Dropping down onto one knee, McFeeley pulled the sacks from around the colonel. There was no time for a burial, so he laid him flat then covered him completely with the sacking. It was an occasion that asked for a prayer to be said, even silently. McFeeley turned quickly away because he hadn’t prayed in twelve years.
Two
LADY SARAH CHURCHILL was feeling tired. It was breakfast time but she had to stifle a yawn as she shared a table with Sir Edmund Prideaux, the aged but lovely-in-a-motherly-way Lady Prideaux, and the golden-haired Rachel, Lady Sarah’s companion. Lady Sarah had been unable to sleep since a quarter past two that morning when she had been awakened by the sound of horses’ hoofs. They had been distant from the bedroom that she shared with Rachel, and she estimated that they had been at the front of Forde Abbey.
Her worries were increased now to find that Edmund wasn’t joining them for breakfast. Although Rachel was enamoured of the young lawyer, Sarah was always ill at ease in Edmund’s company. He had none of his father’s quiet and reassuring charm. Sarah felt that she could ask Sir Edmund a question about the night without overstepping the mark of a guest’s politeness.
Thanking the butler with a smile as he placed toast in front of her, Sarah welcomed the act of buttering it so that she could make her enquiry without having to look at either her host or hostess.
‘Did you hear horses in the night?’ she asked, adding. ‘Well, early in the morning to be exact. Around two o’clock.’
From under her eyes Sarah caught the anxious glances that Sir Edmund and his lady exchanged with each other. He started to reply with. ‘Well, I think that perhaps…’
‘Your conscience prevents you from sleeping, Sarah,’ Rachel jokingly accused her.
For some reason Sarah had been nervous since arriving here this time. Normally she enjoyed Forde Abbey, and had readily agreed when Rachel, who had decided to pursue Edmund Prideaux, had asked her to share a short break in Devon.
‘Edmund was away on business, and arrived home fairly late. I haven’t seen him yet this morning, Sarah, my dear, but I will ask him if it was two o’clock,’ Lady Prideaux explained.
‘I thought that your main interest this morning would be in riding, Sarah,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘I hear you are determined to master Goodyear, a formidable stallion. I admire your pluck.’
‘Foolhardiness,’ Rachel commented without a trace of malice. ‘I never mount up unless I’m sure that I’m on a docile hack.’
It’s a pity you don’t apply the same principle to your men, Sarah thought, doing an inner blushing at her risqué simile. Rachel’s sense of fun and blatant use of suggestively orientated language made her a liability at times, particularly when at prestigious gatherings at which John Churchill was present. Yet Sarah was very fond of her. Whatever Rachel lacked in social skills and morals, she more than made up for in honesty and loyalty.
Even so, she was beginning to regret having agreed to visit Forde Abbey. As much as she liked Sir Edmund, opposition to James II was coming to a head and Prideaux was one of the leading squire rebels. If some move against the King should be made while she was in this house, then Sarah would seriously compromise her husband. She was well aware that King James II hated, and possible even feared, his rebellious nephew.
‘I believe, in all modesty, Sir Edmund, that I can this morning get the better of Goodyear.’
Unnoticed by any of them at the table, Edmund, the son of the house, had entered the room, standing just inside of the doorway as he spoke to Sarah.
‘Not this morning I am afraid, Lady Sarah.’
‘Good morning, Edmund,’ his mother said, anxious eyes seeking the butler who was not in the room. Standing, the old lady went past her son, patting him fondly on the arm while informing him. ‘I’ll have Clive bring your breakfast.’
‘No, mother, I can’t spare the time,’ Edmund called after her, then turned to Sarah and Rachel. ‘You are lucky ladies. When I mentioned to George Speke that you were here at Forde Abbey, he insisted that you spend a few days at his manor in White Lackington. All arrangements have been made. A coach awaits you; my ladies, simply pack a short-stay bag each, and bring your maids along with you.’
‘Do you consider this to be wise at this point in time, Edmund?’ Sir Edmund asked.
‘Absolutely, Father,’ Edmund smiled a practised smile that he knew made the very best of his good looks.
Lady Prideaux came back into the dining room, a frown exaggerating the age lines in her face as she asked her son, ‘Who are all those men outside, Edmund?’
