. But that was over now; she was more worried about the men they had just seen. She could not get the image of the horseman in the blue coat out of her mind. Was it the same blue as Robert wore — the blue of the Life Guards? But many men had blue coats, and surely he would not be up here, leading a few militiamen? He would be with his father at Shute, or gone to join his regiment. But she must not think of him. He should be nothing to her now. If only the song of the larks above them, and the quiet munching of the horses, did not so exactly remind her of that day on the hills above Colyton. So long ago it seemed, and yet so near.
She must not think like this.
“Don’t you think it’s time we moved on, Master Thompson? If the army has really marched to Bridport, we’ll have a long way to go.”
Nicolas Thompson groaned as he opened his eyes. “The voice of young love. Don’t ‘ee fret thyself, maid, your Tom’ll be waiting for ‘ee!”
But he dragged himself to his feet nonetheless, as pleased at her blush as he was far from understanding its cause.
They had to follow the track of the militiamen for a couple of miles on the other side of the bridge, as the road slowly wound up the side of a hill, but then they cut east across country, following a ridgeway which would bring them down to the Axe Bridge at Weycroft north of Axminster, where the old Fosse Way drove its straight path north-east to Chard. The weather began to cloud over as the afternoon progressed, and a cool wind blew up from the south, with the smell of rain. Once they heard a rumble, from the direction of Axminster. They stopped and looked at each other, startled and tense.
“That was musket fire, wasn’t it?” Ann’s eager eyes searched the faces of the other two.
The surgeon shook his head uncertainly. “Could be thunder. Look at that dark cloud over yonder.”
But young Paul was shrill and certain. “Thunder don’t sound like that! That was muskets, same as I heard at Lyme They’m fighting down there!”
“But where? It was over towards the town, wasn’t it?” Ann gazed at the countryside to the south, but there was nothing to see. Just sheep and a few cows grazing quietly in the meadows, the distant tower of Axminster church just visible between a field of corn and the corner of a wood.
“More behind, I think. Be quiet, we’ll see if it comes again.”
“Should take about three minutes to reload their muskets, if they’m as fast as ourn!” Paul proudly shared his knowledge.
“Perhaps it is our men! Perhaps they’re coming this way, instead of going to Bridport.” Ann tried to stretch upwards in her saddle, wishing she could see more.
“Then ‘tis the thunder of the Lord! Celestial music indeed!” chuckled old Nicolas, cocking his head to turn his good ear to the south.
But no sound followed; only the endless twitter of the larks, the croak of an old crow, and the tune of the wind in the thin hill grass. At last they moved on, kicking their horses to a hasty trot as the track began to slope downhill.
And again, unbidden and unwanted, the tempting memory came into Ann’s mind, of herself trotting on a hillside like this beside Robert, laughing as he raced her towards a distant tree, and then leaping off and holding out his arms for her to fling herself into as she dismounted. The arms of the tempter. And she thought neither of Tom nor her father marching to war for the sake of their Lord, but of what it might feel like for Robert in a cavalry charge, riding down on a hedge of pikes and a levelled line of muskets.
As they came on down the slope, the bridge ahead was still empty: so empty, in fact, that Ann saw a young rabbit halfway across it, contentedly nibbling a tuft of grass by the parapet. But as they came nearer, the rabbit sat up, cocking its ears towards the south, and then nervously scuttled out of sight.
A moment later there was a loud crackle of fire - definitely muskets, this time - from up the road towards Axminster. A gaggle of men appeared, looking over their shoulders as they ran.
Paul hesitated, but Ann had no doubts. “They’re militia, running away! Come on! If we cross the bridge first we can ride past ‘em!” She urged her pony into a canter, but just as she reached the bridge the horse she was leading reared and shied away at the sight of the men, nearly wrenching her arm from its socket. As the lead rain slipped from her hand another group of men appeared from a wood beside the road, and she was surrounded.
“Hold still now! Hold still! This is no place for a girl with a wild horse!”
She looked down and saw a man in a leather jacket, a farmer or shepherd by the look of him, holding her own pony’s head, while another two fought to control the led horse.
“Who the devil are you? Let go!” She urged the pony forward, wishing she had a riding whip to lash down at the man with, but he held the animal firmly, pulling it to one side of the road. As he did so the other men, those fleeing from Axminster, began to pour over the bridge, panic in their eyes. They were shouting to each other.
“Get back! Run! There’s hundreds of ‘em, armed, with big field-guns!”
“Get off the road, quick! The Duke and his cavalry’s coming!”
“That’s good then.” Ann looked down sharply at the man holding her horse. The words had been quiet, as though spoken only to himself, yet they had come to her in a strange second of silence in the midst of the tumult. She saw his face alight with a fierce desperate gleam as he glanced up the road towards the town. Then he looked up at her.
“Come down, girl, get off the horse. I needs ‘un!”
“I shall not!” But even as he spoke he grabbed her and pulled her down roughly, tearing her skirt on a buckle. She flew at him, to scratch his eyes, but he caught her arms and held them down, so that their faces were only a few inches apart. Tears of frustration blinded her.
