McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  McFeeley grasped the plan. Monmouth would be so grateful at his life being saved that he would immediately take McFeeley onto his staff. He said dubiously, ‘Whoever Fraser is, he won’t be going under his own name. How will I find him and follow him?’

  ‘His looks are most distinctive,’ Critchell replied. ‘He is said to have a scar from a sword that runs from his left temple, across and down the corner of his right eye, all the way down to his jaw.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to notice him,’ McFeeley remarked wryly.

  It was noon when McFeeley sat at a table in a roadside tavern on the edge of Chard. Though his injured ankles pained him, the long walk of that morning had exercised his muscles, cleared his head and made him feel good generally. The place was crowded with men, rustics in the main, all unarmed and enthusiastic about joining Monmouth. A middle-aged bawd with long and greasy fair hair circled the noisy, smelly tavern, hoping to distract one or two from their military aim so as to earn her living. She tried a smile on McFeeley, but he looked straight through her. To carry a musket would have been to draw auspicious attention to himself so he was armed only with a dagger concealed beneath his artisan’s smock. To his left, sitting in a corner, ugly and morose, was the badly scarred man who had to be Fraser.

  A huge man suddenly loomed up in the open doorway, roaring out in a deep voice befitting his barrel chest. ‘We go to serve the Protestant duke! King Charles’s son, the lovely hero! A-Monmouth! A-Monmouth!’

  Cheering and shouting welcomed him and his cry. The man sitting on the bench next to McFeeley, a weasel-faced fellow with sly, shifty eyes, banged both clenched fists on the table as he yelled. ‘A-Monmouth! A-Monmouth!’

  Striding in, the huge man sat at McFeeley’s table, his bulk having a seesaw effect on the bench that came close to unseating both McFeeley and the weasel-faced man beside him. He called for a drink at the top of his voice, while at the same time the bawd was smiling in expectation as one of the older men was taking round an empty tankard into which the men dropped coins. Not sure what was happening, McFeeley flipped a coin into the pot. All the time he kept a wary eye on Fraser.

  Beside him an argument had sprung up between the man passing around the tankard and McFeeley’s sly-looking neighbour. The weasel-faced man was refusing to contribute to the kitty.

  ‘With the woman I’ve got back home I’ve no need to see what this ugly wench has,’ McFeeley heard the sly man object.

  ‘You always was a mean bugger, Thomas Yates,’ one man shouted complainingly.

  The name spun around inside of McFeeley’s head until it attached itself to a memory of the vivacious Lucy. Astounded by the coincidence, McFeeley exclaimed, ‘Small world!’ aloud.

  ‘You got something to say?’ Thomas Yates asked him belligerently.

  ‘Not a thing,’ McFeeley assured the man, not wanting to mix in anything.

  ‘You’se the only bugger who ain’t paid nothing, Yates,’ a gawky creature complained.

  ‘Chip in, you mean bastard,’ someone else shouted.

  Facing too much opposition, a cursing Yates grumblingly and grudgingly tossed a coin into the tankard that was then placed on a table in front of where the bawd stood.

  ‘Come on then, m’dear, let’s see your rabbit-hole,’ a farmer-type called, generating laughter.

  ‘I’ll wager it looks more like a horse’s collar,’ someone shouted. Unabashed, the bawd gathered up her skirts with both hands. Pulling them above her waist, she held them with one hand while pulling down her baggy-legged bloomers with the other. To the crude shouts of men and the delighted sounds made by callow youths she did a slow pirouette to put herself on show to everyone around her. Doing a half-turn, she woman bent over, flipping up her skirts to display huge white buttocks.

  The bawd was doing a second turn, this time bending over, when McFeeley saw Fraser had got to his feet and was easing his way through a crowd of men too enthralled to notice his passing. Preparing to leave, finishing his drink, McFeeley heard disgruntled muttering from beside him.

  ‘I want my money back,’ Thomas Yates grumbled.

  The bawd’s smile became a snarl as she was about to pick up the tankard and Yates’s hand snaked across the table to grab a fistful of coins. Her clawing fingers missed Yates’s eyes and face by a tiny margin as he ducked under several pairs of hands that were reaching for him. He would have escaped if the huge man, who had shouted his praise for Monmouth, hadn’t gripped his shoulder.

