Part 12

That made the Duke sit up and stare at me as though I were a thing of more importance than he had imagined.

"Ah, by my life!" said he at last, "then sink me if I find thee not a cornetcy. What say you, gentlemen?"

With one accord the red-faced fellows smote the table with their fists, and swore it should be so; then, rising, drank my health.

And thus it came about that, after passing safely through another day of peril, I went to bed a soldier of King James.

*CHAPTER XX*

*At Sedgemoor Fight*

This record deals not mainly with the bold, ill-starred designs of Monmouth, but rather with the lesser doings of one Michael Fane; therefore I will not dwell upon the marchings and the counter-marchings, the petty skirmishes, the knock-kneed weaknesses and pitiable indecision which led the hapless Duke at last to bloody Sedgemoor and destruction.

Sweeping aside, then, as it were, these matters, which, though contributory to the final great catastrophe, were of themselves but small affairs, I come to the night of 5th July, 1685, when we of the Royalist army, scarce four thousand strong, were encamped upon that wild, vast tract of bog and moorland known as Sedgemoor; while, not far away, inside the ancient town of Bridgewater (which had proclaimed him king), lay Monmouth with some eight thousand followers.

'Twas a Sunday, and all day long 'tis said the rebel army had been engaged in deep devotions (a thing I cannot say for our side); while their preachers, wearing red coats, great jack-boots and swords, held forth with fiery words from wagons and the like. The far-off, fervid singing of their psalms and hymns had reached us on the plain, and brought forth many a ribald jest from men whose earnestness, at least, was not comparable with theirs.

Thus the day dragged by in stifling heat, until at last that fatal night came on which was to usher in such awful carnage. Again, 'tis no part of my plan to give a detailed story of the fight. To begin with, I have not the wherewithal to do it; a man who fights in battle has quite enough to do, it seems to me, to use his weapons properly, and so can know but little of the whole design. At least 'twas so in my case; and even were it otherwise I would scarce attempt it, for the tale has been already told full oft by abler men than me, and in such glowing words as I could never hope to compass. Still, as one who fought upon the side of victory (if such a butcher's shambles can be rightly called so), I would make bold to say that but for some blind blundering on the part of Monmouth's scouts and guides, together with the accidental firing of a pistol, a vastly different story might have come down to your ears. For 'tis certain that we had no previous knowledge of this well-planned night attack, and therefore, but for an eleventh-hour warning, should have been taken unawares by an army which, notwithstanding all its ill-armed, untrained state, yet outnumbered ours by two to one, and moreover, was aflame with burning zeal. With that statement of cold fact I will content myself, and so press forward, hot-foot, on my own affairs.

It was a full-mooned, starry night, yet for all that a fog so low and thick hung over marshy Sedgemoor that naught was visible at fifty paces. The night was still, with scarce a breath of wind to stir the rushes which abounded; and save for the dismal booming of a bittern, a roughly-given password or command, and the far-off, muffled sound of revelry, where heedless officers still sat at their wine--except for these, I say, no sound was to be heard.

As many of you know, the moor is drained to some extent by means of broad, deep ditches (called Rhines in those parts), and crossed here and there by causeways. For the most part they are filled with mud and water, and on the bank of one of them (that called the Bussex Rhine--a name which surely might have been found graven on poor Monmouth's heart)--I, who had now joined Feversham, stood with my men that night.

'Twas nearly one o'clock, and I was pacing idly to and fro, full sick of everything, when suddenly a pistol shot rang out upon the silence, followed quickly by the deeper note of muskets; then came loud, warning cries, the furious galloping of horses; and in a moment all was turmoil and confusion.

In this manner did we first get news that Monmouth's army had crept close upon us in the darkness. But, alack for such a well-planned scheme, they had either overlooked or clean forgot the Bussex Rhine; and as they now pressed on, they found their way barred by a great broad ditch some twenty feet across, with no near means of crossing it; and thus it was that we were saved from a surprise attack which might have cost us dear enough.