A jolt of fear went through Sarah. The sound of many horses in the night came back to her, and she waited anxiously for Edmund’s reply.
‘Just friends, Mother, simply friends who will be riding on within the hour,’ Edmund answered with his easy smile. Then he turned to Sarah and Rachel. ‘The coachman will be waiting for us, Rachel, Lady Sarah.’
‘I am rather excited about spending a little time at White Lackington,’ Rachel smiled. ‘Will you be there with us, Edmund?’
‘Of course, my dear.’
‘Edmund,’ Sir Edmund addressed his son in a serious tone. ‘I must ask you to spare me a minute or two. It is a matter of extreme importance. Might I suggest that we go into the drawing-room?’
‘No time, sir; I regret to say,’ the son said. ‘No doubt whatever it is you wish to speak about will last until I return from White Lackington.’
Sir Edmund was not satisfied with this, Sarah could tell, and his deep concern worried her further. It was on her mind as she reluctantly packed a trunk, helped by Ruby, her maid. Rachel was smiling happily as she sang a popular song while packing her trunk. In ordinary circumstances Sarah would have been as pleased at the change for a few days as Rachel was. But circumstances were far from ordinary. Her suspicions were further aroused when they were ready to leave and Edmund kept them inside of the house until the sound of his ‘friends’ riding away had faded. Sarah guessed that the men had been armed.
In the courtyard where the coach and coachman awaited, she was hoping for a glimpse of Sir Edmund. Disguising her movements by fiddling with her vanity bag, Sarah wrote a brief note to him, explaining that she believed herself to be in danger and requesting that he have the coach followed and Rachel and herself taken from it. On the pretence of soothing Goodyear, she pressed both the note she had written and a coin into the hand of Simon the Prideaux’s young groom.
‘Please see that Sir Edmund gets this note, Simon,’ she whispered. ‘Do not let me down.’
‘I won’t, my Lady,’ the boy promised.
Edmund was calling to her, urging her to hurry, and she joined Rachel in the coach. Edmund mounted up on a chestnut bay and went on ahead to arrange lunch at an inn.
Constantly looking behind her, to the chagrin of her companion, Sarah was vastly relieved when, some minutes after Edmund had ridden off, she could see a modest dust cloud gaining ground on the coach. It was a rider who was sure to bring an end to the growing nightmare that this journey was becoming for her.
‘Who is it?’ Rachel enquired without real interest.
‘I’m not sure …’ Sarah began truthfully while wondering who Sir Edmund would send after them. The old gentleman would have perfected a plan of action, of that she was certain. Then her hopes were shattered as she recognized the approaching rider as Simon.
Riding up to the side of the coach, breathing hard, his face puffed and red from exhaustion, the boy leaned close to Sarah, attempting a conspiratorial whisper, but his breathlessness spewed out his words as a harsh semi-shout.
‘I couldn’t give your letter to the Master, my Lady.’
‘Why ever not? ‘
‘The King’s men did come to the Abbey and they tooked the Master way.’
None of this made sense to Sarah, and she said snappily and haughtily, ‘What are you talking about, boy? Why should something like that happen?’
‘Haven’t you heard, my Lady?’ Simon asked in disbelief. ‘Eve
rybody do be talking about it, The Duke of Monmouth has landed at Lyme!’
Most of the groom’s words were distant and echoing to Sarah, but the content of what he had said got through to her. His hand reached into the coach, the coin she had given him held in his fingers.
‘You will want your money back, my Lady, as I didn’t do what you asked.’
Sarah couldn’t answer, she felt terribly faint. A darkness was closing in all round her and her head was spinning, She was aware of the boy releasing the coin. She heard it rattle against the floor of the coach as the groom rode away.
‘Oh good, here’s Edmund coming back. I’m really looking forward to lunch,’ Rachel said enthusiastically.
The sound of Rachel’s voice pulled Sarah back from the abyss of unconsciousness. But she didn’t welcome the escape because nothingness would be preferable to contemplating an immediate future that she was certain would be horrible. Wishing that she had obeyed her instincts and remained at Forde Abbey, she shivered as Edmund Prideaux rode up to the coach.
