McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  ‘Can you explain what I am to assume, sir?’ Tonge asked, liking less this exercise the more he learned about it.’

  ‘If I may be forgiven, sir,’ Critchell said as he had Churchill move his arms so that he could roll a map flat onto the table. ‘Come here, Lieutenant. Good. Now, we do know that Monmouth is making for Taunton, and it is reasonable to assume that the ladies are being held somewhere along the way. In fact, we would say that they are here, at White Lackington, or further up here, in Taunton.’

  Lord Churchill then further unnerved Tonge. ‘Wherever those ladies are, Lieutenant, we cannot hit Monmouth in any force until we are satisfied that they are not in an area of danger.’

  ‘Your mission is a threefold one, Lieutenant,’ Critchell went on. ‘Without engaging the enemy unless it is unavoidable, you are to bring us a report of Monmouth’s position, his strength at that time, plus his direction and speed of travel.

  ‘Secondly, with Sergeant Jack as your guide, you are to seek out our lieutenant. If he has not yet achieved his objective of securing the release of the two women, then your third task will be to assist him in doing so.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Tonge said, asking, ‘what is the name of the lieutenant, sir?’

  ‘It is not necessary for you to know that, Lieutenant, as Sergeant Jack will identify him for you. Now, have you ten good men in mind that you can take with you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know who to take,’ Tonge assured the captain.

  ‘And you can leave within thirty minutes?’

  It wasn’t really a question but an order. Tonge’s mind turned to Nancy, wondering how she would take to them being parted for the first time since their marriage. In a way he was glad that it was such short notice. If he hadn’t been leaving until dawn, then he was certain to be weakened by his new bride’s tearful build-up to a farewell.

  ‘Thirty minutes, sir,’ he confirmed for Critchell, who had followed him from the tent.

  With a sly look backwards to measure the distance so as to ensure that they were out of earshot where Lord Churchill and Sergeant Jack were concerned, Captain Critchell moved close to Tonge and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘You fully understand the situation involving the two ladies, Lieutenant Tonge?’ he asked.

  ‘I do, sir,’ Tonge replied, at a loss as to why he had been chosen if he was considered too stupid to grasp a simple situation.

  ‘The rebel army is gaining strength by the hour, Lieutenant,’ Critchell said with emphasis. ‘Monmouth has to be hit soon, but an attack can’t be launched when it might imperil the two ladies.’

  ‘I fully understand,’ a restrained Tonge said, annoyed by the constant repetition.

  ‘I believe that you do understand me, Lieutenant Tonge,’ Critchell seemed convinced. But he went on. ‘As long as the two ladies are beyond danger, Lieutenant, in one way or another.’

  ‘Sir!’ Tonge saluted, did a parade-ground about turn, and marched off.

  It wasn’t until he was back at his quarters and was taking his wife in his arms to prepare her for notice of his imminent departure that the truth hit him. Captain Critchell had given him permission, had ordered him, to kill the two captive ladies if that was the only way to ensure that an immediate campaign could be launched against Monmouth. Holding his wife he felt waves of horror passing through him at the prospect of killing two women in cold blood. Shrinking away from carrying out such an act, he also knew that he would have no choice if it became necessary.

  Ensuring that his face betrayed none of his feelings, being close to Sarah Churchill stirred McFeeley’s animal instincts, while in complete contrast he wanted to adore her as if she were an angel sitting on a heavenly throne. He had orders to rescue them, yet he was certain that neither she nor Rachel were in danger. It was plain that those supporting Monmouth simply wanted to use the captives to reduce the effectiveness of the king’s army. To even the odds, so to speak.

  Now Sarah and he stood facing each other; two strangers with something stronger than the pulling between lovers tugging at them. With her attempt to appear coy defeated by her interest in him, she asked a trifle fearfully, ‘Who might you be, sir?’

  McFeeley put off his answer for a few moments. Whatever he said would dictate whether he was to follow the rural songs of Monmouth or fall back in behind the sombre drum of the king’s army.

  ‘I am a lieutenant with—’ McFeeley began, breaking off when he noticed a minor commotion happening near to Monmouth. A newcomer had caused a stir. A tallish man, he was stooping his shoulders a little to speak to the duke, who was listening with avid interest. There was something wrong, and McFeeley said, ‘Excuse me, Lady Sarah,’ before making his way to the rebel duke and the agitated people around him.