As I stood there listening keenly, and wondering what all this pother was about (for of course I did not know), I heard the heavy tramp of many feet, coming as it seemed towards me from the other side, and presently a dark, blurred mass of men hove dimly through the fog, then stopped suddenly, and broke out muttering--dismayed, no doubt, to find an unexpected ditch before them.

Bidding my men draw back, I stepped up to the edge.

"Who's that? Whom are you for?" I called across.

"The king," a voice replied.

"Which king?" I asked.

"King Monmouth!" came the loud, bold answer, and then, as if by one consent, the Rebel battle-cry rolled forth like thunder:

"God with us!"

I never heard so great a shout, and as it spread among the teeming thousands on the moor behind, it seemed to shake the very earth; it was as though all England raised her voice to Heaven.

Barely had that great cry died away when drums and bugles sounded, matchlocks broke out in a dazzling blaze, and bullets screamed across the ditch by hundreds. Our infantry had now come up, while Churchill with the horse, having found a crossing lower down, charged like a whirlwind on the rebel flank and rear. The battle had begun in right good earnest. And what a battle! The fog-bound darkness, which made it hard to tell a foe from a friend, added to its horrors. The crash of musketry; the roar of cannon and the clash of steel; the cries, and shrieks, and groans--all this still rises up before me like some ugly nightmare, even as I write these words.

And what was my own part therein? Well, as I said before, I had no desire to kill my fellow-countrymen, but when a roaring, wild-eyed fellow comes a-mowing at you with a pike, or scythe stuck endwise on a pole, you must do something, and--well, I did it; and, as the fight went on, I had to do it many times, until at length the sword which had been girded on me by my father in that quiet study had indeed a sorry tale of death to tell. And here, my friends, a word of warning, or at least of clean confession. The rack of battle raises Cain in man, until he comes to kill unthinkingly, if not with grim delight. Beware!

And now the fight raged fiercely on all sides; but, though furious and bloody, it did not last long. Indeed, how could it? Those poor benighted, ill-trained fellows were no match for men who were, at least, well-armed and had some claim to being disciplined. Confused, hemmed in, and badly led, they surged to and fro like flocks of frightened sheep, an easy prey for sword and bullet; and though full many of them fought with dogged courage, and others with the fury of despair, there could be but one end to it. Their horses, for the most part utterly unused to warfare, were so maddened by the deafening noise of guns and muskets that they turned and galloped headlong back to Bridgewater. Nor was it long before many of the rebel foot were fleeing in a like direction; for, with our infantry across the ditch, the fight became a rout in no time.

Meanwhile I had mounted Kitty, and was in the very thick of it, slashing and thrusting for my life at every turn. And thus it was I met at last a tall, red-coated fellow on a big black horse. He came towards me at a furious gallop, waving his sword and shrieking like a madman:

"The God of Abraham! The God of Abraham!" As he flew by he aimed a savage blow at me. Just then a matchlock blazed and lighted up a red-blotched face. I knew him instantly. 'Twas Robert Ferguson.

So sudden and bewildering had this vision been that for a space I sat there staring like a man bedazed; but Sedgemoor was that night the last place to be mooning in, and when a lanky yokel rushed upon me with a scythe I came back to my senses quick enough. Yet, even so, it was my mare that saved me. She had seen far too much already to be caught thus napping. To save her legs from being lopped off by that murderous blade, she sprang aside; and as the fellow thus foiled swung round, mowing at the air, I cut him down.

Next moment I was flying headlong after Ferguson, with no thought for the battle left behind. But the time which I had lost since meeting him, though scarce a minute, yet proved enough to make my chase a hopeless one; and though I kept a keen eye on all red-coats, I saw no sign of him I sought.

