The Monmouth Summer

by Vicary, Tim

  "Wait! Colonel, let me." In a moment more the stump was seared and the excess pitch cleared off. The Colonel stared into space, still and silent as a ghost, and everyone in the farm kitchen stared at him likewise. Only the surgeon moved and when he had finished, he stood back and looked at the Colonel also.

  "Now, sir, you have done a brave deed, but your body is sorely hurt. You should lie down and rest, to give it time to recover." He pointed to one of the makeshift beds in the corner.

  The Colonel shook his head slowly. "There is no time for rest yet. I must see to my men. And then I have a bed ... at the inn."

  He got to his feet, and began to walk towards the door. But halfway there he staggered and had to grip the wall with his one remaining hand. Ann saw the hand begin to shake, and then the arm and the whole body shook too, so that he would have fallen to the floor had the surgeon not caught him.

  "Your men be in the hands of God, sir. Trust yourself into His hands also, and mine. You can do no more fighting today, and I have no time to treat 'ee for more injuries than one." He beckoned to the Colonel's two men. "Take Colonel Holmes to the inn, if he has a bed there, and give him brandy, if you can find it. But don't let him fight again. We may need his courage another day."

  The two men came forward to help him, but the shaking had stopped, and Colonel Holmes got to his feet by himself, only leaning on the arm of one man. His voice, when he spoke, was a gravelly whisper, drained of all expression but the grey will to survive.

  "I will take your advice, sir. But I think I can get there on my own feet, while the good Lord spares them to me."

  He walked carefully out of the door, the two soldiers following close behind, ready to catch him if he fell.

  For a moment no-one in the room spoke. Then the man on the operating table groaned, and the surgeon returned to him. Ann could not bring herself to sweep the Colonel's shattered arm into a bucket and take it to the pit in the kitchen garden, where the others were thrown, but someone did, for when she next looked up from cleaning the man's leg, it was not there.

  35

  ADAM WAS woken by the water falling on his face, but this time Ann was not there. The water was dripping from the thatch above the rafters, and he could hear the steady patter of rain from outside.

  He raised himself on his shoulder and peered around in the gloom of the big kitchen. There were ten or a dozen men like himself lying on makeshift straw beds around the walls, some asleep, some bandaged and moaning. The kitchen was darker now as though it was evening, and in one corner a group of flickering tallow dips showed the tall figure of Nicolas Thompson bending over a bloody, pale figure lying on a table, helped by the two men who had carried him in. There was a girl there too - Ann! - in that strange brown riding dress she had worn in his dream. He wanted to ask why she was here, but felt too faint to cry out, and lay back weakly on the straw.

  As he watched, the man on the table screamed sharply, and struggled, while his friends held him down. Then the surgeon held up a bullet in his forceps for them all to see before dropping it with a clang into a pan. Ann helped him clean the wound and bandage it, speaking soothingly to the man as she did so.

  Then as the men helped to lift the wounded man into a bed, he recognised them - the short powerful figure of John Spragg and the bigger, bonier frame of Tom Goodchild. Adam tried to sit up to call them, and then lay back feebly with the pain swirling around his head. But they saw him and came over.

  "Adam! How is it, boy? 'E 'aven't gone to join the Lord yet, then?" John Spragg peered at him cheerfully in the gloom.

  "No." Adam winced at the memory of his dream, and disguised it by touching his head. "'Tis only a bit of a bruise, I think. But who was that you brought in?"

  "Michael Taylor, poor fellow. 'E got a ball in the shoulder when we was driving 'em across that field, and has been left for dead in the rain for three hours since. Tom found 'un when 'e started groaning."

  "Will he be all right?"

  "If 'e don't take the fever, surgeon says. Your young maid's gone to seek some dry clothes for 'un, bless her heart."

  "Ann? Oh, yes." Adam looked round the barn and saw that she had gone. He shook his head helplessly. "Why is she here, John? I sent her home."

  John Spragg laughed. "I'm sure I don't know, if you don't. 'Tidn't my daughter. Perhaps young Tom can tell us?"