“What do you want these horses for? They’re mine!”
“Not now they’re not, my pretty. I’m taking them to the Duke.” He pushed her away and turned to climb into the saddle. She grabbed his coat-tail.
“Wait! That’s where I’m taking them too!”
“What?” He turned as though he would hit her, and then he understood.
“I’m taking these horses to the Duke of Monmouth, for his cavalry. But I thought you were militia!”
The man grinned, and the fervent gleam in his eyes seemed friendly, no longer mad. “So we are in body, but not in soul. Get up in front of me then.” He swung onto the pony’s back, and pulled her up after him. He shouted in her ear.
“The others the same?”
“Yes!”
He turned to the men struggling around the other horses. “Bring ‘em with us, George! They’re for the Duke too!”
Militiamen were still pouring over the bridge and fleeing up the road. Some militia still loyal to the King were fighting for the horses with the second group, who could only be distinguished from their supposed comrades by the eager determined look on their faces. For them this was not a rout but a triumph, which gave them the chance to
join the Duke of Monmouth’s army rather than flee from it.
Young Paul had been pulled from his horse, but old Nicolas had started laying about himself with his whip, yelling “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! Keep back, ye damned Papists!” Some of the deserting militiamen had already understood their mistake, and had drawn back, half laughing and half furious, trying to explain his to him.
Ann’s pony spun round, and she glanced ahead up the road towards Axminster. A group of horsemen, royalist officers by the look of them, were trotting down it, shouting at the last of the fleeing militiamen. Behind them was a column of steadier, firmer troops, under a great blue and white striped banner.
“Come on, lads! Let’s go!”
Most of the deserting militiamen were mounted now, some two on a horse, and the man on Ann’s pony kicked it so that it lunged forward up the road. He clung tightly round her waist, and she ducked her head instinctively as one of the last of the loyal retreating militiamen took a great swipe at them with the butt of his musket. The pony shied and reared, and the man behind her nearly fell off, but then they plunged on, the others clattering behind them. She looked ahead again and saw the five horsemen coming towards them hesitate, uncertain whether to stop them or clear the road. Three of them drew off towards the side of the road, as though they would let them pass, but the other two held the centre to stop them, pistols drawn. One of them wore a blue coat.
It was Robert.
“Clear the way, you bastards! We’ll not stop!” The man behind her slammed his heels into the pony’s sides, hunching his back and driving the animal straight at Robert. She saw Robert’s face, cold and determined as he levelled the pistol, with that strange half-smiling frown of concentration. Surely he had seen her? Ten yards to go ... five ...
“Robert!” Her scream tore the air, harsh as a seagull’s, and then she was staring into his horrified face and they were past, the pony plunging panic-stricken onwards, Robert’s horse rearing wildly in a circle as the other horses galloped past him. There was a sharp crack and a cry, but she was too preoccupied with holding on against the weight of the man dragging sideways behind her, to see who had been hit, or who had fired; and then when she turned for a quick, precarious glance again, she had eyes only for the figure in the blue coat, calming the black horse and staring back up the road at them, his face already too small and distant for her to read its expression.
They fought the pony to a standstill twenty yards from the column of levelled pikes and muskets facing them. The man behind her moaned, and slid sideways to the ground, a red stain spreading from the sleeve of his jacket. But he staggered proudly to his feet, and held the pony’s head while she got down. A short, confident young man in a faded red coat strode forwards to meet them.
“And who may you be, gentlemen, that seem in such haste to meet us? Do you wish to surrender?”
“To surrender indeed, to the mercy of the good Lord himself! We come to offer our souls to the Protestant army, and bring him these horses as a gift,” said the man in a leather coat.
“The horses are ours, you thieving rogue, brought all the way from Colyton!” Nicolas Thompson’s furious, reedy voice cut in. “We’re three good folk from Colyton, sir, come to serve the Duke of Monmouth and give him these horses, and now we’ve found him some treacherous deserting militiamen on our way, as extra!”
“You shut your mouth, you old fool!” one of the militiamen began, but the man in the red coat cut in sharply.
“Silence, sir! If you come to serve the Duke, you are most welcome; but be warned, this is a holy army, and we have no room for brawling in the ranks. My name is Colonel Nathaniel Wade and if you come from Colyton I think I have some of your friends already with me. Captain Satchell! Perhaps you would detail one of your soldiers to take charge of these men for the moment, and deliver the horses to the Duke.”
“Indeed I will. And the young maid too! I fancy there’s one or two here will be more’n a little glad to see her!”
As Roger Satchell came smiling forward, and called for Adam Carter and Tom Goodchild from the ranks, Ann looked up at the great blue and white striped standard floating forward over their heads, as though it were anxious to come at the enemy, and read the motto printed on it in mighty letters of rippling gold: “Fear Nothing But God.”
17
“THEY RUN like rabbits!” said Tom, the deep hearty laughter booming in his chest. “Or deer, maybe! I never seed a man leap a hedge like some o’ they!”
