Rather than heed that advice or embrace such cynicism, Oglethorpe stared balefully back at the long line of soldiers behind them. Those foremost avoided his eye.
‘I’ll speak as I see fit and expose the spine of any trooper who gainsays me. If it should chance to be an officer I’ll call him out and …’
Monmouth shook his head ruefully. ‘Your temper, Theo, old friend – and all these duels. You’ll come unstuck sooner or later.’
‘Offended honour does not weigh the odds, my Lord.’
‘Speak for yourself. Still, I’m pleased to find you in your usual martial spirit; it will come in useful. I heard about Crookham-by-Flodden.’
Mention of the skirmish roused Oglethorpe from the melancholy into which he had spiralled. Between them, the madness gripping England and the sights of Scotland had quite depressed his spirit. Edinburgh in particular made him feel he languished on the edge of the world, far from Christendom. The huts, the weather, the lack of trees, the accents and pastimes were all … unacceptable. It was even said that there were still wolves hereabouts, though if so they were discreet; too few and wise to disturb the night with howls.
‘My oath, yes!’ he beamed, cheered by the recollection of battle. ‘That was good. Your average Covenanter horseman, well, he makes a good show, beating his breast in prayer, but get up close, stick a pistol in his visage and he’s off!’
Monmouth signalled his agreement. ‘The dragoons performed well, I understand.’
‘Passably. They all followed me and got stuck in. I don’t recall having to hang anyone afterwards for laggardness. All in all it was a signal honour to disperse His Majesty’s enemies on such a hallowed site.’
‘Hallowed?’ asked Monmouth, his pallid face en route to a sneer. ‘How so?’
‘Look to your History, my Lord,’ chided Oglethorpe. It was one of very few school lessons to have set grappling hooks in his mind. ‘Flodden Field was the occasion of our nation’s most glorious victory over the barbarians amongst whom we campaign. In 1513 the Earl of Surrey slew their invading King James IV – and twelve Earls – and nineteen Barons – and three hundred assorted Knights and lairds; not to mention the Archbishop of St. Andrews, two Bishops, two Abbots and the Provost of Edinburgh and …’
‘Not to mention, that is right,’ advised Monmouth fervently. ‘Best not to mention.’
Oglethorpe looked about, again surprised. He could see no reason for restraint. Their Scottish auxiliaries were well back in the line of march, and if one should hear, well, so what?
‘I cultivate a certain … delicacy in such matters,’ explained the Duke. ‘It is not my wish to excite the sensitivities of our partners in these Isles in any way. As with the loathsome Oates, I have my uses for them.’
Theophilus accepted that Monmouth moved in circles which imposed restrictions on free expression, but didn’t see why he should be similarly afflicted. If it had come from anyone else another duel might have been in the offing.
‘I only spoke the facts, my Lord. We have our history and they have theirs.’
Monmouth was keen that his point be made. He reined in his horse and leant close to his friend. The army lumbered to a halt behind them.
‘Exactly,’ he hissed. ‘And history is the record of the contest of life – but one with no court of appeal. The losers mislike to hear past decisions. Humour me in this Theophilus, or we shall walk together no more!’
Monmouth’s propensity to consort with scholars of the Celtic persuasion and entertain paladins of their dying tongues was well known. In London there had been many a time when Theophilus needed to fight his way through a swarm of Druidic types to get to see his patron. Though strange and inconvenient he’d always thought it to be a harmless interest. Far better that than the less innocent enthusiasms of the Duke’s youth. Now Theophilus was less sure. For it to threaten a rupture between them, the Duke was clearly more engaged than was thought.
‘I defer,’ said Oglethorpe, still puzzled, but constrained to obey this shadow of the Crown.
‘As I knew you would,’ said Monmouth, most warmly and graciously, resuming their progress. ‘For you are … faithful. I never doubted you, Theophilus; not ever. You shall have your reward in due season. Meanwhile, for the moment, oblige me in this. Whilst we are here to kill Scotsmen, let us do so without upsetting them.’
