McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  ‘I only learned the first part, sir, which is to keep that village over there, Chedzoy, to our right. The people there are loyal to the king, and Monmouth’s scouts believe there could be a patrol of Lord Oxford’s regiment located there.’

  ‘Sir Francis Compton’s lads,’ McFeeley commented. ‘They are good!’

  The sergeant spoke for the first time since they had set off, to complain. ‘Better than this lot we’re with. Look at them, sir! They should be muck-spreading not fighting.’

  The column forked right then to slip and slither down muddy Bradney Lane, heading for Sedgemoor. McFeeley saw Monmouth, confident that surprise would bring him victory, leave the baggage wagons, more than forty of them, at Peazy Farm. He also left a guard detail complete with one of the cannon with the wagons, with orders for them to move north once the Royalists had been defeated.

  McFeeley’s opinion of the Duke of Monmouth, which waxed and waned according to circumstance, was boosted now as the rebel duke, his civilian scout, Godfrey, at his side, led his army over the first drainage rhine, the Black Ditch, with great skill. However, a confused muddle, not the fault of Monmouth, followed when he paused to have Earl Grey of Werke bring up his horse to form a parallel column. A watching McFeeley immediately identified the problem as being caused by inexperienced horsemen and unschooled horses.

  ‘They should never have left the farm!’ Jack groaned.

  When some kind of equine order had been restored, Monmouth rode back to the Blue Regiment to summon McFeeley. ‘Lieutenant McFeeley!’

  ‘Your Grace,’ McFeeley responded, stepping forward.

  Dismounting, Monmouth led his horse away from the soldiers, beckoning McFeeley to follow until they reached a position where they could have a conversation without fear of being overheard.

  ‘It seems that I owe you an apology, Lieutenant,’ the rebel duke said.

  ‘Why should that be, Your Grace?’ a puzzled McFeeley asked. Now that engagement of the enemy was close, Monmouth wore the calm mantle of a true military commander.

  ‘Because I doubted you, Colm, which I confess,’ Monmouth replied. ‘A man in my position, a position that is possibly unique in the history of this country, must be prudent when placing trust.’

  ‘In what manner did you mistrust me, Your Grace?’ McFeeley inquired, wondering if they were speaking of Lady Henrietta, but pretty sure that Monmouth referred to his campaign.

  The rebel leader permitted himself a wry smile, ‘I am given to understand that we share a mutual interest in a lady now in Taunton, Colm, but I do not view that as a contentious issue! Your long absence from my command caused me to doubt your allegiance. It was remiss of me. Please forgive me, my friend, and tell me if you are prepared to carry out a special duty for me?’

  ‘What would you have me do, Your Grace?’ McFeeley reasoned that a special duty may well facilitate a return to their own lines for his two men and himself.

  Monmouth explained. ‘We will shortly be crossing the next drainage channel, the Langmoor rhine. That will bring us within some three quarters of a mile of the enemy camp, Lieutenant. Once over that ditch I will be sending Earl Grey and his cavalry on ahead, together with Godfrey, my guide. What I am about to say now, Colm, is for your ears only. The truth is that I cannot put any dependency on Lord Grey when he is under pressure. I want you to choose thirty good men to move up tight behind Grey. I want you to be close behind Lord Grey so that you can force him to accept that it will be less frightening for him to advance against the enemy than it would be to turn and face you.’

  ‘To what extent can I go to so as to achieve that effect, Your Grace?’

  ‘There is no limit, Colm,’ Monmouth said, eyes averted. ‘We are going into a fight that I must win. You can take any measure necessary to have the cavalry continue to advance.’

  This was a golden escape opportunity, McFeeley recognized. He had even been granted a licence to blast Earl Grey of Werke out of the saddle if necessary. Monmouth’s willingness to sacrifice his second-in-command also made McFeeley feel easier about his eventual betrayal of the rebel duke.

  ‘I will do what I have to do, Your Grace,’ he replied in what sounded like a solemn promise although the words meant nothing.

  Grasping his saddle-horn, Monmouth prepared to mount, but he paused to reflect. ‘If only we knew what the next few hours hold for us, Colm! This is not what I anticipated. My army is weak and inefficient but I was led to expect strength and proficiency, my friend. I was content in my Netherlands home, Colm, really happy, possibly for the first time. I had no wish for this, whatsoever. Yet those who wanted a revolution involved me. Now that the hour has come for battle to be done, they are in their homes, cringing like the cowards they are.’

