McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  The night was filled with a mixture of noises – there was musket and pistol shot, the metallic clang of sword against scythe, the belllike jingling of bit and bridle and the thunder of hoofs on rushy ground. It was a fight to the finish, and John Churchill was in no doubt over whom the victor would be.

  ‘From what you say, Critchell, I’m to be deprived of the chance of confronting James Scott’s army,’ the Duke of Calvert’s face registered regret as he poured sherry for Captain Critchell and Lady Sarah and Rachel, who were guests at his Bristol home.

  ‘My regret is that I am unable to be there at the finish,’ Critchell said. ‘When I left Lord Churchill he was confident that this night would see an end to the rebellion.’

  Listening, Lady Sarah felt that she was expected to inquire after her husband, but she was afraid that her words would come out jumbled if she attempted to speak. She was terribly confused, and filled with remorse, because she had been worrying over the safety of McFeeley rather than being concerned about her husband. Rachel had said nothing on the subject since they had left Bradford on Avon, but Sarah suspected that her astute companion was aware of the turmoil she was in. It was Rachel who filled in for her now as she sweetly made an inquiry.

  ‘And what word of my John Churchill, Captain Critchell?’ she asked. ‘Both Lady Sarah and myself have been worrying about John. Is he in any peril?’

  ‘No military commander, particularly an actively involved leader such as the Brigadier avoids danger, Rachel. But you can both rest assured that he will come to no harm putting down this revolution,’ Critchell smiled at them both as he gave the message, forgetting his prominent tooth for a moment, pulling a peculiar face as he quickly covered it with his top lip.

  There was no reason to feel shame, Sarah told herself, for she had been most concerned about her husband, although worry over the rugged McFeeley had taken precedence. It had been frightening coming here. Thousands of the king’s soldiers had lined the road ready to defend Bristol, and they’d had to be escorted across the Avon because the Keynsham bridge had been broken by Royal command, although it was still well guarded.

  Then Sarah was unable to believe her ears as she heard Rachel questioning Critchell further, and she knew that Rachel was really asking on her behalf.

  ‘That officer who brought Lady Sarah and myself away from White Lackington, Captain, Lieutenant McSweeney, wasn’t it?’ Rachel asked, deliberately getting the name wrong to disguise real interest.

  ‘McFeeley,’ Captain Critchell corrected. ‘Yes…?’

  ‘We were much impressed by his resourcefulness and competence,’ Rachel said vaguely. ‘I, that is, we, imagine that so efficient an officer will be in this battle you report to be going on at Bridgwater.’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, yes, Lieutenant McFeeley is at Sedgemoor,’ Critchell replied, adding mysteriously, ‘but I much regret, ladies, that I am unable to give any further information about that particular officer.’

  Why not, Lady Sarah wondered. During the time of her marriage, which had involved her with the army, she had never known an officer performing his duties with the autonomy permitted to Lieutenant McFeeley. It was as if he did not belong fully to the army as the other officers and men did. That was fitting, for McFeeley had a definite air of independence about him.

  I am thinking of him again, she rebuked herself. There was no point in doing so. Not only were she and the tough lieutenant on opposite sides of the social charm, but, in spite of Rachel’s vow that she would fix her up with a meeting, Sarah had accepted that she would never again clap eyes on McFeeley. She and Rachel had been sent here to the security of Bristol to await the quelling of the rebellion. Then they would enjoy a leisurely journey through the West Country and back to London.

  ‘Would I be out of line to inquire as to your brief, Captain Critchell?’ the Duke of Calvert asked with a smile that was apologetic in advance. ‘Only I would have thought that an officer of your calibre and experience would be invaluable in this Sedgemoor business.’

  Going thoughtful, Critchell gave a wry smile. ‘Once upon a time perhaps, Your Grace. I suppose it is right due to my advanced years, but of late I have been more and more of a shadowy soldier with assignments that are conducted clandestinely, as it were.’

  This interested Sarah. Whenever she had heard McFeeley’s name spoken, either Captain Critchell was there or his name was included in the conversation. It seemed to her that both of them belonged to a branch of the army she knew nothing of.