  Tom looked bemused and tired, irritated by John's good humour. "No, I don't know. 'Er said summat about escaping from the royal troops, but I didn't follow it at all."

  "Anyhow, you be glad to have 'er yer, Adam, however 'tis come about. Proper home comforts, bain't it? And 'er's marvellous at helping surgeon."

  "'Tis no place for a girl," said Adam, and winced again as he moved his head. "Tom, you're to see no harm comes to her while she's here, now."

  "As best I can, Mr Carter. But we'm to go back to the ranks, now."

  "What, is the fight not over yet? The guns have stopped."

  "Oh yes, the fighting's over, boy," said John Spragg cheerfully. "We drove 'em off, Adam, the Lord blew 'em away like chaff. But now we'm to make ready to march again, it seems."

  "Again? Tonight? But 'tis raining. Have we not beaten them?" It did not seem to Adam to make sense. His head was spinning so that he did not understand.

  "That's what the Duke says." Tom's voice was flat and bitter, in complete contrast to John Spragg's. "Turn your backs and run off through the night. In this bloody rain too. After we sent half a hundred or more of those Papist beggars straight to Hell, and the rest of 'em running back to Bath in the rain! 'E don't know what 'e's at."

  "But what were all the guns? Wasn't there a proper battle?"

  "Proper enough! You saw it, Adam, didn't 'ee? Else what be you lying here for?" John laughed, trying to ignore Tom's gloom.

  But Tom would not be cheered. "That's just it, Mr Carter, you did see it all. After we drove 'em out of the lane and back over the fields the rest of the Papists's army come up and formed a line to face us, like you saw. We should've 'ad 'em then. The Duke was there ..."

  "Ar, 'e was doing his part all right, cheering us on proper, boy. Don't you forget it," said John determinedly.

  "Up to then 'e was. And then Colonel Wade tells Mister Satchell we'm going to fight, and off 'e goes to see the Duke, and what happens? Nothing, that's what! We bloody stand there, waiting, while they brings the guns up and fires pot-shots at each other. And then it rains while we'm waiting, and they packs up and goes 'ome. Just like bloody Bristol, 'twas!"

  "Except that 'twas them as ran off in the rain, this time, not us. Don't 'ee forget that, boy." John Spragg's determined optimism was turning to irritation now, at the heavy gloom Tom was spreading.

  "Then if they run off, why don't we chase 'em, or stay yer? Why's he say we got to march south tonight, eh? 'Tis cause 'e's a bloody coward, that's why!"

  The bitter words stunned Adam, hurting him more than his wound. He was so sure he had seen the enemy run, had heard the cheers of victory. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps he was dreaming again, and these words had come from the depths of his own mind, not from Tom. But John was staring at Tom too, his face as shocked as Adam felt. For both of them, the hidden fear that Tom was right made it all the more impossible for them to admit it.

  John Spragg had finally had enough.

  "Just you keep your mouth shut, Tom Goodchild, if you've got nothing else to use it for than to show your own ignorance. The Duke - our new King rather - has been in more battles, and won 'em, than you've made shoes. Winning battles isn't just a matter of walking up to t'other lot and giving 'em a poke with a pike, you know. It takes brains and experience to know what you'm at, so's you get the right lot of men in the right place at the right time, like we did this morning. If he didn't fight this afternoon, and wants us to march on tonight, 'tis cause he's got a good reason for it, which boys like you wouldn't understand."

  "Then why did Colonel Wade want him to fight? He's got brains enough - and courage. Why didn't we take Bristol?
Why have we got to march off tonight in the rain, like a lot of thieves, when there's men falling down in the ranks for lack of sleep? Do that seem like sense to you?"

  "'Tis not your place to question it, Tom," Adam said, as firmly as the pain in his head would let him. But he knew as he spoke how wrong his words were, how they betrayed the independent spirit they fought for. But Tom's fear - Adam's, everyone's, fear - had to be controlled, suppressed.

  "I come out to fight for the Lord, not for no royal bastard who only thinks of the crown, and lacks the guts to fight for it," muttered Tom stubbornly. "I begin to wish I never come."