  McFeeley was keen to get out of the tavern and on the trail of the scar-faced man. He was on his feet, skirting Yates who was struggling in the grip of the big man, when a scuffle near him, one of many that were breaking out, tipped over a bench, the sharp edge of which caught his ankle as it fell.

  As the bench slammed into the bloody groove carved by the manacles, pain shot through the whole of McFeeley’s body. Partly knocked off balance, he collided against the big man. Taking advantage when the impact loosened the fingers holding him, Yates made for the door. Blaming McFeeley for him having lost his man, the big fellow aimed a punch at him. McFeeley could see the massive fist coming at his face but he was paralysed by agony and couldn’t take any evasive action. A huge fist slammed into his jaw. A light of great brilliance filled his head. Then everything went black.

  McFeeley came round to find himself half-lying over the corner of a table. There was a general melee going on all round him, with the big man felling everyone he could reach, while others fought among themselves. The scene was being played out to a background of curses and crazy laughter from the bawd, who was standing on a chair enjoying the mayhem going on around her.

  Hearing her laughter turn into a yelping scream, McFeeley saw a group of struggling men stagger to accidentally knock her from her rostrum. The bawd disappeared in a welter of flying fists and kicking boots as McFeeley went dodging through the combatants and out of the door.

  He stopped outside; the bright sunlight was a welcome contrast to the dimness inside of the tavern, and he eagerly drew in deep breaths of fresh air to push out the gas of sweat, alcohol and the stink of breath that had polluted his lungs inside of the hostelry.

  With no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious after receiving the blow, McFeeley looked for Fraser. But the long straight road ahead to Chard was deserted. Yet so was the equally long and straight road behind him. Guessing that Fraser headed for Chard, McFeeley decided to hurry to the town in the hope of locating Fraser and preventing Monmouth’s assassination.

  He hadn’t realized the magnitude of the task that faced him until he reached the start of the wide, dog-legged main road of Chard. It was packed with people, most being the yeomen, peasants and artisans who had flocked to Monmouth’s colours. In the main armed only with pitchforks and flails, or home-made pikes, they sported sprigs of the rebel duke’s ‘Leveller Green’.

  Making his way, with difficulty, through the throng, McFeeley kept a sharp lookout for a scarred face, but he accepted that there was little chance of finding one man among so many. The high number of people there was a tribute to the Duke of Monmouth. No other Englishman could inspire so many thousands to follow him.

  Much further up the road now, McFeeley found that the people he was squeezing past stood in respectful silence. He could hear a voice raised in a rousing speech. Unable to find Fraser, McFeeley knew that he had found Monmouth as he heard the shouted words. ‘I have come to defend the truths contained in the Good Book, and to seal them, if it must be so, with my blood.’

  Hearing these words from Monmouth, even though he could not see the duke from this far back in the crowd, a man standing close to McFeeley shouted, ‘By God, for this man I would die.’ In the way of the majority of Monmouth’s ‘troops’, this man carried a primitive weapon fashioned from a scythe blade riveted to a staff of about eight feet in length. Despite the ludicrous appearance of the weapon, McFeeley’s soldier mind told him that it would be more useful in hand-to-hand fighting than the standard musket
with plug-bayonet.

  Pushing on through, he reached a clearing formed by the crowd being held back by rebel soldiers armed with muskets. It was a peaceful control aimed at preventing the Duke of Monmouth from being mobbed by admirers. To McFeeley’s left Monmouth’s transport was stationary and in line at the side of the road. It was a sight that astounded McFeeley by evidencing how light the rebel duke was travelling. There were no more than thirty-five supply wagons, drawn by oxen and carthorses, and the four cannon he had brought from Holland with him were strapped onto ploughs. Thinking of the massive forces that James II was gathering to go against Monmouth, he found himself not only pitying the duke, but feeling a great fear for him and the men he had gathered to serve him.

  Forcing his way to the front rank of the crowd, McFeeley’s ears were filled with joyous cries of, ‘A-Monmouth and the Protestant religion’, before silence descended as they waited for their hero to continue his speech to them.