  ‘Please!’ Lady Sarah did a plaintive pleading as he left her.

  Seeing her companion of earlier in the evening coming back towards Sarah, McFeeley could tell that the man disturbed her. That was her reason for almost begging him to stay with her. McFeeley made her a promise in thought that he would soon return.

  On his way across the room McFeeley speculated that a message had been brought to Monmouth that the much-needed uprising in London had begun. It was overdue, and the duke had sent his personal chaplain, Nathaniel Hook, to the City with orders to get things moving. The plan was to split James’s troops and have them fight on two fronts. Monmouth needed either that or a miracle.

  An ashen-faced Monmouth introduced the new arrival, a tall, lean man with a mop of brown hair that had thickly defied middle age, a skeletal jaw and a great Roman nose. ‘This is Reverend Robert Ferguson who has, I regret to say, brought news of a most alarming variety.’

  ‘Most alarming, most alarming,’ an animated Ferguson squeaked in a Scottish accent. He had piercing eyes that he fixed on McFeeley. ‘They are close, man, and moving in fast.’

  ‘The Duke of Albemarle is almost beside us with the Devonshires,’ Monmouth expanded on what the clergyman had said for McFeeley.

  ‘Aye!’ The excited Ferguson took over, ‘and Sir Edward Phelips is flanking us with the Somersetshires and the Dorsetshires.’

  A pensive Lord Grey said, ‘And we will soon have Feversham and John Churchill to contend with. Will you direct that we move out this very minute, Your Grace?’

  The duke was thoughtful. All in the little group, including Henrietta, stood waiting respectfully to hear whatever he decided. To McFeeley a night move, though Ferguson’s news made it seem prudent, would be a mistake because Monmouth’s troops were untrained. Those of his countrified army who did have muskets first had to be given hours of drill by his ex-Cromwellian officers.

  McFeeley noticed now as he had before in his short acquaintance with Monmouth, that it took only a whiff of a crisis for the duke to lose his buoyancy. He anxiously asked, ‘If we tarry here a while, McFeeley, how long will it take to make a man proficient with a musket?’

  ‘He can be taught how to fire it in hours of intensive drill,’ McFeeley replied, ‘but it takes many weeks of practice before handling a musket becomes automatic.’

  ‘You are saying that we have nothing to gain, and much to lose by remaining here at White Lackington?’ Monmouth asked.

  ‘I would not presume to say anything other than that you are in command, Your Grace,’ McFeeley said, wisely and humbly.

  ‘Shall I send orders to alert the camp, Your Grace?’ Grey inquired, making his suggestion sound like a foregone conclusion in his anxiety to get away.

  ‘Give me a little time,’ Monmouth said, walking away with his head bowed. ‘I must be alone.’

  They all watched him go, each wondering what his decision would be, and some, McFeeley noticed, were, so early in the Monmouth campaign, wondering if the duke was capable of making the right choice. There was a niggle of doubt in McFeeley, but he reserved his judgement on the rebel leader until he had something definite to evaluate Monmouth by – such as his first encounter with the enemy.

  Five

  SERCH
ING THE CROWDED room for Lady Sarah, McFeeley failed to find her. Guessing that she had retired to her room for the night, he cursed himself for not having found out where it was. A sudden feeling of isolation had come over him. The clique to which Lord Grey and Henrietta belonged were still together, faces strained, talking little as they waited for the return of Monmouth.

  He went out through the door which Henrietta and he had used to re-enter the manor. But when he stepped out onto a stone-paved terraced to lean against a pillar at the top of a set of steps, the fragrance of night flowers brought back vividly the recent memory of Lady Henrietta and what they had shared. The demure, composed Lady Henrietta Grey, who now mingled with the other guests inside, was not the ripe, ribald woman who had lain with him in the darkness.

  Descending the few steps, he walked along a path where the silhouette of Monmouth stood with his back to him, one hand resting on a statue of Oliver Cromwell. Without turning, the duke spoke, making a name into a question. ‘McFeeley?’

