McFeeley's Rebellion

by Theresa Murphy

  Consequently, when Critchell caught Rachel alone he asked, ‘Did anything take place between McFeeley and Lady Sarah, Rachel?’

  ‘No, I give you my word,’ Rachel assured him, and her word couldn’t be questioned.

  This should have been enough for Critchell, but he couldn’t drive a nagging worry from the back of his mind.

  Brought back as a captive to the area of the Bussex rhine, McFeeley had been unable to believe his eyes. There had been a wholesale erection of gibbets and the bodies of executed rebels swung and gently twisted this way and that in the stirring of a summer breeze. Although it had been plain that Colonel Kirke recognized who he was, he was regarded as a rebel and stood now among Kirke’s ‘lambs’, hands bound behind his back and ready for execution.

  A short distance from him a boy, no more than fifteen years of age, who had marched proudly with the Monmouth army, was crying and wailing as soldiers dragged him towards a gibbet. McFeeley recognized a weeping figure kneeling beside the gibbet, wringing his hands as he pleaded for the life of the boy to be spared. It was John Whiting, the Quaker, crying not for himself but for all those about him who were either dead or about to die.

  A well-aimed boot of a king’s soldier knocked Whiting from his kneeling position, pitching him flat onto his face. The boy was hoisted up, struggling and kicking, while the Quaker scrambled to his feet, shouting his objections, only to be knocked down once more by one of the brutal ‘lambs’. The whole terrible scene was disrupted as a carriage was driven in fast, causing Kirke’s soldiers to dive out of the way to avoid being run over. It swung round to pull up beside Colonel Kirke and the small group of officers around him. Almost tripping in his haste to scramble out of the carriage, Dr Mews, the Bishop of Winchester, waddled towards Kirke on legs stiffened by anger and disgust.

  ‘In the name of God I command thee to cease this outrage, Colonel!’ the bishop yelled in a shrill voice.

  ‘The king commands me, Bishop,’ Kirke replied.

  ‘Stop!’ Dr Mews screamed out the word.

  The hanging detail halted in their work, and the cry from the bishop had been so vehement that even Kirke turned to him, as if accepting the shout as an order and awaiting further instructions. Taking full advantage of his attention-getting, Mews addressed Kirke in a firm voice. ‘I will not accept that His Majesty, an Englishman, knows of this barbarity. King James would not condone it, let alone have it carried out in his name.’

  ‘My orders came not from an Englishman, Bishop, but a Frenchman who understands this kind of punishment. You must take up your argument with Louis Duras Feversham, Dr Mews,’ Colonel Kirke countered.

  ‘There is no time for me to contact the Earl of Feversham. The decision must be yours.’

  Kirke looked at the bodies swinging from the gibbets, and to where others had been taken down and stacked in a gruesome but orderly fashion. He then scanned the bound prisoners; McFeeley included, then studied the sun exaggeratedly before at last speaking to the bishop.

  ‘We have hanged one hundred and twenty rebels so far, Dr Mews, and there’s many times that number still to go. But now the sun is on the final part of its journey so I will content myself with executing that group there,’ Kirke indicated a group of prisoners in which McFeeley stood.

  McFeeley found himself being herded towards the nearest gallows, while Dr Mews stood red-faced but speechless. One of the Monmouth men was weeping as he staggered along, another gnawed on a chunk of vegetation that he held, squirrel-like, in both hands, his eyes wide as he peered at an approaching insanity. It was difficult for McFeeley to see these dejected, terrified captives as the zealous would-be soldiers who had in concert sung Monmouth songs.

  The executioners grabbed the crying man, who died on the gibbet as silently as he had wept. John Whiting was still actively pleading, on his feet now, wandering this way and that in his anguish, protesting to no one in particular. An ashen-faced Bishop of Winchester stood by in abject misery as the man who had been eating was led docilely to the foot of a gibbet. Still chewing, he gave his executioners an inane and crooked smile. Then, as they clustered around him to carry out the final tasks, rationality suddenly returned to have him explode into action. A blow from the doomed man’s elbow felled one of the king’s men. This success had him fight with the ferocity of a lion. Blood flew as noses were smashed, but then the ‘lambs’ got the upper hand, clubbing the man to the ground and then taking revenge with their boots.