  He found himself standing beside a man in his mid-twenties who, with a friendly smile, extended his right hand to McFeeley and introduced himself. ‘Daniel Defoe’.

  The stranger seemed to be of a mind that the name would mean something to McFeeley, who shook the proffered hand while he said, ‘I don’t know the name.’

  ‘Methinks that one day my name will be known,’ Defoe replied in absolute modesty. ‘But first I will pledge my all to the Monmouth cause. What did you say your name is, friend?’

  McFeeley told him, able to see Monmouth now. This was his second sighting of the man, and it was every bit as exhilarating as the first. Looking every inch a prince, in his royal purple suit and with the sun twinkling on the silver Garter star above his heart, his dark brown periwig was neatly combed, while the sword at his thigh confirmed his image as a leader ready for war.

  Beside Monmouth was a man with a brace of pistols in his belt and a musket on his shoulder. Obviously the duke’s right-hand man, he gave the impression of being the complete soldier, but there was something familiar about his face that niggled at McFeeley’s mind.

  ‘Who is that man with the duke?’ he asked Defoe.

  ‘Lord Grey of Werke,’ came the answer, and before Defoe could add, ‘he’s in command of Monmouth’s cavalry,’ McFeeley had identified Lord Grey’s weak, dissolute face as that of the man who had turned in fear and galloped away when leading the horsemen at Bridport.

  Having been seduced away from his mission by studying the Monmouth set-up, McFeeley brought his mind back to Fraser. The Duke of Monmouth presented an easy target as he stood addressing the crowd. But Fraser was after the £5,000 reward for killing the rebel duke, so he was not likely to fire from among people who would tear him limb from limb.

  Scanning all the high vantage points from which a musketeer could put a bullet into Monmouth, McFeeley glumly realized that it could be any one of some twenty places. He considered taking Defoe into his confidence, having him search ten of the buildings while he took the remaining half. But that would take considerable time, and Monmouth was definitely coming to the end of his speech, so the shot had to come at any moment.

  A rapt silence had settled on the Monmouth multitude. Everyone was waiting to give him an adoring ovation when he had concluded speaking. Over the top of the duke’s voice, the keen ears of McFeeley picked up one single and insignificant sound. At first it meant nothing to him. Then he found himself trying to place it without knowing why. Intuition had played an important role in his life to date, and now it was urging him to concentrate. It had been a dull, metallic sound. He waited for it to occur again, but it didn’t.

  McFeeley looked around him, desperate now to identify the sound. In a split second everything came together in his head. The sound had definitely come from the long, low, fifteenth-century church on his right. The bell-tower was not high, but it was tall enough to permit a direct bead on the Duke of Monmouth. McFeeley knew beyond all doubt that the sound he had heard was that of a nervous or careless Fraser catching his musket against the bell.

  ‘Defoe,’ he said tersely, catching his new friend by the arm, ‘run to His Grace and have him seek shelter – now!’

  ‘I don’t understand …’ Defoe, intelligent though he was, was bemused by McFeeley’s behaviour.

  Trusting his instincts while accepting that he could be wrong and the consequences serious if he was, McFeeley grabbed a musket from the Monmouth soldier nearest him. Taken by surprise the man relinquished his firearm easily.

  Running off towards the church, his feet kicking up dust, McFeeley saw Defoe struggling with two of the soldiers positioned to hold back the crowd. McFeeley was relived to see Defoe break free and run towards the rebel duke. Muskets were levelled at him, but the soldiers couldn’t risk firing at Defoe for fear of hitting Monmouth. No such restriction applied to McFeeley, though and as he skidded to a halt at the church door, a bullet chipped stone splinters from the wall beside his head.

  Four

  CRASHING IN THROUGH the church door, McFeeley blinked away a half-blindness brought on by the shadowy interior. A darkly clothed man at the altar turned to rebuke him in the practised voice of a preacher. ‘Bring not the weapons of death into the house of the Lord, sinner. I am Reverend Mr Rich. Leave, young sir! Go now before you incur the wrath of the Lord.’