In 1513, as Theophilus said, an Archbishop of St. Andrews (who just chanced to be the Scottish King’s teenage, illegitimate son) was killed by the English. Times moved on and in 1679 the Scots felt up to doing the job themselves. On the third of May of that year, a band of Covenanters hauled His Grace, James Sharp (a Caledonian who’d dared to negotiate with Cromwell himself), from his coach and hacked him into bits. There was no plainer way of showing their opinion of Charles’s Episcopal policy in his family’s ancestral nation. In case some lingering doubt remained, eighty well-armed cavalry rode into Rutherglen, not far from Glasgow, and nailed a proclamation to the church door. Among other things it declared King Charles an usurper and ‘King Jesus’ as their only rightful Lord. United for once, Scotland awaited the King’s reply.
‘Sorry’ might have been the appropriate response, for Charles’s Northern Kingdom had been sorely provoked just recently. First there was Montrose and his Irish troops, making the Covenanters look silly all through the Civil War years. Then came Cromwell and ‘the Lord delivering them into his hands’, making ‘Preston’ and ‘Dunbar’ and ‘Ironsides’ unwise words to bandy at a Scottish social gathering. James, Duke of York, Charles’s regent in the North, was the proverbial sick-in-the-bedspread following all that. Taking full advantage of the Scottish legal loophole which allowed torture (unlike boring England), he made sure everyone knew he was not happy being exiled. Scots were prodded at pike-point to hear the wonderful phrasing of the Book of Common Prayer each Sabbath and pastors’ feet were made to fit that leaden instrument of torment, the Scottish boot. After such a long scourging mere self-respect dictated Scotland should revolt once James was allowed home.
Sadly for them, the age of sympathy for injustice had not yet arrived. The Duke of Monmouth was appointed ‘General of all the Forces in Scotland’ and headed that way with two thousand men. Theophilus Oglethorpe, his friend and newly-promoted Major of the King’s Own Regiment of Dragoons, preceded him, anxious to promote repentance and a gnashing of teeth. Meanwhile, Lord Ross’s loyal lowland militia barricaded Glasgow against the Covenanters and were only driven forth after a bloody battle. They retreated in good order towards the oncoming English, pestered by fanatics with pistol-fire and preaching. For good measure, the frenzied assassins of Archbishop Sharp emerged from their Highland bolt-holes to reinforce the Covenanter general staff and supply bloodthirsty advice.
Those most foremost and eager in the support of ‘King Jesus’ had hurried ahead to martyrdom and/or glory, meeting Oglethorpe over the border. He was able to convince them that piety and justification were no guarantors of victory. One charge of his less-than-holy but hard-bitten Cockneys and Home-counties men cleared the way. The pursuit was only curtailed by nightfall and local peasantry found bodies in odd corners for years to come. The Oglethorpe family could add ‘Flodden II’ to their personal battle standard.
Hamilton, Balfour and Baxter, the Covenanter chiefs, were undeterred. The concept of predestination, given a peculiarly Scottish twist, made them strangers to doubt. From newly-won Glasgow they marched to Stirling and considered the whole western portion of the nation theirs. The army of liberation-cum-salvation swelled to eight thousand strong, many of whom knew the psalms by heart.
Monmouth, with one-quarter that number of less scripturally aware men, was strangely but equally sanguine. He earned the respect of his men by his nonchalance, and the love of the populace by not burning his way north. Whatever his army took, be it food, drink, shelter or sexual favours, he ensured was paid for in full. That was not the usual way of his time and, for the expenditure of a few thousand of his own pounds, he acquired vast
reserves of affection. The time was fast coming, he knew, when he might need to draw on it, perhaps unto overdraft.
His whole perception was that if blood must be spilt, best spill it soon and lance the infection before it turned gangrenous. Monmouth hastened from London to Edinburgh with unprecedented speed, preferring an expedite expedition rather than a large one. Spurning the delights of that gritty city, he marched his troops by night, ardent for the rebels’ embrace. That they might foretaste just what a swine life can be, the fiery Brigadier Oglethorpe was again sent on ahead.