Still, in what mad hope I know not, I tore on, until at length, having got clear alike of those who fought and those who ran, I realized my folly, and, pulling up, was just about to turn, when, from ahead, there came the ringing sound of steel on steel, I listened. Yes, swords were clashing there not far away behind a straggling wood; and by the noise of it the combat was a fierce and deadly one. Who could it be who thus fought out their quarrel in this lonely spot two miles from where a battle raged?

Bent on an answer to that question I moved slowly forwards, but had not gone far before a piercing cry rang out. Dead silence followed. The clash of swords had ceased.

Then I moved on again, this time at a canter. The fog had lifted hereabouts, while the first dim light of dawn was in the sky. And thus, on coming round the bushes, I could just make out a man with naked sword standing above another who lay prone upon the ground. On catching sight of me he sheathed his sword and fled with wondrous speed. Passing the stricken man, I followed; but he had a goodly start, and though I kept him well in sight, he beat me at the far end of the wood. There I could see no sign of him.

Puzzled, I looked around, and saw a light some fifty yards away upon the left. For this I made, and soon found out its cause. Here was an old stone hovel, used either for the ponies or the cattle which roam, half wild, on Sedgemoor. Someone (perchance a guard) had been camping there that very night, and a fire of faggots still glowed on the floor, thus lighting up the place.

Dismounting, I went in and glanced about. Nothing was there except a manger full of straw--so bulging full, in fact, that I was minded to explore it. But barely had I gone a step when methought I heard a rustling of the straw, and sure enough next moment something bright came poking through. A pistol barrel! With a diving leap, I seized and turned the threatening thing, forcing the muzzle upwards; and not a whit too soon, for even as I did so it exploded, and the bullet crashed into the rafters. Then as I clutched a bony wrist, and twisted it, a smothered cry arose, the pistol fell, a close-cropped head shot forth, and I was face to face with Tubal Ammon.

Letting go my hold I sprang back, whipped out my sword, and stared at him as one would at a fearsome apparition, while he sat up and fixed me with his cunning eyes.

"At last!" I hissed, as soon as I could find my voice.

"Aye, verily," grinned he, shaking the straw from off his shoulders; "'twould seem that you and I, friend, were ordained to come across each other; 'tis indeed as if our horoscope were cast in----"

"Enough of that," I broke in fiercely. "Come forth, you dog!"

He instantly obeyed. Leaping out, he stood there with folded arms, his ugly head thrust forward, and his eyes fixed hungrily upon the doorway towards which my back was turned.

"What now?" he asked at last, and though he grinned, I saw that fear lurked on his face.

"Why, this," I answered, slowly. "I should do well to put a bullet through so foul a cur, but that is scarcely to my liking. No, Tubal Ammon, I will kill thee in a closer fashion. Therefore, draw sword and fight for it."

Out flashed his blade, while by his look I knew that he was mightily relieved to have so fine a chance, and thought to kill me.

"Art ready?"

"Yes."

"Then, have at you for a murderer and a villain!" With that our swords crossed, and even on that night of battle, with its many hand-to-hand encounters, no fiercer, deadlier combat could have raged than that which now commenced inside that lonely building. If ever two men strove amain to kill each other, we were those two; if ever steel shot forth with hate behind it, that steel was surely ours.

My foe soon proved himself a skilful, wary swordsman, but had he been the finest then in England, methinks I would have mastered him at last. Fearing, if chance afforded, that he might dart out into the night and thus escape me, I kept a stolid back towards the doorway. Thus it was he who did most of the attacking, and so swift and furious was it that more than once his point came dangerously near my heart.

At last I tried a sudden twist (learnt from my father), and thereby forced Ammon's weapon from his grasp. He sprang back hissing like a cat, and doubtless thought his hour was come. But though I longed to kill him that was not my way of doing it. I bid him take his sword again--an act of fairness which came near costing me my life; for presently, presuming on it, he made pretence to lose his weapon yet again, and when I motioned him to take it, made a sudden, upward thrust at me ere I was ready for him. But at last the craftiness of Tubal Ammon failed him utterly. I turned his blade aside so that it ran beneath my arm, and, as he thus rushed blindly forward, my sword shot straight into his breast. Staggering to the wall, he stood there glaring at me for a moment, while the life-blood spurted from him; then with a vengeful cry he tried to spring upon me--failed, and crashed dead at my feet.