  ‘Espionage, old boy?’ Calvert raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps it occasionally comes close to the dramatic,’ Critchell gave a modest smile, ‘but my present mission is much more mundane, although some might say it would best be described as macabre.’

  ‘My word, you do have us intrigued, Captain,’ Rachel prompted him to go on.

  ‘It is not something that should be discussed with ladies present, my dear Rachel.’

  ‘We have been close to the heart of James Scott’s rebellion from the start, Captain,’ a piqued Rachel pouted, ‘and I doubt that anything remains that could shock us.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Critchell shrugged. ‘I carry orders to the commanders of loyalist troops. Orders, incidentally, that come direct from his majesty the king. They are to capture as many fugitive rebels as possible and hand them over to the civil authorities for trial in due course as traitors.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Sarah gasped. ‘But treason carries a most frightful penalty.’

  ‘Hanging, drawing and quartering,’ the Duke of Calvert confirmed for her, increasing Sarah’s anguish before he turned to Critchell. ‘But that would be an enormous task for the civil courts, Captain. Surely it wouldn’t be workable?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Critchell answered. ‘Arrangements are already in hand to facilitate the trials of an expected huge number of rebels. For this purpose a special Commission of Oyer and Terminer and General Gaol Delivery is to be issued to Lord Chief Justice Jeffreys and four of his brother judges.’

  Up to that time Lady Sarah Churchill had been ill at ease with Englishman fighting Englishman, a king opposing a king, nephew at war with uncle, but now the whole web of intrigue had become terribly sinister. What Captain Critchell had just revealed bore no relation to magnanimous victory or gracious defeat. It smacked of pure vengeance.

  ‘I can’t see my husband being party to so vindictive and gruesome a process,’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘Brigadier Churchill will not be involved, Lady Sarah,’ Critchell assured her. ‘When the soldier has fought the war the politician takes over.’

  ‘The war will come to an end but the killing won’t stop for many a long day,’ added the Duke of Calvert.

  ‘Surely the defeat of James Scott will suffice,’ Rachel opined.

  Shaking his head sadly, Critchell told her, ‘The king would probably be satisfied had James Scott and his army collapsed when the shooting started, Rachel, but he came close to snatching success. For that neither Scott nor anyone who supported him will ever be forgiven.’

  Eleven

  ‘AMMUNITION!’ THE CRY went up in the hard-pressed rebel ranks. ‘For the Lord’s sake, ammunition!’ Monmouth’s men were desperately short of ammunition, and as McFeeley and his two men stayed close to the rebel duke, who still gamely roused and inspired his men, they knew the end had to be close. The able Brigadier Churchill had brought three companies across the rhine to fight the rebels head on in hand-to-hand fighting while engaging them with musket fire on their flank. Then the Household Cavalry joined the fray. They rode in hard, two lines abreast as they charged into pistol range. Firing their volley, the order was yelled to, ‘Draw swords!’ and what followed was better described as slaughter rather than warfare.

  With the Duke of Monmouth standing his ground, McFeeley’s position was becoming more untenable as each second dragged by. Had Jack, Piper and he been fully involved they could have adapted to the situation. But they were in a state of li
mbo that could only end badly.

  ‘My Lord! My Lord; our ranks are broken, my Lord, the time has come to flee!’ came a cry that was soon drowned out by the sounds of battle, as Monmouth’s personal servant came dashing up with his clothing spattered with the viscera of others.

  McFeeley watched the rebel leader made into a statue by indecision. He stared ahead at the advancing Royalist hordes, saying to McFeeley in a croaking voice, ‘With all the world behind me these fellows could not be stopped now, Colm!’

  Grey, accompanied by several men, one of whom McFeeley recognized as Dr Oliver, Monmouth’s surgeon, came running up shouting, ‘All is lost, James, all is lost! We must fall back.’

  Slowly the rebel duke came alive, pulling off his helmet to cast it aside. Then he ripped off his breastplate and threw it on the ground before taking to his heels and running off with the others through his men, who were dying all around him. It was an awesome scene of carnage. McFeeley realized the duke would find no sanctuary anywhere. His enemies awaited him all over the country.