  ‘Stop it, you men!’ Kirke commanded loudly. ‘Desist, I say, desist. Do you want to kill the poor fellow? Stand him up and hang him.’

  The contradictions in what Kirk had said confirmed for McFeeley his earlier formed belief that the colonel was mad. Consequently they hadn’t seen a bulky but distinguished figure ride slowly up, but his authoritative inquiry, delivered from horseback, had every head, including that of Colonel Kirke, turn his way.

  ‘What is going on here?’

  Kirke walked slowly to the horseman, asking truculently. ‘And who might you be, sir?’

  ‘I am the Duke of Calvert, Colonel, and from your appearance and this disgraceful scene, I take it that you are Colonel Kirke.’

  ‘A man could consider that to be an insult, my lord,’ Kirke protested.

  ‘Please consider it so, for that was my intention, Kirke,’ Calvert said.

  ‘Thank God!’ the Bishop of Winchester exclaimed hurrying over to stand by Calvert.

  ‘I am simply obeying orders, sir,’ Kirke complained, his florid face still registering how miffed he had been by Calvert’s comments.

  ‘Then you will now obey my orders, Colonel, and begin by putting a halt to what is murderous behaviour on the part of an army,’ Calvert replied.

  ‘With respect, my Lord, I am answerable only to the Earl of Feversham.’

  Dismounting, Calvert said. ‘You will not need reminding, Colonel, that Feversham himself is answerable to His Majesty King James II. You will cease this mass slaughter at once; otherwise I shall acquaint King James with your refusal. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Kirke replied, not bothering to conceal his ire.

  ‘These people are to be handed over to the civilian authorities for processing through the courts,’ Calvert said to Kirke, then, speaking to the Bishop of Winchester, ‘I wonder if I could presume upon you to regulate what happens here.’

  At this Colonel Kirke broke in angrily. ‘My lord, you cannot expect me, a colonel with the militia, to put myself under the jurisdiction of a clergyman!’

  ‘Dr Mews will, through me, have the authority of the king, Colonel,’ Calvert replied coldly. ‘Now, Your Grace, I must be on my way. I will rely upon you, possibly with the assistance of this gentleman here,’ he indicated John Whiting, ‘to have a head count and ascertain that not one single captive is harmed in any way.’

  ‘Colonel Kirke,’ the Duke of Calvert was saying as he placed a foot in the stirrup, ‘you will inter every body before leaving here, and submit a list to the Earl of Feversham giving the name and every available detail of each man executed here.’

  ‘My word, sir, it is you!’

  The incredulous words had come from the right and a little behind McFeeley. Jonathan Piper, his thin face showing the effects of suffering and physical abuse. ‘It is great to see you, Jonathan!’ a delighted McFeeley blurted out. ‘What of Jack?’

  As a reply Piper used a movement of his eyes. Following them, McFeeley saw Sergeant Jack dangling from a nearby gibbet. It was plain that he had been dead for several hours.

  ‘He was a great soldier, a loyal friend, and a mystery. He didn’t know where he came from.’

  ‘I hope he knows where he’s going,’ Piper expressed a profound wish.

  Brigadier-General John Churchill and Captain Claude Critchell waited in Whitehall to be brought to the king in Chiffinch’s room, where the Duke of Calvert was first having a meeting with His Majesty.

  ‘How thorough was the check you had made on McFeeley, Claude?
’ Churchill asked.

  ‘As thorough as the circumstances would permit, sir. He did not die at Sedgemoor.’

  Churchill let his eyes wander round the room that was once the lodgings of Will Chiffinch, page, secretary and spy for King Charles. Gaining a feel of history always made the present more tolerable for him. He tried to conjure up an image of the hard-drinking and devious Chiffinch, but failed, and returned to the perplexing problem of Critchell’s anxiety over McFeeley.

  ‘Then where could he be, Claude?’

  ‘I cannot think, my lord,’ Critchell admitted. ‘But I am convinced he would never desert.’

  ‘It upsets me, Claude, to think that though you are free and welcome to approach me on any army subject, you resort to inference,’ Churchill chided the captain in a kindly fashion. ‘It would seem to me that you are implying that he may be held among the rebel prisoners taken at Sedgemoor.’