Thus died Tubal Ammon, King of Subtlety, and verily it seemed to me the manner of his end was one which well befitted him. 'Twas in a barn that he had tried to kill me privily--'twas in a hovel that I left him dead.

One half of my vow thus happily accomplished, I went in search of him whom Ammon's sword had smitten. I found him lying with his shoulders partly propped up by a tree, to which he had made shift to crawl. His hands were spread in front of him, his chin hung down upon his breast, and so I thought that he was dead. But on kneeling down beside him I found that he still breathed. Having taken off his steel cap I raised the drooping head, then nearly let it fall again, for the bloodless face, on which a setting moon shone, was none other than John Coram's.

His eyes were closed, but when I called his name he opened them and gazed at me in a dim, dazed fashion.

"You here--you?" he murmured.

"Yes, yes; how came it thus?" I said.

"Stark!" he gasped. "We met in battle--I pursued--he led me on--then turned upon me here--and--faith, his accursed sword hath gone clean through my lungs. I bleed within. I die."

"Stark is dead," I said by way of comfort.

"What! didst kill him?"

"Yes. He lies dead scarce two hundred yards from here."

"Good--good!" he murmured fervently. "But stay--it grows amazing dark! Come near, friend."

I put my ear close to his mouth.

"That money which you gave me, friend," he whispered faintly, "'tis in my pocket with some more besides. I have a wife and little girl in Bridgewater. Wilt see they get it?"

"It shall be done," I answered.

Seeking my hand he pressed it closely, saying:

"Thanks, good, true friend; now can I die in peace."

With that he closed his eyes again, his head sank back upon my shoulder, and I thought his life had sped; but suddenly he looked forth with a wild, unearthly stare, and pointed skywards, saying:

"See! see! A mighty army which no man can number! Hark to the tramp of feet! They march, and I must join them! Let me go, friend!"

Springing to his feet, he stood there swaying like a drunken man; and, waving a hand above his head, cried:

"Monmouth! Liberty! God with----"

The choking blood gushed up into his throat, and so he staggered back into my arms--a corpse.

I laid him gently down, folded his hands upon his breast, and having said a simple prayer above him, rode swiftly back to other scenes of death.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*I Leave the Service of King James*

When I reached the battle-field, the dawn was breaking and the fight was all but done. Only the gallant men of Somerset still held their ground--a handful of doomed heroes, who scorned to yield to anything save death, which rushed upon them from all sides. 'Twas a moving sight indeed to see these brave, misguided fellows standing there--hemmed in on every side; deserted by their comrades; mowed down by dozens every minute: yet still fighting manfully with pike and scythe and musket for the cause they held so dear. In the midst of them stood a tall, red-coated minister waving a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other, the while he shouted words of exhortation and encouragement; but just as I drew close a musket bullet struck him in the mouth, and down he went to everlasting silence. Almost as he fell their firing slackened, and a wild, beseeching cry broke from them:

"Powder! for God's sake, powder!"

Their only answer to this piteous appeal was another furious onfall of the Royalist horse, which swept them clean away--and all was over. The struggle for a kingly crown had once more been decided by the sacrifice of innocent and simple men.

The Duke had long since fled the field. While there was hope he fought with bravery (or at least 'tis said so, for I never saw him), leading his men on foot, with pike in hand. But no sooner did defeat seem certain than he galloped off with Grey--his general of horse, and Buyse, the German soldier--leaving his hapless followers to their fate; an act of perfidy, it seems to me, which must for ever brand him as a coward. Yet it availed him nothing, for, as ye know, he was taken two days afterwards, hiding in a ditch at Ringwood, in Hampshire--a wretched, half-starved, bearded creature, disguised in shepherd's clothing, and so changed that those who captured him scarce knew him for the handsome, smiling fellow who had stepped ashore at Lyme less than a month before. From Ringwood he was borne to London, and, notwithstanding all his abject cries for pardon to the king, his uncle, he lost his head within a week on Tower Hill.