  Running past him, McFeeley headed for the small but sturdy door into the tower. Raising his right leg, he kicked the door open. It thudded against the inner wall as a cry of outrage came from the direction of the altar. Standing at the foot of a rickety spiral staircase, McFeeley discovered that the tower was much less lofty than he had imagined. He could see the single bell with what had to be the scar-faced man with his back resting against it, musket aimed down into the road below. Realizing that his noisy entrance into the tower would have pushed Fraser into a panic action, McFeeley yelled Fraser’s name, his voice booming like that of something disembodied in a tomb.

  Even as he shouted, a shot was fired above. Knowing that Monmouth had been the target, McFeeley fired his musket. In reply he got something like the yelp of a kicked dog; Fraser’s musket fell first, followed by Fraser tumbling down the twisting staircase. Rolling the last few steps, he landed on his back at McFeeley’s feet. From the blood staining Fraser’s homespun shirt, McFeeley could tell that his bullet had caught the man in the left side a little below the heart.

  His deep, long and jagged scar having turned purple, Fraser lifted his eyelids to look at McFeeley. Drawing his knife, McFeeley went down on one knee to slice open the wounded man’s shirt. What he saw told him that Fraser had only a short time left.

  ‘You’re a king’s man, aren’t you,’ the scar-faced man said weakly.

  Giving a nod of confirmation, McFeeley folded the injured man’s shirt back over the deep wound, and told him, ‘You’re not going to be around to collect the reward on Monmouth’s head.’

  ‘Reward!’ Fraser gave a chuckle that set blood gurgling in his lungs, and a red froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth. ‘I was not seeking the reward, but carrying out my orders. You are looking at what is left of Captain Hamish Fraser of the King’s Own Royal Regiment of Dragoons.’

  McFeeley was shocked at having shot and fatally wounded a fellow soldier. This caused him grief but he felt a great rage as he saw that Fraser had been set up as an assassin, and himself sent out to kill him, all for the sake of McFeeley gaining Monmouth’s confidence so as to secure the release of Lady Sarah Churchill. He understood that sacrifices on the battlefield were unavoidable. But that was a very different thing to the cold and inhuman way in which Fraser and he had been used.

  He was attempting to make the injured man more comfortable when he saw a pair of gaitered legs beside him. The Reverend Rich stood there, looking down forlornly at the stricken Fraser.

  ‘Has the Duke of Monmouth been injured, Your Reverence?’

  ‘No. The bullet fired caused a minor wound to the hand of a man standing nearby.’

  Overhearing this, Fraser showed a coura
geous, wry humour by remarking, ‘I will die knowing that I failed in my last act on earth.’

  A voice that still had the sound of Monmouth despite being weakened by the thick walls of the church, reached McFeeley, and was followed by a roar of concerted cheering from the crowd as a fit of violent coughing overtook Fraser. Blood gushing from his mouth, he died.

  Wanting to do something for Fraser but stymied by the finality of death, McFeeley turned his head to ask Rich, ‘Can you do something for him, sir?’

  ‘The angels will hold him in their arms,’ Rich said, adding, ‘it is you who is desperately in need of help, my son.’

  ‘Then when, and if, my time comes to need help, I hope that you will be there, sir.’

  In the doorway of the church, steeling himself to step out into a world he suddenly lost any enthusiasm for, McFeeley turned when the clergyman called softly to him. ‘Your kind is always alone when their time comes, my son.’

  This sent an ice-cold sensation through McFeeley as he walked outside, stepping back a pace as the crowd yelled his praises, calling him ‘the saviour’ as they came running his way. They were held back by Monmouth musketeers who protectively escorted McFeeley to the Duke of Monmouth. He was standing with Lord Grey, an embarrassed and uncomfortable Daniel Defoe and a woman whose beauty would have been remarkable even had the raw essence of sensuality not been stirred into it. The result was a sexual force that emanated from her with such power that it temporarily drove everything from McFeeley’s mind, except his sorrow at having killed Fraser.

  Reaching Monmouth, he dropped to one knee, ready to kiss the hand of the duke. ‘Your Grace …’ McFeeley began, but the hand holding his brought him to his feet.

  ‘It is I who should be kneeling before you, my dear friend,’ Monmouth said, his special appearance having an even greater affect on McFeeley than the sight of him aboard the Helderenberg had had. ‘You have saved my life, I shall be eternally beholden to you and this young fellow here, I have asked him to join my army as a ranking officer.’