‘Our French commander does not consider James Scott’s peasant army capable of instigating any kind of attack on us,’ Riglar informed Poore. He moaned. ‘I want more drink, and a woman.’
Unsteady on his feet, a third officer, a lieutenant named Fielder, came over to stand looking down at the piggish face of Riglar that had been given a sheen in the night by sweat and spilt drink.
‘There’s more cider, but the only female within miles is a cow, Riglar,’ Fielder said in the grave way of a drunk.
‘Then bring me a cow,’ Riglar spluttered, then specifying, ‘but it must be a black and white one.’
Flattened by his own wit, Riglar lay on his back, arms spread wide, howling with laughter. It was the toe of Fielder’s boot in his side that slowed him down to a chortle.
‘Shust!’ Fielder hissed to silence him. ‘I saw something moving down by the brook.’
All three of them were on their feet then, swaying as they made their way shoulder to shoulder down the gradual slope. The trio had been made both courageous and stupid by the cider and they went on further than they should have done. A slight movement of a shadow up ahead had all of them halt abruptly, turning back a little, ready to run. But the shadow straightened up to become the silhouette of a person, who was moving toward them.
‘Who are you?’ Riglar croaked hoarsely.
The figure came on, stumbling to its knees, calling to them as it got up. ‘I have come from Lieutenant McFeeley.’
The name meant something vaguely to Riglar. Any possibility of him making something of it was finished by the fact that it was a girl’s voice that had called.
All three officers rushed forwards, and as Riglar reached out to grab the thin figure with both hands to pull it close so that he could peer into the face, he exclaimed excitedly. ‘By the Lord Protector! We have a comely wench here for our pleasure, my friends. Identify yourself!’
‘I am Kathleen Nerney,’ the girl fought to get out of Riglar’s grip. ‘I have been sent to give warning that Monmouth is to attack this very night.’
This made Riglar chuckle heartily, and his three companions joined in, chortling more when he said, ‘The message is balderdash, boys, but the messenger is just what we need!’
‘But Lieutenant McFeeley—’ the girl tried to insist, her words altering to an incipient scream that was stifled by Riglar pulling her even closer to him and covered her mouth with his open one.
‘Someone is coming, Riglar,’ Poore gave a sibilant warning.
Approaching them down the slope, his gaitered legs twisted as he turned both feet to keep from slipping on the damp grass, was Dr Peter Mews, the Bishop of Winchester, who was staying in the camp for the night. As he came closer, Riglar clapped his hand hard over the girl’s mouth and the other two officers moved so as to conceal her presence from the bishop.
‘Is all quiet here, young sirs?’ the bishop inquired, staying a little way off from them.
‘Nary a sign of Monmouth, m’lord,’ Lieutenant Poore, the least drunk of the three of them, replied.
Tilting his head back, Mews looked up at a full moon that had now shouldered its way through the earlier cloud to bring something similar to an inferior daylight to the night, and commented, ‘The duke would be most unwise to attempt an assault this night.’
‘We would see him clearly from twenty miles off, m’lord,’ Poore agreed.
‘Well then, all that remains is for me to bid you all a good and peaceful night, young sirs,’ the bishop said, turning to struggle back up the slope on spindly legs.
As he went, Poore whispered anxiously to his two companions. ‘Methinks we should convey to Captain Mackintosh what the girl has said.’
Mackintosh was in command of a company the Dumbartons, and was a diligent, efficient officer who would know whether or not to alert Colonel Douglas, the regimental commander.
‘It is balderdash, Poore, forget it,’ Riglar retorted angrily. ‘Let us enjoy this gift sent to us by the god of soldiers.’
With that, Riglar wrenched at the girl’s clothing. There was a ripping sound that carried on the night air, and the girl began a scream that was abruptly shut off as Riglar’s meaty fist clipped her jaw.
Up on the crest Dr Mews paused, puzzled by two short sounds that had travelled through the night to him. Considering going back down to investigate, the bishop took a couple of steps back in the direction from which he had just come. Pausing again in indecision, he listened, heard nothing, told himself that he had imagined hearing something, turned again and carried on toward the Earl of Feversham’s headquarters.