  "If you thinks like that, boy, you'd better keep your mouth shut," answered John Spragg. "Such talk is treason now."

  "Then 'tis treason to go on, and treason to turn back."

  The two glared at each other over Adam's bed, until at last the younger man looked away. For a while they stayed in silence, and then helped to lift Adam and the other wounded into the carts. And as the cart lurched and jolted through the night, with men moaning and dying all around him, and rain leaking through the canvas above, Adam thought how utterly unlike a victory it seemed.

  36

  "SO, THIS is the famous Mistress Carter, is it? Well, I see that our friends show some taste in the ladies they kidnap, at least. Have a seat, mademoiselle - Ann, is it not? May I call you that?"

  "Yes, my lord - I mean your Majesty."

  A slight frown flicked across the Duke of Monmouth's face at the reminder of his kingship, as though it were a burden to him. Ann settled herself in the wooden armchair by the fireplace. She thought how strained the young, handsome face looked now that she could see it close to, how big and dark the eyes, how petulant the soft, round chin. Once she had thought he looked like Lord Churchill, but now she had seen them both close to, she knew that Churchill had a strength that this man lacked. Had Monmouth changed since she had seen him presented with banners by the schoolgirls of Taunton, or had he always looked more relaxed and confident at a distance, in front of a large, applauding crowd? Only the smile was as charming as she remembered.

  She wondered why he had sent for her.

  "They tell me you were taken prisoner by the enemy, Ann. By Lord Churchill himself! And yet you escaped."

  "Yes, your Majesty." Ann told him the story, skipping over the details of the attempted rape as best she could. The more religious men in the room - Wade, Colonel Venner, and the pale, one-armed Colonel Holmes - looked most concerned at this, frowning and asking her briefly for the names of the dragoon regiment and the punishment meted out. Monmouth and Grey, on the other hand, were alive to the more romantic part of the tale, of how she had been kept prisoner and the details of her escape. She tried to play down Robert's role in it, but this, apart from the escape itself, interested Monmouth most. Her blush when he asked which of the royal officers she liked the most especially delighted him. The care vanished from his face, and before she could answer he turned to Grey with a gay, knowing smile .

  "I've hit the mark there, eh, Ford! I fancy this young Master Pole has been trying to persuade the young lady to enlist with him! Has he not, Mistress Ann?"

  Ann blushed more, conscious of the stern, disapproving eyes of the other men upon them. "No, sir. He was kind to me, that was all. There was nothing improper about it."

  "Oh, I didn't mean anything improper; though, indeed, one could do with a little lapse from propriety on our side, sometimes. But I think perhaps this Captain Pole's kindness evoked ... more than just a sense of gratitude on your part, at least? Is he handsome?"

  "Not especially, no."

  "Tall? As tall as me, or Ford here?" He indicated Lord Grey.

  "Not so tall. A little shorter than you, perhaps."

  "Neither handsome nor tall. Then what is it about him? Can he sing well? Has he a pleasant voice?"

  "He speaks well, sir. And ... I haven't heard him sing." It was a lie, but she was afraid of the censure of the older men, of the stories that might get back to her father. Monmouth himself she did not mind. His questions were impertinent, but the engaging way in which he put them made them seem part of a conspiracy of fun, as though love were an innocent game for anyone to engage in. Monmouth and his friend Grey seemed quite different from their serious, stern followers; they belonged to the world of Churchill and Feversham, Marianne and Robert, so that it did not seem wrong to speak to them of him. Of the people in the room, she felt that only she, Monmouth and Grey understood that world.

  "You forget, James, that she did escape and come over to us. There must be some greater attraction on our side, to have drawn such a beauty hither." Lord Grey bowed to her, a small, ironic smile on his face.

  "I hadn't forgotten, Ford ; it's just that it seemed too much to hope for. Why did you come back, mademoiselle?"

  "I came back to be with my father, and my betrothed." Monmouth and Grey exchanged a triumphant smile. "And because I saw our army winning, and it seemed more important to me than anything else, so that I wanted to be part of it, and help it, if I could."

