Soldier of Fortune
( Captain Rawson - 1 )
Edward Marston
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
PROLOGUE
Saturday, July 4, 1685
Daniel Rawson saw him at once. The boy was walking across a field with his dog, Tinker, at his heels when he caught sight of a lone horseman coming over the brow of the hill. He sensed that it must be his father and broke into a spontaneous run. Thinking that they were playing a game, Tinker chased after him, shooting past him then zigzagging crazily in his path. Daniel did not even notice the animal. His gaze was fixed on the rider and his mind was racing. It was almost three weeks since Nathan Rawson had left home to join the Duke of Monmouth and it had been the longest and most agonising time of the boy's life. Desperate to know how his father was faring with the rebel army, he had been fed on nothing but rumour, lies and tittle-tattle. At last, he would learn the truth.
Recognising his son, Nathan kicked his horse into a gallop then raised an arm in greeting. Daniel replied by waving both of his hands in the air and Tinker barked excitedly. By the time that father and son finally met, the boy was panting for breath but nevertheless able to blurt out a few words.
'Welcome back, Father!'
'How are you, lad?' said Nathan, reining in his horse and dismounting to embrace him. 'Is all well here?'
'What news?' Daniel gasped. 'Have the royal forces been put to flight? Has the King been deposed? Have we won yet?'
Nathan shook his head sadly. 'No, Dan. Not yet.'
'But we will win — you promised me that we will.'
'And we may still do so in time.'
'Where's the army now?' asked Daniel.
'No more questions until we get home,' said the other, holding him by the shoulders to appraise him. 'Let me take a good look at you. I've missed you and your mother so much.' Tinker barked in protest and Nathan smiled wearily. 'Yes, I missed you as well, Tinker,' he added, patting the dog's head. 'I've missed you all.'
Thrilled to see his father once more, Daniel was at the same time distressed by his appearance. Nathan Rawson was a big, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with the boundless energy that his son had inherited from him. There was no sign of that energy now. He looked tired, dispirited and much older than when he had left the farm to join a cause in which he fervently believed. In the eyes of a ten-year old boy who worshipped him, his father had shrunk in size and lost all of his buoyant self-confidence.
'Come on,' said Nathan, trying to conceal his anxieties behind a warm grin. 'Let's ride home together.'
'How long will you be staying?'
'Only until tomorrow — we've been granted furlough.'
'Mother will be so pleased,' said Daniel.
'Then let's not keep her waiting.'
Foot in the stirrup, Nathan mounted the horse then offered his hand to his son. Daniel was a sturdy boy but he was hauled up effortlessly to sit behind his father. With the dog scampering beside them, they began to trot across the fields in the afternoon sunshine, Daniel holding tightly on to his father with a fierce pride that was tempered by desperation.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
Juliana Rawson was so delighted to see her husband return that she burst into tears and lapsed back into her native language. Since he could speak Dutch more fluently than his father, Daniel had a much clearer idea of what his mother was saying. As his parents threw their arms around each other, the boy realised that they needed some privacy. The most useful thing he could do was to stable the horse. It was only when he was unsaddling the animal that he noticed the ugly gash down one flank and the dried blood on its withers. His father had clearly seen action.
Set in the heart of Somerset, the farm was large enough to give them a comfortable living yet small enough to employ a mere five labourers and two domestic servants. Unlike some in the county, it had not been requisitioned by the rebel army nor had its livestock plundered to feed hungry soldiers. It was ironic. Nathan Rawson had abandoned his military career to get married and take up farming. In the hope of putting the Duke of Monmouth on the throne, he had now given up farming to follow the drum once more.
When he got back to the house, Daniel found his parents in the kitchen, sitting side by side at the table. The boy took a chair opposite them and hung on his father's words. Because of his experience in combat, Nathan had been promoted to the rank of captain and he was impressed by the men who served under him.