Decent, honest and a brave man of God, the bishop would have been mortified had he known what he had just walked away from.
Hidden in the shadows of the graveyard wall, McFeeley witnessed great activity all around him. Rural men, farmers one day and now soldiers the next, tumbled out of unfamiliar billets, obeying the call to action, but frightened now of the unknown that battle was to them. Monmouth’s army was on the move. The clatter of horsemen’s boots along cobbled streets became an orchestrated symphony of war as the jingle of spurs and a rattling of scabbards joined it. McFeeley, who had been part of many such assemblies of militia, could smell fear in the air as was to be expected, but it was diluted by the smell of cider. He thought for a moment of how fast and high the fear would soar if the effects of cider waned before no more than a musket’s range would separate the two sides.
Listening and watching the road, he wanted to warn Kathleen Nerney of the presence of so many Monmouth men. His anxiety for the safety of the girl, acute when she had left him, was raging like the effects of a fever in his head now, when he had expected her to be back. Crossing Sedgemoor in the middle of the night would be hazardous enough for a girl in times of peace.
Once Kathleen had left, McFeeley had gone to Jack and Piper to tell them what was happening. They had agreed that their only course was to be a part of the Monmouth assault, then cross to their own lines as soon as it became possible to do so.
‘We’re going to have to make a show of fighting, sir,’ Jonathan Piper commented in his cool detached way, ‘so who do we point our muskets at – our men or theirs?’
‘Ours, soldier,’ McFeeley had replied, ‘but you aim high.’
To do that would be to satisfy the Monmouth men around them. Even so, getting safely to their own lines while wearing rebel uniforms would be a high-risk move. Yet it had to be done. Sergeant Jack had what would possibly be the best answer.
‘If Feversham doesn’t have a broad front,’ Sergeant Jack had suggested, ‘we’d probably stand a better chance if we flank our lines and come in from the rear.’
‘A good tactic, as long as Monmouth’s men don’t shoot us in the back when we leave,’ Piper had observed.
McFeeley had ended it there, for the time being. ‘We’ll make our plans on the spot when the time comes. We’ll need to know the deployment of both sides before we decide. What is essential is that we stay together. We can only look out for each other if we don’t become separated.’
Thinking back on that conversation with his men had McFeeley fully grasp, perhaps for the first time, the bizarre situation they were heading into. In his time he had operated behind enemy lines. He had been on patrols to snatch prisoners in the night, and had even allowed himself to be captured to gain entrance to an enemy camp, but this would be the first time he would have to pretend to actually be a member of, and fight with, the opposing side.
Stilling his mind then, he tuned in his ears to pick up every sound around him. Believing that he had heard Kathleen’s furtive return, but prepared to believe that he was wishfully fooling himself, he peered out into the lane she would come down. It was deserted! McFeeley pulled back into his hiding place, reaching for his knife as he heard a slight sound from the gravestones behind him.
There was someone back there, McFeeley was sure of it. While he had been concentrating out ahead of him he’d been crept up on from behind. Carefully and
silently placing his musket on the ground, McFeeley placed his knife sideways in his mouth, gripping the blade with his teeth and leaving his hands free to feel his way through the gravestones in the dark. He was moving off when he heard his name called softly from behind him.
‘Lieutenant McFeeley?’
It was Kathleen, and in his relief McFeeley blurted words louder than he intended. ‘Kathleen! Thank God! Did you get the message through?’
‘They wouldn’t believe me,’ she told him from out of the darkness, her voice breaking up so that it was barely audible.
Assuming that she had been running hard, McFeeley asked. ‘Who did you speak to?’
‘Lieutenant Rig … lar,’ she told him shakily.
Instantly placing the ugly young officer who had imprisoned him at Colonel Kirke’s camp, McFeeley silently cursed the bad luck that had the girl find such a pig of a man. Though disappointed McFeeley called fondly to the girl. ‘You did well, Kathleen. Come out now, I’m here by the wall.’
‘I can’t, I can’t,’ the girl began to sob.