Ann looked at him in surprise, wondering at how loud and confident he had become. And happy, too — his handsome face glowed with simple pleasure as he looked around the circle of faces lit by the red light of the camp fire, sharing the joke. The others laughed with him.
“Ar, ‘twas old Will’s voice as did it! That were enough to send anyone runnin’!” said John Spragg, smiling. “‘Get on ‘ome, ye daft chickens, ‘fore I plucks ‘ee!’“ He mimicked the reedy voice of William Clegg, and rocked with laughter at the memory of the wiry little man jumping up and down and waving his musket in fury at the fleeing militia that afternoon.
Laughter again convulsed the circle of men around the fire, and Ann, Nicolas Thompson and Paul Abrahams smiled as they tried to imagine how it had been. Though at times it seemed like a huge private joke, the story was really being told for them, to explain how Monmouth’s army came to be here outside Axminster where they had found it, instead of at Lyme. as they had expected. They had already heard how, after their return from Bridport, the men of Colyton had woken early and hurried into line with the rest of the army to march to the north, drums beating, muskets loaded and ready for action. And how the militia of two counties had closed in, trying to pen them in and force them back to Lyme: the Duke of Albemarle’s Devon militia from the left, and the Somerset militia under Lord Fitzharding from the right. Yet here they were north of Axminster, triumphant and unscathed.
“But didn’t none of ‘em fight?” asked Paul Abrahams eagerly.
“Oh yes,” said Tom. “We had one proper set-to. Volley of muskets and everything. We had our pikes ready to fetch ‘em out, didn’t we, Mr Cox?”
“Oh, ar, we was ready for ‘em.” The quiet, red-faced Philip Cox grinned, chewing a piece of grass as he listened.
“Well, what happened then?” Paul Abrahams was desperate to know. After this, and the story of Bridport, his own adventure seemed like nothing to him.
“Well, young Paul, ‘tis a marvellous thing to be fighting in a righteous cause, see.” John Spragg smiled at the boy, enjoying teasing him a little. “‘Cause when the heathen fires at you, see, all you haves to do, see, is fire one volley back at ‘em, and watch.”
“Watch what?”
“‘Tis a miracle, boy. A proper miracle. I shouldn’t have believed it myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, like doubtin’ Thomas in the good book.”
Tom frowned slightly, uncertain if he liked the irreligious tone of John Spragg’s speech. But the stocky, broadshouldered stonemason was a respected elder in the conventicle, and Tom was curious to hear what came next.
“What miracle?” Paul Abrahams’ eyes were as big and eager as a puppy’s. The smile spread wider across John Spragg’s broad, cheery face.
“Flying muskets, boy. All their muskets goes flying up into the air and over the hedge! And the next minute, the men goes flying, too — up in the air and over the hedge after ‘em, to t’other side of the field, fast as their legs can carry ‘em!”
The men laughed, and Tom relaxed. Even Israel Fuller smiled briefly through his beard, before he began to speak.
“‘Tis wrong to speak lightly of the Lord, John, yet truly He was seen to be on our side today. I have just spoken to a very good preacher in Axminster, who said he thought the Lord sent a very hornet of fear amongst them!”
“Aye, ‘twas like a swarm of hornets, too!” William Clegg nodded with cheerful approval, his skinny, seamed face crinkled into a maze of lines, as it always was when he laughed. “Lik
e one of they plagues the Lord sent against Fairer and they ‘Gyptians! A Plague of Hornets! ‘Tis just the thing to set they militia runnin’“
“And jumpin’!” Tom chuckled again, glancing at Ann for approval. “Hey, I knows where they come from, too! Those hornets must’ve come out of the barrels of they field guns!”
At this, the whole group burst out into loud laughter, leaving the three newcomers puzzled.
“What field guns, Tom?” Ann’s voice seemed strangely gentle and delicate amongst such a large group of men. She saw her father frown, as though he wished she were not there, and Tom swell proudly as he answered.
“‘Tis another marvel of the Lord, Ann! For the Almighty made the militia to see three great field guns over on Yawl Hill, which they thought we’d sent against ‘em. And the sight of these guns so dismayed ‘em they didn’t even stand to fire one volley, just chucked their muskets down and ran. And we’d never have known why, only a dozen of ‘em was honest enough to repent of their ways and run to join us, see, and they showed us where they field guns was to!”
At this point the laughter of the others got to him, so that he guffawed helplessly, unable to continue.
Ann smiled at him admiringly, wishing he were more often like this, instead of the big, solemn lad she knew. Yet she was slightly scared, too, by the heartiness of it all. “And?”
“And the marvellous thing was, that when we got there, there weren’t no field guns there at all. Just three girt tree trunks sticking through the brambles in a copse!”
“So they ran away from the tree trunks, because they thought they were guns?” Paul Abrahams could hardly believe what he’d heard.
“That’s right, lad,” chuckled William Clegg kindly. “And you should have seen their faces, when they went round pickin’ up the muskets they’d dropped. I near bust me sides!”