'They lack nothing in courage,' he told them, 'and they come from all parts of the West Country. We have miners from the Mendips, fishermen from the south, wool-workers from Devon, mountain men from the Quantocks, graziers from Bampton, wild marsh-men from Axbridge and hundreds of other stout-hearted fellows ready to take up arms to rid the country of a Catholic tyrant.'
'There's talk of deserters,' Daniel chipped in.
'Every army has a few cowards who turn tail when the first shot is fired. We're better off without them. Besides,' Nathan went on airily, 'we've recruited some deserters ourselves from the royal ranks. They'd much rather serve King Monmouth than labour under the yoke of King James.'
'But where will it all end, Nathan?' asked Juliana worriedly.
'That's in the laps of the gods, my love.'
'What will happen to you?'
'I'll give a good account of myself in battle, have no fear.'
'What about us?'
'You and Dan must pray for our success.'
It was not the reassuring answer that she needed and her face clouded. Juliana was a comely woman in her thirties with vestiges of the youthful prettiness that had first attracted Nathan Rawson. He had been fighting in the Netherlands at the time and they had been on opposite sides. It was different now. Their respective countries were at peace with each other and their marriage symbolised the fact. She did not want her happiness to be shattered by warfare.
'Have you killed anyone?' asked the boy, wide-eyed..
'Daniel!' scolded his mother.
'I want to know.'
'The lad has the right to be told,' said Nathan, subduing his wife with a hand on her arm. 'Yes, Dan,' he added, turning to his son. 'I killed a man during a skirmish at Norton St Philip and wounded two others. They attacked us hard that day but we repulsed them in fine style. It was an important victory.'
'Ralph Huckvale's father died at Norton St Philip.'
'We were bound to suffer losses.'
'Ralph went off to serve in his place,' said Daniel. 'He's only a few years older than me. Why can't I join in the fight?'
'No!' cried Juliana. 'I couldn't bear that.'
'You must stay here, Dan,' said his father.
'But you were a drummer boy at my age,' argued Daniel.
'That was different.'
'I need you here,' said Juliana. 'You must stay with me, Dan.'
'Listen to your mother,' advised Nathan. 'Your job is to look after her and the farm. When I go away, you're the man of the house. Always remember that.'
'Yes, Father,' said the boy disconsolately.
'We rely on you. Don't let us down.'
It was a heavy responsibility to place on someone so young but, under other circumstances, Daniel would have been glad to shoulder it. He never shirked a challenge and always did his fair share of the chores on the farm. The problem, in this case, was that he longed to be with his father, to join the rebel army that had been formed with such enthusiasm when the Duke of Monmouth landed at Lyme Regis. The bold and dashing James Scott was the illegitimate son of the late Charles II but his followers believed that he was the rightful heir to the throne. The idea of marching with the future King inspired Daniel. Life on the farm offer
ed many pleasures but it could not compare with the excitement of battle and the feeling of taking part in a momentous event. Daniel yearned for glory.
Seeing his disappointment, Nathan offered him recompense.
'If you'd really like to help us…' he began.
Daniel rallied. 'Yes, Father?'
'You can sharpen my sword.'
He indicated the weapon that lay across the other end of the table. Daniel snatched it up willingly and rushed off to the outhouse where the whetstone was kept. Watched by Tinker, he first cleaned the blade with an old rag then he carefully sharpened it until its edges were like razors. He was exhilarated by the thought that he was holding a sword that had killed an enemy and inflicted wounds on other men. When his work was done, he could not resist taking part in an imaginary fight, parrying blows from an invisible foe before beating him back and thrusting the sword deep into his stomach. For a short while at least, he was a member of the rebel army.
Nathan decided to inspect the farm, going out into the fields to speak to each of his men and to examine his small dairy herd. Daniel and Tinker accompanied him. At first, the boy thought that his father was checking on what progress had been made in his absence but, when it was all over, another thought occurred to him. Nathan Rawson was taking leave of old friends, giving each of them a few kind words by way of a last memory of him in case he never saw them again. Victory was obviously in grave doubt. Daniel shuddered.
