McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  ‘It was the only way to reach you. Now, get dressed at once; there is no time to spare.’ If they were to get away from White Lackington it had to be done during the melee and confusion of Monmouth’s army moving out.

  She called to him. ‘I am dressed now.’

  He turned as she was brushing her hair, chin held high as she did so. Trenchard was alive, making snuffling, gurgling noises on the floor now. Lady Sarah avoided looking at him.

  ‘Your companion?’ McFeeley asked, needing to collect the other woman as quickly as possible.

  ‘Rachel is in the room across from here,’ she said.

  ‘You will come with me to fetch her and then we must leave the manor without further delay,’ he said as he went towards the door, hoping that Monmouth had left.

  Following him, she suddenly stopped, saying. ‘Our maids! They are in rooms below stairs.’

  Reaching out, his fingers going round her slim wrist, McFeeley applied a gentle tug to move her along. ‘We cannot take your servants. They will come to no harm here.’

  Opening the door slowly and quietly, McFeeley looked out and released a sigh of relief at the sight of Monmouth making his way hastily down the far end of the landing. He pulled on Lady Sarah’s wrist once again but found she was anchored inside the room. He turned to find her standing at right angles to him, distaste on her face as she looked down upon the battered John Trenchard.

  ‘What if he should die?’ she asked, aghast.

  ‘Then the world will be a better place,’ McFeeley replied as he pulled her out of the room.

  Although still summer there had been an autumn dampness in that dawn. Having finally managed to get a fire going in the hollow where the three of them had spent the night, McFeeley was cooking breakfast in a pot. He had stolen both the utensils and the food from White Lackington. They had escaped without any real problem, although he had discovered that every horse and carriage had been put to use by Monmouth’s men before he could get to them. It had meant setting out on foot, which was hard on Sarah and Rachel. Rachel was undoubtedly the tougher and more resilient of the two. Sarah still slept now under one of the heavy coats McFeeley had appropriated, together with a musket, powder and bullets, from the manor. Waking at first light, Rachel and had gone to wash at the stream that was over the southern bank that formed one side of a hollow ringed by trees.

  With the food about cooked McFeeley became concerned at the length of time Rachel was taking; in these unsettled times there were ruffians of all kinds roaming the countryside. Turning away from the sleeping Sarah, McFeeley picked up his musket and walked swiftly up the bank. Standing still on the crest, he looked to the stream that was not fifteen yards away. Rachel was standing with her back to him, her long hair wet. She was unmoving as McFeeley silently advanced not wanting to startle her, but was surprised when she twisted her head over her shoulder to smile at him.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she teasingly inquired.

  As she spoke she turned her body to face him. Rachel’s breasts were so small that her chest had a boyish look, and McFeeley noticed that the water in her long tresses made them as dark as her body hair. He stood immobile as she walked slowly towards him. Raising both hands she placed them on his shoulders, head tilted back provocatively and her mouth invitingly close to his.

  ‘What of Edmund Prideaux?’ McFeeley asked.

  ‘Edmund is somewhere out there,’ she replied, ‘but you are here.’

  She kissed him then. For a moment McFeeley remained rigid, but then he responded.

  It was close to half an hour later that McFeeley came back into contact with the world. He was lying relaxed with Rachel in his arms, smoothing her golden hair back from her face by using his parted fingers as an oversized comb. McFeeley was relaxed until he heard woman’s cry of fright.

  A bird probing for worms at the water’s edge took flight, either at the sound or McFeeley’s reaction to it. Rachel’s eyes remained closed and she slept on. Gently disengaging himself he jumped to his feet. Ignoring the blurred inquiry of a half-awake Rachel, McFeeley partly dressed himself, snatched up his rifle and continued dressing as he ran to the hollow.

  Dropping flat before he reached the low crest he peered cautiously down into the hollow. He was thankful to see Sarah unharmed and sitting where she had slept. She was staring in fright at two soldiers, one of whom was pointing a musket at her while the other squatted by the fire eating the food that McFeeley had cooked, occasionally passing a morsel up to his companion. The man beside the fire had a musket lying on the ground close to him. The uniforms they wore told McFeeley that they were with the Queen Dowager’s Regiment of Foot.