  ‘Yes,’ McFeeley answered, walking up to join the duke beside a small pool, which the statue stood guard over. Water hurried down a cataract of little height. The rippling played a tinkling little melody against stones, close to tuneless but somehow made haunting by the night.

  ‘They await me. They do,’ the duke said dully. Looking up at the statue, he asked McFeeley in a conversational manner, ‘What do you know of Cromwell?’

  ‘That is not a question to put to an Irishman, sir,’ McFeeley replied, his voice tight.

  ‘Reactionary trivia,’ the duke dismissed Oliver Cromwell’s most ruthless campaign with a gesture of one of his hand. ‘He was a benevolent dictator, McFeeley. He lived by the sword and died of a fever. Could the likes of you and me be fortunate enough to die in our beds, McFeeley?’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve given mind to,’ McFeeley shrugged. On that warm night he went cold inside as he found himself breathing in Monmouth’s self-doubt and fear.

  ‘What makes men so different?’ the duke pondered dispiritedly. ‘Even Richard, the son of this great man, was too weak to inherit the world of strength created by his father. They wait in there for me, McFeeley, and I cannot fault them. They are ready to give their lives and ask nothing in return but for me to rid them of a hated Catholic king whose cruel taxes punish them while his “Clarendon code” does persecute them. They are the faithful, McFeeley, but every one of them is of the lower level. When I landed at Lyme the upper class did not welcome me. They hid their valuables and fled. I brought with me in my purse just ninety guilders, which is nine pounds. In Lyme I borrowed four hundred pounds, and that has now been spent, too. I have no money to make payments or to pay bribes, McFeeley. To go on is to meet my death and bring the majority of those following me to their deaths.’

  When McFeeley made no reply, the duke walked away to the house. In his wake McFeeley saw Monmouth stop just inside the door at the same time as he heard Dr Ferguson’s bellowing tones. Moving in behind the duke, McFeeley saw the cleric pacing up and down in front of the crowd.

  ‘It is the same throughout all our West Country,’ the clergyman was telling the assembly. ‘We Englishmen know the Duke of Monmouth is the one man of quality in the kingdom who believes passionately in the rights of the Common Man.’

  On seeing the duke standing inside of the door, Ferguson stopped speaking. But he had already worked himself and his audience up into a frenzy of loyalty to Monmouth. There followed a long silence in which it seemed even the breathing of everyone in the vast ballroom had been held in abeyance. Standing behind the duke, McFeeley saw him jerk his shoulders back, straightening himself up but he couldn’t find his voice. Trying again, making his back rigid, he spoke in a firm, confident voice.

  ‘I want all commanders to go to the camp and assemble their men. We leave within the hour.’

  ‘God bless the Protestant duke!’ Ferguson cried, his eyes alight with an extremist’s fervour.

  Observing Monmouth, McFeeley wondered how much of his renewed determination was down to recovered courage and how much was owed to bravado. Whatever, he had witnessed a thin wedge of weakness in the duke that was fast eroding the admiration he had so recently felt for him.

  ‘Your decision to press ahead is most welcome, Your Grace,’ said a slender young man accompanied by the man McFeeley had seen with Lady Sarah for most of the evening.

  ‘Thank you, Edmund,’ the duke replied. ‘I must stress that we will be facing stiff opposition.’

  ‘Negated considerably, Your Grace, by the plan that John and myself are ready to implement.’

  Mouth pursed dubiously, Monmouth spoke in some discomfort. ‘I find it difficult to have myself begin a rebellion from behind the skirts of a woman, Edmund.’

  ‘That won’t be the case, Your Grace,’ John Trenchard put in. He was older than McFeeley had estimated from a distance, possibly twice the age of Lady Sarah. ‘We seek only to dissuade Lord Churchill from unleashing all of his might until we are fully prepared.’

  ‘I am not certain that will happen. Lord Churchill is a soldier first and a man last.’

  Ignoring this, Prideaux looked to where the host, George Speke, was engrossed in conversation with Dr Ferguson. ‘While Speke’s attention is held elsewhere, Your Grace, I will secure a carriage for the two ladies, and leave it to John to bring them out quietly from the manor.’