  Those words were for herself, and for everyone in the room. This light talk of a romance with Robert was making things unreal. It was not a light matter for her, nor was her decision to return. Yet Monmouth seemed slower to respond to her words than the others. He sighed before he spoke, as though he were reluctant to become serious again.

  "So it is important, at the moment. So important that I wish to forget it, sometimes. But tell me, Mistress Ann, there is something else of moment which I must know, which would help my army immensely." He hesitated, as though reluctant to commit himself, and examined a ring on his finger as though there was some message there. "When you were with these officers, what ... impression did you get of their loyalty?"

  "Their loyalty, sir?"

  "I mean, some of them must have spoken sympathetically of our cause, for they are not all Papists, and many were my friends. Did they … how many of them gave you the impression they might come over to join us?"

  Ann stared at him, surprised, not knowing what to say. Her silence told him what he feared. She saw the colour drain from his face, and the anxious smile with which he had asked the question fade into a hopeless haunted look of despair. Her answer, when it came, was superfluous.

  "None of them, sir."

  "None? But you say you spoke to Churchill, and Weston, and Lambe - did none of them have a good word for us? Did they perhaps look uneasy? Stay silent when the others laughed, something like that?"

  "No, sir. They all seemed very confident, and spoke most devilishly of us. I asked why they supported a Papist King, and Colonel Lambe laughed at me and said it was the rule of law, and the soldiers should all be hanged, and you ... beheaded."

  She had said too much. For an awful moment she actually thought he was going to cry. The handsome, boyish face crumpled like a child's that has been slapped for something it did not do, and he closed his eyes and covered them with his thin, delicate fingertips. Then he got up suddenly and went to the window, staring out with his hands clasped tightly together under his chin, one finger unconsciously feeling his neck. His voice, when he spoke, was high and querulous, addressed to everyone and no-one, utterly changed from the confident, teasing urbanity of a few moments before.

  "Promises, broken promises everywhere! Will there ever be anything else but broken promises? You heard them swear, Ford - you saw the letters! And now this is what it comes to - they laugh at us from safety while we sit in this dreary little town and wait for squire Althorp and his hundred and fifty horse from Wiltshire, who are also promised and also do not come. How can I win a battle against Feversham without more horse? I could not attack yesterday - I cannot even leave these hills without being cut down! And there is no rising in London, which was promised, and Argyll is beaten in Scotland, and my uncle the King in London gives his own promises, that he will pay £5,000 for my head, so that I hardly dare go outside this inn for fear someone will shoot me, while for anyone else who wants to leave ...
"

  "James!" Lord Grey's angry voice shocked him into silence, and he glanced at Ann, remembering she was there. "All is not lost yet, and need not be, if we keep our heads."

  Monmouth stared back at his friend, and shivered slightly. "That, dear Ford, is what we are most likely to lose." But the grim joke seemed to revive him, and he looked at Ann more steadily. "I am afraid your news is less good than I had had hoped, Mistress Carter, though I am grateful for it nonetheless. But now I must ask you to leave us. We have important business to discuss."

  He held out his hand to her. She took it, curtsied, and stepped back. He looked at her oddly, and she wondered whether she ought to have kissed it, but it was too late now. As she went out, Colonel Wade followed her into the corridor. He took her arm before she could leave.

  "Perhaps I could have a word with you too, my dear, before you go back to your father?" He ushered her into a quiet corner, and they sat down at a table, his young, firm hand holding hers gently in his. His calm eyes studied her carefully from under thoughtful, dark eyebrows.

  "You are a brave girl, Ann. Colonel Holmes tells me you helped surgeon Thompson with the wounded. That's not a pretty sight."

  "It is a terrible sight. But someone must do it."

  "Indeed they must. Not all girls could manage it, even so. I think you want our cause to win very much, don't you, my dear?"

  "It must win. It's God's cause. If we lose ...”

  "If we lose it will be God's judgement on us. But our punishment on earth will be meted out by King James, who is not likely to show any more mercy than his master in Hell. As you see, our King James - Monmouth - is a little afraid of that punishment already."

  "Yes ... " Surely this man was not going to turn against Monmouth as well? She could not bear it. "But perhaps he is tired?"