The two forces, idealism and order, collided nine miles south of Glasgow, at Bothwell Bridge (or ‘Brig’) by the River Clyde. The rebels were amateurs, better at slicing Archbishops than mixing it with armed men. They’d set no pickets and posted no night sentinels. The first they knew of Theophilus’s approach was the famous English ‘single cheer’ and the fireworm glow of his dragoons’ matchlocks in the dusk.
Oglethorpe confirmed the worst with a jovial hello from out of the night:
‘Hey, savages … we’re coming to ge-e-ttt you …!’
‘Wherefore, as regents-designate and anointed appointees over the sinful subjects of the Realm of King Jesus, first and last; we order those holding office, title or power under any dispensation of any previous existing realm, authority or sovereign state, to surrender themselves to the new government – as defined in clauses two to eighteen inclusive of the proclamation hitherto read – and to place themselves and their servants, heirs, spouses and possessions at the disposal of King Jesus – and those wielding his authority in his name. Any wretch failing to do so without demur shall be whipped with cords of scorpions in the life everlasting to come and in this world be subject to such punishments as have never been …’
‘Can you understand a word of it?’ asked Monmouth, out of the corner of his mouth.
Theophilus Oglethorpe shook his head. ‘About one in ten,’ he answered. ‘The accent’s luxurious. You’d have thought he’d become clearer after a quarter hour …’
‘Twenty minutes now,’ Monmouth corrected him, consulting his timepiece.
Theophilus tutted quietly. ‘If it’s any help, I’m sure he keeps saying “Jesus”.’
Monmouth frowned.
‘Yes … I thought that. Should we nod our respect at each mention, do you think?’
‘Unwise. We only reckon that’s what he’s saying: best just smile if there’s any doubt.’
Monmouth pondered and then agreed. It was a strange kind of parley: being harangued incomprehensibly by a shaggy man atop a barricade. Odder still, though armed to the teeth, he appeared to be wearing some kind of clerical collar. This was not, they presumed, an Anglican divine – although he canted like one. How on earth could he fit so much blather on to one scroll of paper? Still, it was what the enemy requested, just as soon as dawn broke and Oglethorpe’s regiment advanced to pistol range. Retaining vestigial hopes of resolving all without gore, the Duke was happy to oblige. He and Theophilus approached the ramshackle barrier of stone, wood and farm-carts across the bridge to listen to what the Covenant proposed. It proved to be more of a monologue.
‘I’ve heard of the statement called the Covenant,’ whispered Monmouth, ‘but I never thought to hear it.’
‘Nor me,’ replied Oglethorpe, similarly discreet. ‘And I don’t find the experience agreeable. One feels the desire to shoot him.’
‘You brought a gun – to a parley?’
Theophilus shrugged. ‘We are beyond civilisation, my Lord. Things are more … flexible here.’
Monmouth sagely conceded there was wisdom in these words.
‘Even so,’ he said, ‘restrain your emotions. Let us hear him out before we blast him out.’
Happily, the Covenanter’s oration was meanwhile drawing to a close. Spittle flying freely he wound fury and conviction into a searing blaze of words, passionate enough to reform Satan himself. How amazed then he was, when eyes and arms ceased spinning, to discover the devil’s lesser lieutenants unimpressed.
Monmouth and Oglethorpe looked up, surprised by the sudden silence, finding that something was clearly expected of them. They consulted in looks and finally agreed on a polite round of applause.
What bloodless creatures these southrons were, thought the Covenanter. Here he was, Pastor Cameron, the foremost preacher in the land, a converter of sinners and the inspiration of this present venture: yet even he could not reach these people: they were beyond salvation. Had he not just explained it was they, not he, who were rebels, risen in arms against THE LORD JEHOVAH? It was no use talking to them: the English had ice in their veins.
Cameron disappeared behind the barricade, with a dismissal as opaque as the rest, save that it contained the word ‘sassenach’. Shortly after, the weaver of words was replaced by even less amiable types. They openly bore weapons – and minimal good will towards the soldiers below. It seemed the time for talk was over.
‘Back you go, there’s a good fellow.’
To emphasise his point, Monmouth cocked his pistol and held it to the fleeing gunner’s brow.
The pressed-man from Leith garrison was distraught. His arms gestured wildly even as his head stayed rock-still under the gentle pressure of the flintlock.