  Feeling sympathy for the duke, McFeeley made no response as Monmouth swung up into the saddle. Though he accepted what the duke had said about being induced to take up arms against his uncle, McFeeley didn’t doubt that the rebel leader had omitted to say that he had dreamed the dream of being king, a dream that would shortly become an awesome nightmare.

  Leaning down out of the saddle, Monmouth stretched his right hand out to McFeeley. ‘I pray that we shall stand together in victory at dawn. If not, and you should survive me, please hold a memory of me in a small corner of your heart.’

  ‘I will never forget you, Your Grace,’ McFeeley truthfully replied.

  Returning to Jack and Piper he explained that they were to make up a special group to follow the cavalry when it moved out.

  ‘How am I going to select thirty good men from among this collection of dolts?’ the sergeant complained.

  ‘The idea is not to select good men, Jack,’ McFeeley corrected his sergeant. ‘If we are going to get away we need to have thirty of the most stupid Monmouth soldiers with us.’

  Understanding, the sergeant grinned as he moved among the troops making his careful selection. There was some kind of chaos up ahead now. McFeeley gathered that Godfrey, who ‘did know Sedgemoor better’n any other man,’ had become lost in the fog and missed the giant boulder, the Langmoor Stone, that marked the crossing place of the Langmoor Rhine. At last, to the relief of everyone including McFeeley and his two king’s men, the plungeon was located and the silent Monmouth army crossed the drainage ditch.

  Up ahead of them Monmouth was sending Grey out, Godfrey at his side and eight troops of cavalry behind him.

  McFeeley had Jack move his men off, tight behind the horse, when a single shot behind them shattered the stillness of the night. Listening to the sounds going on to the rear, McFeeley gathered that one of Compton’s blue-coated troopers had ridden out of the fog to stumble upon the Monmouth army. As surprised as the men he had almost collided with, the trooper had fired a shot to raise the alarm.

  As the drummers set up a steady pounding, McFeeley could imagine the activity taking place in the camps of the king’s army. Perhaps it would be too much to say that the Compton trooper blundering on his army in the fog had sealed Monmouth’s fate, but it had drastically reduced his chances of success.

  ‘Lord Grey! Lord Grey!’ a mounted messenger was calling through the fog.

  ‘Here, soldier, here!’ Grey called back.

  McFeeley led his men towards Grey’s voice, able to see the misty outline of the messenger ride up to the cavalry commander.

  ‘Compliments of the Duke of Monmouth, my lord,’ the messenger began. ‘His Grace commands that you take advantage of what surprise remains. You are to attack and fire the village of Chedzoy immediately, my lord!’

  Then Grey was leading his cavalry forwards at a dash. Running behind although losing ground, McFeeley had Jack and Piper beside him, all three of them calling back to exhort their squad to follow. It was cruel, but when they eventually faced their own lines they would have more chance if they presented thirty Monmouth men for the king’s soldiers to shoot at.

  Moving at a steady trot, McFeeley brought his musket up to cover a stocky figure that came looming out of th
e mist towards them. A civilian, he had a chubby face that was quivering animatedly as McFeeley demanded to know who he was. McFeeley shouted, ‘Hold fast, stranger.’

  ‘I am Godfrey,’ the scout gasped out his identification then said, ‘It’s a disaster, it’s a disaster.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ McFeeley grabbed Godfrey’s jerkin, shaking him violently.

  ‘Lord Grey dismissed me. He’s gone on ahead. Oh, my God, sir, it’s a disaster,’ Godfrey moaned, his eyes rolling in his head. ‘They’ll be at the Bussex Rhine by now. ’Tis dreadful broad and there’s only one way across. My lord don’t know the way, sir, and the foe’s waiting on the far side.’

  ‘The man’s a fool,’ McFeeley cursed Grey.

  McFeeley’s squad came upon Monmouth’s cavalry, which was in complete disarray. They were milling around, riding up and down the bank, seeking a way across the ditch, colliding with each other, having the horses panic. It was a sight that distressed McFeeley. Notwithstanding the need of him and his two men to rejoin the king’s army, he couldn’t stomach the mass slaughter that Grey was setting his horsemen up for.