That evening, Nathan tried to bring some comfort to his wife and child. Seated in his favourite chair in the parlour, he talked to them between puffs on his clay pipe and long sips of cider. He praised the Duke's skill as a military commander and spoke highly of his deputy, Lord Grey of Warke, the only member of the gentry in his ranks. He also stressed their numerical superiority over the royal troops and county militias ranged against them. What he did not mention was that their supporters in Scotland had been routed and that the hoped for rising in Cheshire in the name of King Monmouth had failed to materialise. A rebel force that had once expected to reach London within a week was still pinned down in Somerset, licking its wounds and uncertain of its next move.
Cheered by what he heard, Daniel was still apprehensive.
'They say that the Earl of Feversham is a fine soldier,' he said.
'He was a fine soldier,' corrected Nathan, 'but that was before he was badly injured in a house fire. He took a blow to the head that left him half the man he was. In any case,' he continued, sitting up, 'the Earl of Feversham is a Frenchman. It says much of King James that he chooses as a commander- in-chief a Roman Catholic from across the Channel. That's something we fight against, lad — the prospect that England will be at the mercy of foreigners.'
'I'm a foreigner,' said Juliana.
'You're also a zealous Protestant, my love.'
'But I'm not English.'
'You're my wife and that absolves you of any blame.'
'Tell me about Lord Churchill,' said Daniel. 'You fought under him once, didn't you? He's reckoned to be a good general.'
'Give the man his due — he's the best of them.'
'Do we have anyone to match him, Father?'
'To match him and to put him to flight,' said Nathan before downing the last of his cider in one long gulp. 'You can forget Lord Churchill and the Earl of Feversham, lad. They are appointed to fight on his behalf while King James skulks in London. Our ruler — King Monmouth — leads his men from the front like a true soldier and that's why we'll prevail.'
They were stirring words to carry off to bed and they rang in Daniel's ear for a long time. Later, however, when he lay awake in his bed with Tinker curled up on the floor beside him, he heard sounds from next door that were less heartening. His parents were talking and, though he could not pick out their exact words, he knew that they were having an argument of some sort. That, in itself, was such a rare occurrence that it troubled him. His father's voice became louder, mingling anger, bravado and regret, to be followed in due course by his profuse apologies.
They came too late to appease his wife. Juliana Rawson had sobbed throughout. As her apprehension grew and her reproaches came more freely, she could hold back her pain no longer. The last thing that Daniel heard before he fell asleep was the sound of his mother crying her eyes out and begging her husband not to leave her.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
The attack began at night. Though he had greater numbers, the Duke of Monmouth knew that he could not win a pitched battle. While the royal army consisted of well-trained, well- armed professional soldiers, led by seasoned commanders, his own force was made up largely of willing volunteers with little experience and poor equipment. Many of them had no weaponry beyond scythes, sickles, pitchforks and staves. The only hope of success lay in a night-time attack where the element of surprise would be crucial.
The omens were good. The government had pitched their tents behind the Bussex Rhine, a drainage ditch that ran from the moor to the River Parrett. They had not entrenched their camp and reports came in that the soldiers were enjoying the local cider, a potent brew that made men sluggish. When a thick mist descended to cover any nocturnal manoeuvres, the Duke issued his orders. At eleven o'clock that Sunday night, the rebels set out to change the course of history.
Discipline was savage. Like other captains, Nathan Rawson warned his troops that if anyone disturbed the army's silent progress through the dark, he would be killed on the spot by his neighbour. The four thousand men who left their camp at Castle Field did not even dare to whisper. Instead of heading for the enemy in a direct line, they opted for a circuitous march six miles in length that would allow them to strike at the northern flank of the royal camp. Following the Bristol road, they reached Peasey Farm, where they left their baggage train, continuing their advance until they got to the Langmoor Rhine.