  Bringing himself back to the plight this left his two men and him in, McFeeley beckoned them and they ran together, going down to the basin of the Bussex. A decision had to be made, but McFeeley couldn’t bring himself to make it. All three of them carried muskets, which they well had need of to defend themselves. But if they approached the lines of the king’s army while armed and wearing rebel uniforms, then they were likely to be shot on sight.

  ‘Disband arms,’ he gave the order as they stopped in a dark hollow to regain their breath. Jack and Piper looked at him hesitantly, not immediately obeying the order.

  ‘Who be you?’ a voice barked the question from above them on the bank of the rhine.

  A big man appeared in a scarlet coat, the three ostrich feathers in his beaver, two white and one red, telling them he was with the Life Guards. He held a musket prepared to fire, aiming at McFeeley.

  There was time for McFeeley to get the Life Guard, but he couldn’t kill one of his own. Beside him Piper was muttering curses of frustration. This is it! With his death imminent, McFeeley felt strangely calm. It was a calmness that ended abruptly when a musket exploded.

  As McFeeley looked up at him the big Life Guard let the weapon drop from lifeless fingers, clutching his ample belly with both hands, and pitched forwards into the ditch.

  ‘I had to do it!’ Sergeant Jack said, to no one in particular.

  ‘Let’s get moving,’ McFeeley said urgently.

  Piper was already at his side, eager to be away, but McFeeley had to grab Jack by the shoulder to pull him along a few steps before he would move under his own volition. A volley of musket fire came from further along the ditch. Turning to look, they saw a row of king’s infantrymen standing on the bank of the ditch in line, having just shot down the rebels who had recently passed McFeeley and the other two.

  ‘We retain our muskets,’ McFeeley said firmly.

  It was raining, heavily, as they set off at a trot, the sounds of the rout of Monmouth’s army going on at a distance behind them, the muffled sound of gunfire and men shouting orders that mingled with the cries of distress. Appreciating the comparative peace around them, it was suddenly shattered by a group of panicking Monmouth horse coming over the bank, heading straight for them. In close pursuit was a troop of Household Cavalry. The marshy floor of the Bussex was the undoing of the Monmouth Horse. Wheeling this way and that, causing McFeeley, Jack and Piper to split up, they were bogged down just long enough for the Household Cavalry to cut them to pieces.

  It was every man for himself now, and McFeeley ran off the way they had been heading, confident that his two companions would follow to join him later. McFeeley had built up a steady pace and was rounding a curve in the rhine when a shadowy figure leapt from the bank to slam against his back. McFeeley was sent sprawling on his face by the impact. His musket had been knocked from his hand, but he groped successfully for it in the darkness. He had the impression that whoever had jumped on him had also lost his balance to fall into the mud.

  Pulling his face up out of the water that had gathered in the ditch, McFeeley quickly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

  ‘Do not move another inch!’

  McFeeley saw a lieutenant with the Queen Dowager’s Regiment. He was sitting up, back propped against the side of the ditch, a pistol held rock steady, pointing at McFeeley, who was at a disadvantage. Seated uncomfortably in water, the lieutenant, lowering his pistol, sighed out the words, ‘It’s you, McFeeley! Thank the Lord!’

  Just for a moment this latest incident in an eventful night had McFeeley dumbfounded. All he could appreciate at first was that the pistol no longer threatened him. Taking an intent look at the lieutenant, who was smiling up at him as he came to his feet, McFeeley instantly recovered his faculties. Bringing his musket up he took two steps forward to prod the muzzle hard into the chest of the other man. Recognition had McFeeley gripped by a rage that was all the more terrible because of its icy coldness. The man he was half-skewering with his musket was the swine-featured Lieutenant Riglar.

  ‘Get hold of yourself, McFeeley. For God’s sake man, we’re on the same side!’ Riglar protested.

  Not speaking, McFeeley could see Riglar in front of him, but between him and the obese lieutenant was an oddly glowing vision of a pretty young girl, Kathleen Nerney, who was smiling in that slightly impertinent way she had been when McFeeley had first met her.