  ‘I regard that as the logical conclusion, Brigadier. I would respectfully suggest that we owe it to McFeeley to investigate this possibility.’ Critchell said.

  Churchill gravely replied. ‘There are two thousand six hundred captives, and we as soldiers have neither the time, the expertise, nor the authority to make a search for the lieutenant.’

  ‘Surely my lord is not saying that we should abandon McFeeley,’ Critchell said tentatively.

  ‘Our only option is to turn the matter over to the politicians and their fellow illusionists.’

  Relieved, Captain Critchell said, ‘You will initiate an inquiry, my lord? At once?’

  ‘Immediately, Claude, but I must caution you not to expect too much,’ Churchill warned. ‘I promise you that I will broach the subject to the king.’

  As good as his word, Churchill raised the subject of McFeeley as the interview of Critchell and himself with the King drew to a close. The response of James II was not encouraging.

  ‘You will appreciate my position at this very moment. The death of my dear friend Lord Keeper Guildford means that I am myself forced to be Chancellor. You of all people, my Lord Churchill, will be fully conversant with the fact that despite one threat to my throne having been swiftly dealt with, another looms large on the horizon. My nephew will soon pay for his ill-advised and misguided attempt at rebellion, but my son-in-law is a threat which increases daily.’

  Conditions had deteriorated fast in the three days that McFeeley had been held in the overcrowded Dorchester Prison. The reek of the decaying dead had now overtaken the foul stench of the unwashed living. Smallpox, at first a rumour, was now a grim reality. Cruel coincidence had placed Thomas Yates close to McFeeley. The few prisoners who had not surrendered to their own misery spoke of the drunken despot, Judge Jeffreys, who would conduct the coming trials. Talk of the court was so daunting that, when promised leniency if they pleaded guilty, a large number, including Thomas Yates, volunteered. This was a ploy to get more than two and a half thousand prisoners through the Assizes in the five weeks left before the Michaelmas term began in London.

  Yates, who was among the first prisoners being taken to the court, proved that justice definitely wouldn’t be done. A couple of hours later, the jailers threw Yates back into the prison. Weeping uncontrollably he fell onto his knees, holding his head in both hands and swaying wildly from side to side. A prisoner who had been brought back with Yates, who had pleaded not guilty, explained that he was to be transported for seven years.

  ‘And him?’ McFeeley inquired, gesturing towards the distraught Yates.

  The prisoner, a slow-witted country fellow, replied, ‘He did do as they asked and pleaded guilty. They did showed him mercy, right ’nuff. He’s going to be hangded, drawndid, and quartered!’

  When they came for Yates, he didn’t go quietly. They half carried him out, kicking, screaming and pleading. On the gibbet he did not call on God. Over and over again he howled his wife’s name. ‘Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!’

  This harrowing event was on McFeeley’s mind as he was moved into a batch of prisoners due to go to court. He was experiencing an advancing melancholia which was eased as Jonathan Piper was pushed into the line some three places from him. Separated after being saved from execution by the Duke of Calvert, they had not seen each other since.

  Under armed escort and in single file, they were taken outside. Heads twisting away from the bright sunlight, eyes rapidly blinking to screen out at least some of the brightness after having been kept in the semi-dark, they started up the sloping road to the centre of the town. Each side of the road was lined with spectators, some jeering and shouting abuse at the prisoners, all wanting to prove themselves to be loyalists now that the ill-fated rebellion had been smashed. Thinking that he had glimpsed a familiar face in the crowd but unable to put a name to it, McFeeley risked punishment by staring in that direction. The man concerned, aware that McFeeley was looking hard at him, moved backwards into concealment in the crowd, but not before McFeeley had recognized him as Edmund Prideaux.

  Up ahead of him there was some angry muttering among the prisoners. This brought shouts for them to remain quiet, but these orders were largely ignored because a little way ahead of them a boy was being whipped through the street.

  ‘That’s young Billie Wiseman,’ a prisoner with a local accent identified the youth on the receiving end of the vicious lashes.

  ‘He read out Monmouth’s proclamation at Weymouth,’ another man said.