  ‘Lord Grey!’ he yelled, spotting the cavalry commander and running up to him.

  Swinging his head to take a look at McFeeley, Grey ignored him from then on. Pointing an arm to where lights were sparkling on the far side of the Bussex ditch, Grey informed his senior officers who were gathered round him, fighting to control their horses. ‘There before us, gentlemen, are the lights of Weston!’

  He was mistaken, horribly mistaken, McFeeley knew. What Grey was observing was not the lights of a village, but the matches of the Dumbarton regiment, which McFeeley knew was the only regiment in Feversham’s army to still use matchlocks. What Grey believed were harmless illuminations were muskets ready to deal out death.

  ‘Who are you?’ a shouted challenge came from the other side of the wide, deep and soft-bottomed ditch.

  One of Grey’s officers showed a much greater presence of mind than he did. The officer called back. ‘We are horse with the militia of the Duke of Albemarle!’

  This quick-thinking answer satisfied this challenger, but the challenge was repeated further down the bank. ‘Who do you ride with?’

  Stay cool! Stay cool! McFeeley did a mute pleading. The sound of the rebel duke’s columns of foot soldiers behind told him that they were fast coming close. When the king’s men opened up, as they surely must before long, Monmouth would suffer horrific losses at a stroke. ‘Do you think the three of us could cross further down, sir?’ Piper whispered close to McFeeley’s ear.

  Shaking his head, McFeeley cancelled out the idea. The Bussex Rhine that was defying Monmouth’s cavalry would bog Jack, Piper and himself down if they tried to cross it. They would be sitting ducks for the musketeers of the king’s army, who would regard them as rebels.

  ‘Who do you ride with?’

  The challenge was repeated, suspicion in the voice of the officer who was calling. Doubting that Grey’s officers would be successful the second time by claiming to be with Albemarle’s militia, McFeeley hadn’t predicted just how swiftly things would go wrong.

  One of Grey’s officers broke under the strain that had been building up. ‘We are for Monmouth, and God with us!’

  Everything, including every movement of men and horses, seemed to be held in suspension for a longish period after that proud but crazy shout. Then life restarted and pandemonium reigned as the first volley of that night rang out. Monmouth men toppled from their saddles. The dead fell heavily with no more than a feeble groan, but the wounded shrieked as loud as the screaming of their terrified horses. Soldiers turned and ran off into the night, and deserting horsemen who were gradually regaining control of their mounts followed them.

  ‘What a mess!’ Piper exclaimed in disbelief.

  ‘Stay out of it,’ McFeeley warned, speaking only to Jack and Piper because the thirty men they’d had with them had run away from the terrible scene.

  ‘Are you with me, Lieutenant McFeeley?’ Monmouth’s shout came to pull McFeeley’s attention to where the duke stood holding an infantry officer’s half-pike.

  In the grip of conflicting loyalties, McFeeley hesitated initially. He was aware that he owed allegiance to King James II, but he couldn’t push Henrietta from his mind. Thinking of her waiting with the child she was carrying back in Taunton, he spoke sharply to Jack and Piper.

  ‘You two wait here!’ he ordered. ‘Keep yourselves safe by staying clear of the fighting.’

  ‘Why help him, sir?’ Jack questioned.

  ‘Monmouth is finished, sir,’ Piper called to McFeeley, who was moving away. ‘You can do nothing to save him!’

  ‘I’m doing it for the unborn!’ McFeeley called, aware they wouldn’t know what he was talking about.

  He was up beside Monmouth then, who, seeing him arrive, spoke bitterly through the noise and acrid smoke of battle. ‘Lost by the cowardice of my Lord Grey, Colm!’

  Having determined a strategy of affording Monmouth what protection he could while at the same time not firing on his own men, McFeeley had misgivings at first when Jack and Piper disobeyed orders to join him. The rebel duke had come into his own. Full of courage and vitality he led his column of foot from the front. Exposing himself to the fire from across the Bussex, he kept tight control of his Blue Regiment, deploying them along the bank of the rhine, holding their fire as they settled in so as to be effective when the order came. But the situation was made additionally hazardous by the following White and Red Regiments. Nerves shattered, they were discharging their muskets without waiting for an order to fire. Consequently, as they gathered round the rebel duke to shield him, he, McFeeley, Jack, and Piper were in a precarious position with a fusillade of fire coming from the foe in front and the friend behind. Bullets were whistling by them, passing close.