‘It is all right, Kathleen,’ he said coaxingly. ‘Come to me, child, I am your friend.’
She stepped out from behind a tall angel carved out of stone. The full power of the moon illuminated her clearly, and McFeeley swung an anxious head towards the street. They were safe for the moment. Turning back to the girl, McFeeley, a man of steel, shrank back when he saw the state of her. He couldn’t bear to look at the child, but knew that he must force himself. Her pretty face was swollen so badly that she was barely recognizable. Her hair, carefully combed back and tied with a ribbon when he had last seen her, was as unruly as that of a witch at the cauldron. Torn and hanging in shreds, her clothes were a mess, and she was splattered all over with what could have been mud, or might have been blood. Of the opinion that it was both, but unable to tell, McFeeley stepped out and extended his arms to her.
Cringing away from him Kathleen let out a mournful little howl that was like that of a small, wounded animal. ‘Oooh, sire, they had me! They had me and treated me real cruel, sire!’
‘You poor child,’ McFeeley groaned, reaching out for her.
Avoiding him, the girl staggered past McFeeley. Out in the lane she did a reeling run. He called after her, ‘Kathleen!’ as loud as he could risk. Either not hearing or ignoring him, the girl went on. He saw her falling this way and that on thin, unsteady legs.
When she first blended with the shadows and was then snatched away by the night, McFeeley had to brush his right forearm across his eyes, angry with himself for being a soft fool.
As it formed up on the Eastern Causeway, the old Bristol road, it wasn’t the kind of army that McFeeley was used to. There was more enthusiasm than he had known in soldiers before a battle, but far less discipline. The Duke of Monmouth was up ahead, a strange look to him in the night due to having exchanged his beaver for a helmet. His Light Guard of Horse attended him, while next came the Blue Regiment, of which McFeeley, Jack and Piper were members. Behind them were White, Red, Green and Yellow Regiments, with the Lyme Independent company bringing up the rear. Lord Grey of Werke looked a superb cavalryman at the head of his six hundred horse. Accepting that quantity was no substitute for quality where warriors were concerned, McFeeley estimated as he looked down the columns that they would outnumber the king’s men.
‘Hang me, if I am not pleased extremely with this new-fashioned caterwauling, this midnight coursing in the park,’ Piper said, obviously making a quotation.
‘What are you talking about, Piper?’ McFeeley asked edgily, still morose from his sad encounter with Kathleen Nerney.
‘Wycherley,’ the soldier told him brightly. ‘His Love in a Wood.’
‘Save it for the ladies, Piper. Me and Jack don’t speak theatre.’
‘I was merely making a point, sir, as Wycherley was. He spoke of London’s nightlife, which I once knew so well. Wycherley’s character, Ranger, was referring to the unlit walks of St James’s Park where the scented women of the night paraded in masks, exchanging badinage and making assignments with the men who accosted them.’
‘I have tried, Piper,’ McFeeley said, finding that the soldier was lifting his spirits, ‘but I’ll be damned if I can detect your point.’
Nodding at the raggedy rows of men around them, Piper said, ‘You surprise me, sir. I thought it plain that what we see here is much more reminiscent of that parade of ladies than any line-up of militia I have ever witnessed.’
Judging the estimation to have been an accurate one, McFeeley gave a short laugh and was about to tell Piper so when he saw some kind of diversion taking place a little way off. Two men were down by the banks of the River Parrett, calling excitedly up to their comrades and waving their arms in animation.
Curiosity had McFeeley follow those who broke rank to go down to the river-bank, Jack and Piper going with him. They saw one of the men knee deep in water, tugging at something.
‘It’s a sheep,’ one of the men on the bank shouted. ‘Pull it out, William, and if it ain’t been in the water over long then we’ll roast ’er later and have us’selves a feast later this night.’
There were more men splashing into the river now to assist the first man in dragging his find to the bank. Then a startled shout went up. ‘Land sakes! ’Tis not a sheep at all, but a body! Give I a hand here, my boyos!’