  Turned into a quivering mess by the stark message in McFeeley’s eyes, Riglar started to beg. ‘For pity’s sake, McFeeley. I beg of you in the name of the Lord—’

  McFeeley wanted to make sure the lieutenant died in agony. Easing pressure on the musket away he lowered the muzzle to dig it hard into Riglar’s belly. A gut shot was the most painful wound of all.

  ‘Nooo …’ Riglar opened his mouth wide to scream, but McFeeley fired; the powder from the musket set the lieutenant’s coat alight while the bullet tore through his intestines. With no medical help to hand Riglar would suffer a protracted and extremely painful death. McFeeley looked down at Riglar before walking away and climbing up out of the Bussex.

  McFeeley went on at a steady pace heading due south; a direction which he hoped would eventually reunite him with Jack and Piper. The three of them would then go back to the ranks of their own army. The rain had stopped and as the sun came up a rise in temperature joined the heat generated by walking to dry out his clothing. He was puzzled at having covered a considerable distance over moorland without having a sight or sound of either of the two armies – the winners or the losers. Meditating on this he was alerted by the sound of distant hoof beats. They moved closer until he saw five backlit horsemen coming towards him out of the sun. With no cover available within miles, McFeeley could do nothing but stand and wait, musket held at the ready.

  As the horsemen neared he identified them as king’s men. Ripping off his Monmouth tunic he threw it to the ground, tram-pling it into the peat. Turning to face the horsemen, his heart sank as he recognized first a white charger and then the bulky figure on its back. Riding at the head of the five cavalrymen, Colonel Percy Kirke was coming towards him.

  ‘No chance at all, my Lord?’ Captain Critchell checked with Brigadier-General Churchill, having drawn him away from his wife, Rachel, and the Duke of Calvert.

  Churchill shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Claude. You will have heard that there was some confusion at Sedgemoor, which I presume, prevented Lieutenant McFeeley and the other two men from getting back to us. It grieves me to say that McFeeley must have perished.’

  ‘Did I hear the name of McFeeley mentioned?’ Rachel inquired.

  ‘Only in passing,’ Critchell lied to be kind.

  ‘I would gladly have missed Sedgemoor,’ Lord Churchill said feelingly.

  ‘Nonsense, Brigadier, total nonsense!’ Critchell scoffed.

  ‘What I would willingly miss,’ Churchill began fervently, ‘are the true bills to be presented against the Monmou
th prisoners by the Grand Juries of Somerset, Dorset, Devon and Hampshire.’

  ‘Having the misfortune to know George Jeffreys, I imagine that he is already preparing Jack Ketch, the executioner,’ Calvert said unhappily.

  ‘Surely these people rose up against the king so they must expect to be brought to justice,’ Rachel gave her opinion.

  A morose Churchill said, ‘Vengeance, not justice. Catholic vengeance administered by a Protestant on Protestants at the behest of a Catholic king.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Sarah said brightly. ‘I trust that you will see that those deserving of reward are recognized, John.’

  ‘As you well know, Sarah, I will, as always, act on recommendations made by my regimental commanders. Those reports will be with me in the next few days.’

  ‘The lieutenant who saved us both at White Lackington merits recognition for his bravery.’

  ‘McFeeley,’ Critchell, much more sensitive than Churchill and suspecting that one or both of the women were interested in McFeeley, tried to convey a need for caution to the brigadier.

  ‘I am grateful to you for pointing that out to me, Sarah, Rachel,’ Churchill said. ‘I will arrange an award for McFeeley. Of course it will have to be awarded posthumously.’

  There was great consternation then as Lady Sarah Churchill folded to the floor in a faint. Rachel and the three men rushed to her.

  ‘It is simply an attack of the vapours,’ Rachel explained.

  Gently helping his wife into a sitting position, Churchill accepted fully what Rachel had claimed. But Captain Claude Critchell, standing a little way off, believed that he could see the situation in total, and it worried him greatly. A scandal within the Churchill family was something that the new King James II administration just couldn’t afford.