As McFeeley and Jack galloped into Bridport on horses stolen from a farm near to Lyme, a mist had settled to have things normal appear to be unpleasantly eerie. They were riding through the silence of a graveyard, with the hoofs of their mounts muffled. There was neither sight nor sound of the 3,000 men of the Somersetshires said to be guarding the town. They were aware that an advance party of 100 tough Monmouth musketeers was close behind them. Backing them would be a composite strike force of 1000 soldiers. From what the two of them could see of it, Bridport was going to be the rebel Duke’s first victory, a total rout due to the defenders being unprepared.
They rode up the broad main street and were close to the road that intersected it about halfway along its length, when a soldier on guard, startled by their sudden looming out of the mist, tremblingly pointed a musket at them.
Releasing the rope he had used as improvised reins, but staying in the saddle, McFeeley kicked the musket out of the sentry’s hands and reached to catch hold of his tunic with both hands, effortlessly lifting him from the ground so that they were face to face.
‘Where are your officers billeted?’ McFeeley snarled his question.
‘Yonder,’ the sentry stammered, pointing to the Bull Inn that stood on one corner of the intersection.
Throwing the soldier to the ground rather than just dropping him, McFeeley rode to the inn. He and Jack dismounted together, and he ran into the inn first.
Two soldiers, a corporal and a private, leapt up from where they had sat dozing in a corner. The corporal reached for a rifle but McFeeley got him by the throat, slamming him back against a wall, asking demandingly. ‘Where are your officers?’
‘What’s going on here?’
Still holding the corporal immobile, McFeeley turned his head to the militia officer who had come out of a side room. ‘Who are you, sir?’
‘Edward Coker, I asked what is going on here.’
‘The town is about to come under attack from Monmouth’s soldiers,’ McFeeley told him tersely.
Coker laughed disdainfully. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Sergeant McFeeley, Kild…’ McFeeley stopped himself from identifying the militia that he no longer belonged to.
‘You look more like a muck-spreader off some Dorset farm,’ Coker said as another officer came out of the room to stand by him. With a grin, Coker said to McFeeley. ‘This is Major Wadham Strangway, tell him what you’ve just told me.’
‘Monmouth is about to attack Bridport, sir,’ McFeeley made the statement urgent.
Strangway laughed, then turned to his fellow officer and they had a good chuckle together. Coker turned to McFeeley. ‘Whoever you are, get yourself out of here.’
‘But, sir,’ McFeeley protested.
With a threat in his stance, Wadham Strangway stepped towards McFeeley. ‘For a start, Monmouth is in France. Secondly, if he has an army then it won’t amount to ten men, and thirdly, no military commander would launch an attack in mist such as we have here this night.’
As the officer finished speaking a volley of shots rang out. This was followed by some startled shouts that wiped the grins from the faces of the militia officers.
‘We need rifles and ammunition,’ McFeeley told them as Jack stepped forward.
‘Fix them up,’ Coker nodded at the corporal, then asked McFeeley. ‘Did you two arrive on horses?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we are commandeering them,’ Coker said. ‘Come on, Wadham!’
As he and Jack took a musket apiece and bullets from the corporal, McFeeley turned to shout at the officers who were going out of the door into the street. ‘Wait, sir.’
They ignored him, and McFeeley ran to the door, standing with his back against the jamb, using the building for protection as he looked out into the misty night. Riding out of the fog was a Monmouth colonel, bearing down on Coker and Strangway, both of whom were preparing to mount the horses that McFeeley and Jack had rode into the town on. Edward Coker fired a pistol just as McFeeley aimed his rifle at the rebel colonel. McFeeley had no time to pull the trigger; Coker’s bullet hit the colonel somewhere at waist level. The Monmouth officer doubled over, clutching at his side, barely able to stay in the saddle as he wheeled his horse about and was swallowed up by the mist.
Swinging up on to a horse, Coker shouted excitedly to Strangway. ‘I got him, I think!’
A musket cracked in the fog and Coker stood upright on the horse, supported by his knees, before keeling over sideways. A shot had ripped his skull open and his brains splashed bloodily onto the doorjamb beside where McFeeley stood.