Ten
DISINTERESTED ANXIOUS FOR the battle to begin so that they could get back to their own army, McFeeley and his two companions stood a little way off. They heard a shout. ‘It’s a lad! Do any of you know who ’tis?’ Then came an awed gasp. ‘T’ain’t a lad. T’ain’t a lad. Look, the clothes is all torn and you can see ’tis a young maid we got ’ere! Pull ’er out onto the bank, my boys.’
McFeeley startled Jack and Piper by springing forwards. When they caught up with him he was peering between the heads of those standing in front of him, trying to see what was happening. He shoved his way through with a shoulder just as one of the men looking down at the body on the bank made a crude remark.
There was total mayhem then. McFeeley felled the man with a rabbit punch to the back of the neck, then bent to pick up the thin little body of Kathleen Nerney. A friend of the man McFeeley had struck was swinging a pikestaff at him until the sergeant back-heeled him in the groin. Another Monmouth soldier drew his sword, ready to deal with McFeeley, who now held the dripping corpse in both arms. From a couple of yards away Jonathan Piper drew a small knife from a sheath at the back of his neck, throwing it all in one swift movement. The blade thudded into the swordsman’s chest, rasping against ribs as it went. Coughing out an eruption of thick red blood, the man dropped his sword and pitched head first into the river.
‘You men,’ Sergeant Jack ordered. ‘Get back to your places.’
They meekly obeyed, helping the man McFeeley had hit, who was rubbing his sore neck, and leaving behind a former comrade who was now no more than a spreading patch of blood on the surface of the water. Piper stood looking anxiously at the back of McFeeley who, still carrying the body of the girl, was walking away into the night, climbing a fairly steep hill. When the young soldier started to go after the lieutenant, Jack stopped him.
‘Let him go, Jonathan, let him go. Never go uninvited to McFeeley,’ Jack advised.
They moved back to stand with the others, waiting for the command to move out. Coming back down the hill, free of his burden now, McFeeley walked along the columns, pausing to call, ‘Is there a preacher here?’
‘Perhaps I could help,’ a tall, dignified man with long, prematurely grey hair offered, stepping out of the ranks of militia.
‘Are you a clergyman?’ McFeeley inquired hopefully,
‘Of a sort, if I am not being unduly immodest,’ the tall man replied. ‘I am John Whiting, sir, a Quaker.’
‘Do you know some burial prayers, John Whiting?’
‘A prayer, sir, should be from the heart, not from the memory,’ Whiting advised McFeeley.
> ‘You’ll do for me, John. Let us walk to that hill,’ McFeeley said, going off with Whiting at his side.
‘Is it a comrade?’ Whiting asked solicitously as they climbed the hill together.
‘No, John, the deceased is not a soldier, it is a she. A brave maiden from Bridgwater who was superior to all of us, including Monmouth and King James II,’ McFeeley said. ‘Yet she was nought but a child.’
‘Then forever cherish her memory,’ John Whiting advised when they reached the small grave, which McFeeley had dug to bury the girl in. It was at the top of a hill that in daylight would overlook the town of Bridgwater. ‘Let her live on in your heart, my friend, as she will wish to do. I don’t have your name…?’
‘Lieutenant McFeeley. Colm McFeeley.’
‘Then bow your head and empty your mind of all thought, Colm, and I will offer up a plea to the Lord for your little friend.’
As he stood respectfully still as the Quaker said prayers, it seemed to McFeeley that Kathleen Nerney was somehow present in the ground-clinging fog that swirled around their legs. It would not have surprised him to hear her voice, so full of life and quick wit when he had first met her; so shattered and full of suffering when she had walked away from him for the last time.
When the two of them went back down the hill it was to find that Monmouth, protected by his own Life Guard of Horse riding fore and aft of him, had given his makeshift and furtive army the signal to begin its night march. Shaking each other’s hand, McFeeley and John Whiting parted then to join their respective units. They marched northwards for the first mile or two; McFeeley was flanked by Jack on one side and Piper on the other. The latter had gathered information in McFeeley’s absence, and gave his report as they marched.
‘What route are we taking?’ McFeeley wanted to know.
McFeeley's Rebellion Page 17