  Trenchard looked pleased with this arrangement. It was a sight that had McFeeley make up his mind. Monmouth interrupted his scheming.

  ‘Please see me when the men have been assembled, McFeeley. If you agree I would like you to take a scouting party out ahead of us,’ the rebel duke said as McFeeley walked away.

  Retiring to blend with velvet drapes that concealed an alcove, he watched and waited. At the far side of the room Henrietta and Monmouth stood close together in a deep discussion. John Trenchard was talking to John Speke. Commanders were animatedly agreeing on tactics and Dr Robert Ferguson was kneeling in prayer. Then his attention was drawn to Trenchard ascending the wide and majestic stairs at the north end of the ballroom. Following at a distance McFeeley watched Trenchard reach the top of the flight stairs and turn to his left to go along the landing and up a second flight of stairs. When McFeeley reached the second landing there was no sign of Trenchard. Obviously he had gone into one of the rooms leading off the landing.

  There were four doors on McFeeley’s left and three on the right. He knew that he would have to employ a system of elimination. It involved risk and it had to be done swiftly. Opening the first door ajar he waited, listening. There was no sound, not even a solitary snore. He moved to the next door to achieve the same result. With the third door ajar he found himself listening to a breathlessly whispered conversation between lovers. Eavesdropping made him feel guilty but he had to do it. If Lady Sarah Churchill had welcomed John Trenchard to her bedroom, then Lord John Churchill would have lost a wife and James Duke of Monmouth gained an officer.

  Hearing a female voice husking out phrases in abandoned passion, McFeeley was astounded. He had heard them himself, word for word and very recently. It was a short mental step to identify the voice as that of Lady Henrietta. Then the man spoke. Though gasping from exertion the voice was easily recognizable as the Duke of Monmouth. Quietly closing the door, McFeeley did a mental, cynical smile. The man who flinched from starting a battle from behind a skirt had no objection to preparing for combat from under one.

  Still having a silent chuckle over this, McFeeley stiffened as he heard a muffled female scream. It had come so unexpectedly that he could place its location as the room on the opposite side of the landing. Bursting the door open with his shoulder, McFeeley jumped into the room. With eyes trained to take in detail fast, McFeeley saw the room’s illumination came from two smoking candles standing on a dresser. On a bed placed against a wall a man and woman were engaged in a struggle violent enough to have tangled and twisted the bedclothes so that some had tumbled onto the floor.

  McFeeley
found himself looking at the back of John Trenchard’s grey head. Then a face appeared over Trenchard’s shoulder and eyes opened wide by horror were staring at him. It was Lady Sarah Churchill. With a memory of her groomed, superbly dressed elegance in his mind, McFeeley had to adjust so that this frightened creature, her hair awry and lips pulled back from her top teeth in preparation for another scream, could become Lady Sarah for him.

  Trenchard turned his head as McFeeley took two long strides to the bed. Clapping his left hand onto the back of Trenchard’s head and his right under the man’s chin and jaws, McFeeley lifted him right up off the bed, keeping hold of his head and swinging Trenchard round and round before releasing him so that he rocketed over to slam against the wall.

  Without any plan on the part of McFeeley or himself, Trenchard was upright when he hit the wall, his feet being some three feet from the ground. Leaping over, McFeeley drove his right fist so deeply into Trenchard’s midriff that he was actually able to feel the man’s spine against his knuckles. Opening his fingers, McFeeley used the heel of his hand as Trenchard began to slide down the wall. The hand raked up viciously over the older man’s face mashing the lips and tearing the lower part of the nose from its root. As Trenchard fell heavily to the floor either unconscious or dead, McFeeley turned to the bed from which Lady Sarah had got up shakily.

  She was desperately trying to cover her bare breasts and abdomen with the jagged flaps of her tattered and badly torn night-dress.

  Turning his back, McFeeley ordered. ‘Forget that. Get your clothes on and collect your things. I’m taking you out of here.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked in a voice suffering badly from a tremor. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Get dressed,’ he insisted, still turned from her, moving his right foot as blood from Trenchard flowed to threaten it. ‘I am a lieutenant with the Kildare militia who has been sent by Lord John Churchill to rescue you.’

  ‘But … but … you came with the duke, wearing his uniform!’