  McFeeley waved a hand backwards to halt Rachel as he heard her coming up the bank behind him. Fat and no longer young, the squatting man would be too cumbersome to quickly re-unite himself with a musket, so McFeeley cancelled him out as any threat. It was different with the other man. He was young, with long hair drooping like string from under his hat. An upbringing in some city’s slums had given his narrow face the unmistakable cunning that comes from such an environment, and his thin body was alert with the tension of a hunting animal.

  Edging back down the bank to where Rachel knelt, McFeeley explained the situation to her in a whisper. She had dressed, but sloppily so. The fact that it was a perfectly still morning without a breath of air helped McFeeley. He looked to the far side of the hollow at a tall tree with a slender trunk topped by a mass of inert greenery. Putting his mouth close to Rachel’s ear, he was astonished that she had the power to arouse him again despite the desperate situation they were in.

  ‘You see that tree directly opposite?’ he asked in a whisper and she nodded her head. ‘I’m going to skirt round the hollow to get to it. You keep watching the tree, and when you see me shake a branch I want you to shout. Stay exactly where you are, and shout.’

  ‘What shall I shout?’ she asked, woman-like and not grasping what he had in mind.

  ‘Anything you like,’ he hissed at her through clenched teeth as he moved away.

  Crawling along round the bank, McFeeley was puzzled by the presence of the two soldiers. He had expected Critchell to send out a small party in the hope that they would intercept him, but he would need to cover a lot more miles before meeting up with any such patrol. It was his guess that the two soldiers in the hollow were deserters. Once the fight with Monmouth began, the countryside would be teeming with deserters like this pair, all of them dangerous.

  Passing the tree as he crept up the bank, McFeeley stretched his musket up to gently shake a branch.

  ‘Sarah!’

  Hearing Rachel’s shout, confident that it would draw the attention of the two soldiers, he straightened up and jumped into the hollow. Colliding with the standing man he sent him and his musket flying, reversing his own musket with the intention of delivering a blow with the stock to the back of the neck of the young soldier who had been knocked onto his hands and knees. But McFeeley had to change tack swiftly as he saw the squatting man’s hand reaching out and grasping his musket. Lady Sarah Churchill screamed and so did the fat soldier as McFeeley stamped on his wrist, snapping it. Kicking away the injured man’s musket, McFeeley swung back to the young soldier to find that he had fully recovered and was once again holding his musket on Sarah.

  ‘Put down your firearm, sir,’ the soldier said coolly but with a surprisingly well educated modulated accent. ‘I have never shot a lady yet, but I’d do so right now; I swear to God.’

  Believing that he meant what he said, McFeeley did as the soldier had ordered. Straightening back up from laying his musket on the ground, he saw Rachel run to Sarah, and they clung together.

  Swinging his musket now to cover the unarmed McFeeley, the soldier said, ‘This isn’t what it seems sir; we were leaving King James and heading to join up with the Duke of Monmouth.’

  Mystified as to why the young fellow would make such a confession to him, McFeeley suddenly recalled that he was wearing the unifo
rm of a Monmouth officer. He said casually, ‘Neither am I what I seem to be, soldier. I’m a lieutenant serving under Brigadier Churchill.’

  This, when put into words, sounded like a tall story, but McFeeley was both amazed and relieved to see that the young soldier immediately accepted it.

  The problem came with the fat soldier also believing what McFeeley said. He was up on both knees, nursing his broken wrist with his other hand. But then he let go and leaned sideways to pick up the musket. Holding it awkwardly in his left hand, supporting it somehow in his armpit, the soldier, pain and rage distorting his fat face, brought the firearm to bear on McFeeley.

  ‘You can go on your way,’ McFeeley told the pair of them. ‘If you want to be with Monmouth, then that is your choice, I won’t stop you, and I’m in no position to follow you.’

  ‘You’re in no position to do anything but die,’ the fat soldier said, getting up awkwardly off his knees. He kept the muzzle of the musket pointing unwaveringly at McFeeley’s chest.

  A helpless McFeeley saw that the soldier was ready to fire. He took a quick look at Sarah and Rachel, guilty about letting them down, worrying over what would happen to them now.

  ‘No, Matthew, put down your musket. Like he said, he isn’t going to stop us leaving, and he can’t come after us,’ the younger man said. Narrow and not unhandsome the face was serious but made to look strange by his unusually long hair. He lowered his own musket.