It was here that the plan faltered. In the swirling fog, the local man acting as their guide could not find the crossing that had been cut into the deep ditch. As he beat round in search of it, he was heard by an alert sentry on the other side of the Rhine. The man also picked up the sound of jingling harness and the shuffling of hooves in the grass. Firing his pistol to warn the patrol at Chedzoy, he galloped all the way back to the bank of the Bussex Rhine and raised the royal camp with shouts of "Beat the drums, the enemy is come! For the Lord's sake, beat the drums!"
The battle of Sedgemoor had begun. When the alarm was sounded, the response was immediate. The royal army was not, in fact, lying in the drunken stupor on which the rebels had counted. It was ready for action within minutes. Seizing their weapons, the soldiers deployed between the tents and the Bussex Rhine in good order, helped by the fact that tapes had been strung out in advance to act as guide ropes in the darkness. They met the sudden emergency as if they had been expecting it.
The rebel infantry was still a mile from the royal camp but the cavalry had no need to hold back. Thundering across the moor, they headed for the Upper Plungeon, one of the cattle crossings in the Bussex Rhine. On their way, they were met by a sizeable mounted picket as it fell back towards the royal camp. Outnumbered three to one, the regular troops fired with such speed and accuracy that they drove the rebel cavalry back and managed to secure the Upper Plungeon. When he saw that the vital crossing was impassable, Lord Grey, the rebel second-in-command, was forced to lead the bulk of his cavalry along the front of the royal position in the hope of finding another passage across the gaping Rhine. It was a disastrous move.
Enlisted as allies, night and the eddying mist turned traitor, obscuring from them the fact that the ditch was not, as they had assumed, water-logged after recent heavy rain. It was simply caked in mud through which they could easily have ridden. As it was, they presented themselves as irresistible targets for the Royal Guards who unleashed such a devastating volley that it caused utter panic. As they were raked by a veritable blizzard of musket balls that killed or wounded indiscriminately, the rebel cavalry lost all order and control
. Terrified horses and frightened riders could think only of escape.
The first ranks of infantry hurried towards the Bussex Rhine, only to be buffeted and scattered by their own cavalry in headlong retreat. When the horsemen reached Peasey Farm, they called out to the ammunition-handlers that all was lost and that they should take to their heels. It was a calamitous start to the battle. At one stroke, Monmouth had been deprived of most of his cavalry, had his infantry dispersed willy-nilly and lost all of his reserve of powder and shot. From that moment on, the result was never in doubt.
The rebels, however, did not acknowledge defeat. With their infantry stretched out along the Rhine, they fired successive volleys at the enemy and pounded them with their four cannon guns. While the artillery caused some damage, their musketry was largely ineffective because the royal troops lay flat on the ground and let the bullets fly harmlessly over their heads as they waited for light to improve. In the early stages, the royal army had three glaring deficiencies. They had no artillery, they lacked a full complement of cavalry and as yet they had no commander-of-chief in the field. When these weaknesses were rectified, as they soon were, the government forces were invincible.
While he waited for dawn, the Earl of Feversham prepared to turn defence into attack, consulting with Lord Churchill and his other commanders. By the time the light strengthened, the royal infantry was drawn up in disciplined ranks with the cavalry on its flanks, its artillery continuing its bombardment of the rebels. Monmouth had seen enough. Spurring his horse from the field, he was followed by Lord Grey and the other surviving riders. On a command, the royal troops swarmed across the Rhine in a general assault, dipping their pike-points and plug bayonets in readiness. The cavalry, meanwhile, surged across the ditch to attack both flanks of the enemy.
It was all over. The rebel lines broke and ran. Braver individuals stayed to fight on but they were soon overpowered. The moor was littered with dead bodies and dying men as the cavalry pursued the fleeing rebels and cut them down with ruthless efficiency. Those not killed were captured and Nathan Rawson, having fought bravely to the last, was among the hundreds disarmed and roped together. The Monmouth rebellion had been crushed beyond recall, its army vanquished and its humiliated leader a desperate fugitive.
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