‘Hell, man,’ he shrilled – rather rudely Theophilus thought – ‘will you send us to our death?’
‘If necessary,’ said the Duke in tones of sweetness. ‘Of course.’
To be fair, the army’s four guns were being liberally hosed by Covenanter shot – and they were placed nearer to the enemy than strict wisdom required. There again, Brigadier Oglethorpe had seen worse stations to man – although not many.
In silent consultation the artillerymen weighed certain death against likely death – and returned, like children heading schoolwards, to the guns.
Monmouth accompanied them, ignoring the dragonfly-passing sounds of hostile fire. Theophilus would have joined him but was waved back.
‘Be with your dragoons,’ the General told him. ‘Charge when the way is cleared.’
Some of the gunners fell and writhed about a while, but the survivors served their pieces, finding welcome distraction in the routine. Two rounds each of partridge shot made a satisfyingly loud response to their afflictions and, at such close range, blew the barricade to splinters. A few blackened Covenanters stood, shocked and passive, where the blockage had been.
Monmouth looked back at the waiting cavalry.
‘In your own time, gentlemen,’ he called.
Just as he was about to set spur to horseflesh, Theophilus observed a lone rider issue from the main Covenanter army drawn up on the hill beyond the bridge. He cursed to note the man flapped a white cloth. He also knew just what to expect.
‘Merde!’ he shouted and his soldiers laughed. Their Brigadier’s passion for conflict in all its rich and stormy tones, was painfully familiar to them.
Already Monmouth was signalling him to hold, ever ready to hear yet another parley. Oglethorpe couldn’t understand his friend’s ceaseless moderation. Surely, if things were set out, stark as you like, there was nothing more to say and that was the way the Lord wished it. The art of Politics was as clear as mud to Theophilus.
And yes, sure enough, Duke Monmouth showed he was willing to listen to further prevarication. The horseman was allowed forward to shouting range when the guns could have easily sent him back to God in component parts. Oglethorpe was again summoned to hear the nonsense.
This time they’d wisely selected a more anglicised speaker. Less advisedly he was just as much a ranter as the last. Whipping out an identical parchment, the man began to read.
Monmouth could now comprehend every incendiary word and when they reached the part about just who were the rebels and who were not, he called a halt.
‘I’ve heard all this – I think,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘Have you nothing new or more conciliatory to say?’
The Covenanter was all offended innocence. ‘We were told,’
he growled, ‘that the Duke was a merciful man, with no delight in the blood of God’s children …’
‘My mercy,’ came the good-natured reply, ‘is attested by my patience in hearing sedition told twice. Sadly we are at an impasse. Negotiations must be handed to gentlemen skilled in the removal of such obstacles. Master Oglethorpe …’
Theophilus was by his side in an instant. ‘My Lord?’
‘Edge matters forward a little, will you?’
The dragoons were at the charge within moments, their Major to the fore and giving voice to his enjoyment. The artillerymen had to shift rapidly to avoid being trampled.
Theophilus was the first one on the bridge, cutting to left and right, a parade-ground exercise unspoilt by his blade often biting home. Long ago, a deceptively sleepy-looking old monster of a sergeant, all adorned with white scar-tissue, had told him it was never necessary to kill. ‘Just cut and shock’, he’d advised. ‘The hooves of those following will finish the job.’ It was good counsel, speeding you up, making you less of a target. Likewise, the wisdom of an officer joining in the fun. All the high-ranking casualties he’d known were prone to standing aloof, observing the scrum but not of it. It was in the middle of the mob, paradoxically enough, where one was safest and most useful.
After the great good fortune of re-meeting – and slicing – the second, intelligible, parleyer, Theophilus suddenly burst beyond the bridge. On the slope above, the Covenanter main body jostled and heaved out of line, clearly irresolute and torn between two options. It was often the way, he reflected, as he dealt with a stray Scot, of such fanatics. Whilst never doubting the Lord’s long-term favour, there came a point when they wondered if he was with them today. Only Cromwell’s Ironsides had convinced themselves of permanent oversight but Theophilus preferred not to think of that particular exception to the rule …
The Royal Changeling Page 8