  But the older man, trying to rest his aching wrist this way and that, but finding no way to relieve the agony, was too irate to be denied. Aware that the soldier was about to fire the musket, McFeeley stared him straight in his small, deep-set eyes.

  A musket exploded, discharging its shot noisily, but McFeeley felt no effect. Having been wounded several times and aware how excruciating the pain could be, he told himself the difference here must be that he was mortally wounded.

  Then things began to come together in his head. He was still standing but the fat soldier was crumpling to the ground. Both Sarah and Rachel had sprung to their feet, hands clapped over their mouths in horror, while the young soldier stood, stony-faced, his musket leaking whiffs of smoke.

  ‘I didn’t want to kill him,’ he said, as if someone had asked why he had fired the shot.

  ‘I’m glad you did, soldier,’ McFeeley said. ‘Go on your way now, with my thanks.’

  The soldier shook a miserable head. ‘There’s no point in going now. It was Matthew’s idea. I have this feeling that I’m going to be dead soon, so I might as well die for a king as a duke.’

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Private Jonathan Piper, sir. Queen Dowager’s Regiment of Foot,’ the soldier replied. ‘Permission to go with you, sir?’

  McFeeley looked at the young man keenly. For all his sharpness of features and wild appearance he had impressively large and intelligent eyes.

  ‘You would seem to be somewhat uncertain regarding loyalties, Piper,’ McFeeley said doubtfully. ‘What is there to show that I can trust you?’

  ‘He’s dead, sir,’ Piper said laconically, pointing a finger at the body of the fat soldier, then using the same finger to indicate McFeeley, ‘and you are alive, sir.’

  Defeated by this, McFeeley nodded assent.

  It had all the pathos of a tragi-comedy, Brigadier-General John Churchill found himself thinking as his mind resisted the droning, soporific voice of the Reverend Rich spouting a monotone sermon. King Monmouth! It was too ridiculous even to entertain the thought for a split second. Yet Churchill, the High Church Tory, could not come down firmly on the side of King James II. Monmouth had been an enchanting fellow, pleasant company, athletic and as courageous as they come. In those days Churchill had been a mere captain of grenadiers and an ardent admirer of the debonair Monmouth who had been a stimulating commander, a superb officer needing only the stabilization provided by an experienced staff. The army had gone way past appreciating Monmouth; it had loved him for the magnificent soldier he was.

  ‘… They who resist shall receive to themselves damnation,’ the Reverend Rich said for what Churchill was ready to believe was the thousandth time.

  He pitied Monmouth, too, as a man who had a king for a father but was denied the right to be his heir. Once captain-general of the Land Forces, Monmouth was the highly respected leader of a formidable army. Now, due to being wrong-headed, he was a figure of ridicule leading a band of poorly armed vagabonds.

  Knowing Monmouth well, remembering when they had supped wine together while laughingly pursuing the tastiest ladies in court, Churchill doubted that he had either the ruthlessness or the dedication to make his rebellion into anything but a disaster.

  Churchill, moving his eyes rather than his head, looked around him. If there were any local people at matins, then they were swamped by uniforms. In the pews behind him was a detachment of the Royal Regiment of Dragoons, an impressive line-up of scarlet-coated horsemen. Also making up the congregation was the Queen Dowager’s Regiment of Foot, while the dark-blue tunics of Lord Oxford’s Royal Regiment of Horse were prominent. It was Churchill’s guess that the people of Chard, who mostly favoured Monmouth, had stayed away from the service.

  There was a great sadness in Churchill as he watched the black smoke from a candle dance in search of a direction before spiralling upwards. The candle itself was coming to an end, as was the service and, unhappily, James Scott, late Duke of Monmouth. The military net was tightening. His one-time friend might defy the king’s mighty army for a week or so, but when it ended so would his life. That would upset Sarah, Churchill knew. Although his wife had had little to do with Monmouth in the past, this had been due to circumstances as well as geography keeping them apart. Yet for all that, she had, in the way of all her contemporaries at court, admired the marvellous courtier that Monmouth had been.

  Thinking this brought back the worry over Lady Sarah to John Churchill. As a man of action he was always frustrated by delegation. Yet he’d had no choice but to rely on Captain Critchell to handle the arrangements for the return of his wife from the Whigs who hoped to use her to the advantage of Monmouth. This in itself was indicative of Monmouth’s present plight. Such a proud man would once never have permitted any of his subordinates to stoop so low as to abduct a lady.