  ‘No talking,’ one of the escort shouted, this time being obeyed.

  A coach was lumbering slowly down the slight hill towards them. The coach pulled over to one side and came to a halt. This caused more discontented muttering from the file of prisoners. The well-to-do passengers in the coach were going to have their fun in watching the shattered remnants of Monmouth’s army pass by in chains and humiliation.

  Until they had reached the outskirts of Dorchester it had been a pleasant excursion through the sunlit delights of autumn. Nearing the county town they had clutched at each other as they shrank away from the sight of gibbets erected around the countryside. Although covering their faces with both hands, the compulsion that the horrific holds had caused both Lady Sarah and Rachel to peep through their fingers at the grisly parts of bodies, the entrails and the blood that had dyed green grass into a rusty brown.

  Entering the town, relieved to have left the gory scenes behind, they found a new horror waiting for them as their coach eased its way down the gentle slope of the main street.

  ‘Oh, Rachel!’ Sarah cried out in anguish as they entered the town and saw a boy staggering towards them; the clothing ripped from his back by the whip was now lashing his bare, bleeding flesh.

  The scene was shut off for the two women then as a line of prisoners, dirty, bedraggled and cowed, filed up the road between them and the arguing clergyman and gaoler. Sarah Churchill’s heart first fluttered and then her heartbeat accelerated as she recognized one of the prisoners beyond a doubt as Colm McFeeley.

  ‘That’s Lieutenant McFeeley,’ she said to Rachel in a voice that she didn’t recognize as her own.

  ‘It is, and, look, there’s Jonathan just a little way back from him!’ Rachel cried excitedly, then leaned out of the coach to call, ‘Come, gallant, we must walk towards the Mulberry Garden.’

  Both Piper and McFeeley turned their faces to the coach, the countenance of the former brightening as he called back across the street.

  ‘I’m afraid, little mistress, the rooms are all taken up by this time.’

  Wincing as she saw a guard catch Jonathan Piper a heavy blow to the aide of his head with a musket for his impertinence, Sarah knew that her irrepressible companion and the soldier had exchanged lines from the play Lady Flippanta.

  ‘Sarah, we must do something at once!’ Rachel exclaimed urgently, agitation having her move about inside of the coach.

  ‘What can we do?’ a despairing Sarah sighed, looking out at a street in which the undercurrents of violence were alarmingly detectable. The line of prisoners had passed on, and if Rach
el hadn’t shared the experience with her, Sarah would now be wondering if she had really seen McFeeley and Piper.

  What was happening now was merging into the nonsensical, shadowy existence that the past few weeks had become for Sarah. On the surface Rachel seemed to be coping far better than she was, yet Sarah suspected that further down Rachel was every bit as uncertain as she was herself.

  ‘We must go to the authorities and report that McFeeley and Piper are soldiers of the king and not rebels!’ Rachel declared with much determination.

  ‘How would we have them listen? What proof have we to substantiate that claim were we to make it?’ Sarah pointed out. ‘Lord Stawell is expecting us, Rachel, and he has been a good friend to John over the years. He will know what to do.’

  Leaning out of the coach, Rachel called up to the coachman. ‘Take us on to Stawell Manor, driver.’

  Twelve

  JUDGE GEORGE JEFFREYS studied McFeeley in the main, and Piper occasionally saying, ‘I have been subjected to stories and excuses at this Assize that for sheer invention would put William Shakespeare to shame. Having said that, I must confess that the tale you tell me regarding yourself and the prisoner Piper stands out as by far the most ingenious. However, you can offer nothing to support your assertion that both of you are members of the king’s army.

  ‘In contrast, McFeeley, the evidence against you is as full and plain as can be. Therefore I have no alternative but to find you both guilty of high treason. For this heinous offence each of you must suffer the prescribed penalty of being hanged, drawn, and quartered. When I left His Majesty he was pleased to remit the time of all executions to me: that wherever I found any obstinacy or impenitence I might order the executions with what speed I should think best.

  ‘In this instance you have introduced to the court a bizarre story of His Majesty stooping so low as to have his soldiers pose as rebels. Therefore, take notice that I shall order the sheriff to prepare for your executions this afternoon.