Glancing at the mess, McFeeley remarked to Jack, ‘That’s the last thinking he’ll do!’ Then he yelled at Strangway, who was looking down at the dead Coker, wheeling his mount wildly this way and that. ‘Get down off the horse, sir!’
It appeared that Strangway had instantly obeyed the shout. But he came off the horse too quickly, landing thuddingly on the ground, coughing blood as he died noisily and convulsively.
In the mist outside it was complete chaos. There was indiscriminate shooting going on and riderless horses were charging around in panic as McFeeley and Jack, both running at a crouch, left the Bull Inn. An idea came suddenly to McFeeley, having him run back into the inn and snatch up the Somersetshire standard before coming out again to rejoin Jack.
‘Head that way!’ he shouted at Jack over the general clamour, using an arm to indicate the east.
Monmouth’s men, with unlimited success, were coming from the west, which meant that any stand made against them needed to be made some distance to the east. Jack went off down the continuation of Bridport’s broad main street at a lope, while McFeeley spun on his heel to study the panicking horses that were wheeling round him. Spotting one that was saddled, he ran to leap on it from behind, clutching the Somersetshire flag in one hand, gaining the saddle with an ease that would shame a skilled acrobat. Reaching down for the reins, he controlled and pacified the horse before riding to the west, bullets whistling and singing round him as he went, holding the standard aloft and yelling over and over again. ‘To me! Somerset men, Dorset men, to me!’
Continuing west until the rebel fire became too thick to risk going further, he swung the horse about, still calling out his rallying cry as he rode back eastward. The leaderless local militia had been milling around in confusion, and they welcomed McFeeley’s directive. By the time he caught up with the running Jack, McFeeley had a considerable number of musketeers in tow, some mounted, others on foot. Reaching a bridge at the eastern extreme of the town, he crossed it and then dismounted on reaching a stretch of flat grassland
‘Form up in three ranks!’ McFeeley shouted, and his followers, counted off and put into place by Jack, immediately obeyed.
Striding along the front of his improvised company of musketeers, McFeeley gave the order to load. The mist was thinning now, allowing daylight to take over fully.
‘Pay attention,’ h
e ordered, and not one soldier questioned his authority. ‘They will come at us over that bridge, which will bunch them together. You will wait for my order to fire. On my first command only the front rank will fire. Once you have discharged your weapon, kneel and reload. The same applies to the centre rank when the order is given to fire. When the rear rank has fired, and if it is necessary, the same routine will be repeated.’
It was just a matter of waiting then. McFeeley walked to the bridge and took a look along the wide road. Keeping out of sight he saw the rebel foot soldiers advancing with a carelessness born of easy victories so far in Bridport. To a veteran like himself the Monmouth troops heading his way seemed to lack discipline. Some were so confident that they carried their muskets at the trail.
Going back to his newly formed, modestly sized army, he alerted his soldiers superfluously, for the drumming of rebel feet could clearly be heard – and was growing louder by the second.
When the Monmouth men came over the bridge it was some eight abreast and without any attempt at formation. So relaxed were they that they didn’t see the three ranks of waiting musketeers until McFeeley shouted his first order, and then it was too late.
‘Front rank! Front rank fire!’ McFeeley shouted.
At the concerted cracking of muskets the entire first row of rebels went down as if scythed, and several of those further back fell dead or wounded.
The surprise was so complete that the impetus of the Monmouth soldiers coming up behind pushed those in front of them on to stumble over their fallen comrades.
‘Centre rank! Centre rank fire!’
More Monmouth men were mown down, a youngster, a dark stain of blood spreading fast across the breast of his tunic, came staggering on, holding his musket by the barrel and dragging its stock along the ground. He was heading for McFeeley, who raised a hand to stop Jack who was moving forward to protect him. The boy, who had taken up arms for the rebel duke, had the round, bland red face of an agricultural worker. Just feet from an immobile McFeeley, he tried to lift his musket but was too feeble. He smiled a silly smile at McFeeley, as if being mortally wounded and unable to lift a musket was amusing. Then he crumpled. His knees gave way first and the rest of him followed. The lad was dead before he hit the ground.
McFeeley's Rebellion Page 4