  With the service over, Churchill walked slowly from the church into what always seems to be special sunshine on a Sunday morning. The clergyman was standing by the door, right hand extended and an uncertain smile on his corpse-like face.

  Taking the hand, finding it to be unpleasantly dry and scaly, Churchill said, ‘My thanks and congratulations on such an apt sermon, Your Reverence. I bid you a very good morning.’

  ‘Good morning to you, my lord, and Godspeed,’ Rich replied.

  Turning away, Churchill hurried to where he saw Critchell standing waiting for him. ‘Any news of Lady Sarah, Captain?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but it is yet early.’

  ‘You have confidence in this Irish fellow?’ Churchill asked, realizing that he was as guilty of reiteration with this question as Rich had been with his sermon.

  ‘McFeeley?’ Critchell checked unnecessarily, held in that sweet pleasure experienced by those who have sensational information to impart. ‘I have reason to believe that he has achieved some result, my lord. There is talk here in Chard of Monmouth’s life being saved when a man was shot, in the church.’

  Critchell had nodded toward the building that Churchill had just left, and he turned to look at it, shock on his face. ‘In the church! My word, Claude, even that soldier of yours would surely shrink from taking a life inside of a church?’

  ‘I suspect that McFeeley would not see it as a church, sir,’ Critchell offered.

  ‘I suppose that he wouldn’t, and neither would His Majesty,’ Churchill muttered, made despondent by having to face one of the many absurdities that beset him. ‘And what of Monmouth?’

  ‘We are told that, as expected, James Scott was given a rapturous welcome in T
aunton, sir. But he dallied there ere long, my lord. When he should have been preparing for war he was accepting banners made from the underclothing of schoolgirls and, I daresay, removing the underclothing of some of the girls’ female teachers.’

  It could be that Critchell was using calumny effectively, but, having known Monmouth, Churchill doubted it. With a smile he was saying, ‘James was ever a man who could fight and a man who could—’ He swallowed the last word as the Reverend Rich passed by close enough to be within earshot. Critchell chuckled.

  ‘On the assumption that McFeeley is still with Monmouth seeking Lady Sarah, my lord, Lieutenant Tonge will be following the column ready to assist or make contact with McFeeley,’ Captain Critchell said.

  ‘Monmouth is heading for Bridgwater, Claude?’

  ‘That would seem to be correct, sir.’

  Bowing his head, Churchill said sorrowfully, ‘It is coming to a head, Claude. There will be blood on the moon before this is settled. Nothing will prevent me from losing a friend, Claude, and I am relying on you to determine that I do not lose a wife as well!’

  Lieutenant Francis Tonge moved up to the ridge to drop down beside Jack who had beckoned to him. He was glad of something to take his interest at last. In the day in which he had been out with his small party, Tonge had been seduced into some kind of half daydream by the glorious Somerset summer. The grass was at its greenest, the trees in full vigour, the hedges they passed shone white with hawthorn, and cranesbills and foxgloves were in flower everywhere. While the soldier part of him fought to keep his mission in mind, the romantic Tonge used imagination to conjure up his bride so that she walked beside him, hand in hand, on the way to a peaceful picnic.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’ he asked, sad because the image of Nancy faded fast as Jack brought things military to the fore.

  Sergeant Jack’s reply was to point down to the road far below. Eyes following his finger, Tonge first blinked then knuckled both eyes to be sure that he was seeing aright. The Protestant duke’s column was on the march. Supply wagons and four sturdy guns strapped onto ploughs were pulled along by shire horses and oxen. Then came what Tonge estimated were seven thousand men who kicked up the red dust of three miles of road as they marched. At fairly regular intervals the column was interspersed by regimental banners. Monmouth, dressed in purple and with the Garter Star prominent, a black-plumed beaver on his head, was in the vanguard, escorted by his forty hand-picked Life Guards of Horse. Apart from this the only real military show came with the long row of scarlet tunics worn by the Tauntonites of Basset’s regiment. Here and there Tonge could see a red or a yellow tunic denoting either a deserter from the king’s militia or a stolen coat. The majority of soldiers in this raggedy army were dressed in workmen’s jerkins and breeches while they marched in labourers’ shoes. It should have been a dejected army, but it marched with a lively step and Lieutenant Tonge at first couldn’t believe his ears when the singing reached him.