  Yet from the absolute chaos, Monmouth displayed his genius by restoring an order that astonished McFeeley and must have caused great concern to the king’s men at the other side of the ditch. Twisting this way and that, as if he could sense the trajectory of every bullet, the rebel leader, with McFeeley and his two men at his heels, ran to where his cannon had been brought up. From their accents McFeeley judged the two artillerymen to be Dutch. They were certainly fine soldiers and experts at their job. Staying calm as mayhem went on noisily and dangerously around them they obeyed Monmouth’s order and fired their three small iron field-pieces.

  The result among the king’s men across the rhine must have been devastating. The heavy balls must have cut swaths through the tightly packed ranks of Dumbartons, and McFeeley’s heart went out to his real comrades. From the Royalist side of the ditch the staccato, nervy shouts of officers struggled to be heard above the anguished yells of wounded men, the neighing and snorting of frightened chargers and the occasional blood-curdling scream of a mortally wounded horse.

  Again the cannon fired to inflict great damage among the king’s men. Monmouth, seeing his chance and recognizing it as probably his last hope of victory, was an inspiration to his foot soldiers as he risked his life over and over again to rally their commanders.

  ‘If he moves his foot across right now,’ Piper said to McFeeley and Jack, ‘following up on the opening blasted by his artillery, we may not have an army to go back to.’

  ‘A single musket shot would end Monmouth and his campaign,’ McFeeley observed.

  It seemed impossible to get the rebel soldiers under control. Striding up and down, ordering, pleading, cajoling, threatening, Monmouth looked capable of achieving such a miracle at any moment. This put McFeeley into a quandary. Now that his subversive work, which had been unsuccessful, had come to an end, his duty was to do whatever he could to halt or impede the rebellion. He could finish it by putting a bullet into the brave rebel duke.

  Unable to fire the shot himself, McFeeley would not order either Jack or Piper to do so. Yet he was tormented by guilt as he listened to the cries of his comrades at the far side of the ditch, and
saw Monmouth’s foot take heart from the damage done by their artillery, and begin to make preparations to advance.

  Brigadier-General John Churchill was alive to the serious situation that his Royal army was in. Having made his priority the silencing of Monmouth’s miniature cannon he’d ordered three of the guns along the Bridgwater road to be brought up. But when this superior artillery was close to the Bussex rhine the wheels sank deep into ground so soft that it was impossible to manhandle the guns into position.

  ‘I see your problem, my lord,’ Bishop Mews said as he looked out to where soldiers unsuccessfully fought to move the guns. Then Mews went on to have Churchill become ashamed of his thoughts about interference from the bishop. ‘Have your men use my carriage horses, my lord. They are more than capable of bringing your guns forward.’

  Rapping out orders after offering Mews brief thanks, Churchill had the guns pulled into position by the bishop’s horses. Soon they were in action, roaring as they returned the rebel cannon fire something like tenfold.

  With this taken care of, Churchill moved swiftly and cleverly. His right flank had taken the brunt of Monmouth’s attack, and the brigadier reinforced this with the Queen Dowager’s under Colonel Percy Kirke, and Trelawney’s who were commanded by his brother Charles Churchill. He had these two units move up behind and to the right of the three Guards battalions he already had in action there against the rebels. This done, Churchill then personally led a troop of his dragoons across the rhine to hit Monmouth’s tiny artillery section, having a company of foot follow him to take care of the mopping up after he had hit the Monmouth cannon hard.

  When Churchill had left, the mostly comatose Lord Feversham came angrily to life, vowing. ‘By God, I’ll make these rebels pay for their effrontery!’

  He ordered the main body of Life Guards and Horse Grenadiers, together with four troops of dragoons across the ditch. At the same time more Royal Cavalry returned from patrol work on the Bridgwater road to back up the infantry that was moving up onto Monmouth’s left.

  Despite their huge numbers and superior equipment, the king’s men were repulsed on many fronts by stiff opposition from the rebels. The Monmouth scythemen had no respect for the king’s cavaliers. Standing their ground they swung and slashed at the Royal Cavalry, keeping them at bay.