But to return to Sedgemoor. The fight was over, and what had it cost? Well, a thousand of the Duke's men lay there dead upon the moor, with some three hundred of our own to keep them company. But this was only the beginning of such wanton butchery as sent all England cold with horror when the tidings of it spread abroad. For throughout those western counties men were harried day and night--hunted down like vermin--and either shot, stabbed, or hanged; while those who escaped so swift a death were driven into the towns chained together like great flocks of sheep, and there cast into prison to await a no less certain doom when Jeffreys came his bloody rounds.

The frightened tithing-men, fearful lest lack of zeal might be construed into a favouring of the rebels, made haste to set up rough gibbets in wellnigh every village, and thereon, day in, day out, hanging went forward at a sickening pace. Nor was this all. It did not stop at hanging. Commands went forth that drawing and quartering was to follow; and so heads and trunks, well seethed in pitch, were scattered broadcast, to be set up as warnings to a people who were already far too terrified to need them.

During those awful days I saw such sights as make this quill of mine pause, shuddering, when I think of them. I will not harrow you by dwelling on them, but here is one instance, out of many, which will go to prove my statement. A youth, but little older than myself, was taken prisoner, and, being famous as a runner, begged for a chance to save his life by racing with a wild moor colt. This, to the captain of the troop which captured him, seemed something of a merry jest. A colt was straightway caught, and they were started off together. Ye will scarce credit it, but the youth kept well ahead for half a mile or more, then dropped. When they came up with him he rose and claimed his life for having won the race. But, no. The cruel brutes made haste to hang him for his pains upon the nearest tree!

Enough--let us leave these awful matters. They are among the blackest annals of our country, and one man at any rate still goes hot with shame to think he only saw such horrors.

After the battle my Lord Feversham posted up to London, there to receive his honours, and left one Colonel Kirke in command at Bridgewater. This fellow was as vile and merciless a wretch as e'er drew sword, while the men of his own regiment (called Kirke's Lambs in bitter mockery) were not a whit less cruel than their master. Nor age nor sex was spared by them.

To this monster (man I cannot call him) was left the task of hunting down the wretched fugitives, and I, perforce, served under him; though 'tis something to my comfort to remember that, at the risk of life itself, I helped more than one poor creature to escape; nor was I in Kirke's service long, as you will see.

Having worked his will at Bridgewater, he moved on to Taunton, taking with him a long string of prisoners, chained two and two, while others who were wounded lay with their wounds undressed (heaped in a wagon). More were caught upon the way, and so, when at last we marched into the town, whose people, not a month before, had strewn flowers in Monmouth's path, and given him a rich-worked banner, we drove before us such a herd of poor distracted creatures, of all ages, as might have made a Spartan pitiful.

And now there happened that which made me think it shame instead of honour, to be serving as a soldier of King James.

At Taunton Kirke took up his quarters at the White Hart Inn, and straightway turned the very sign thereof into a gibbet. Thus, seated at the window, drinking with his officers, he laughed and jested while dozens of his hapless fellow-countrymen were swung to death upon this homely gallows. And when they kicked and struggled in their agony he bade the drums beat, saying he would give them music for their dancing.

Nor was this all. On pain of instant death, if he refused, they had forced a hapless yokel to be quarterer (Tom Boilman, as he was thenceforward known throughout that countryside by shuddering men and women, who would not go within a yard of him). And there he stood beneath the gallows, working for very life amid the blood and boiling pitch. That was enough for me. Rushing to Kirke's room, I told him hotly that I would not serve another hour on such a frightful business.

He sprang up, and, with his sword half-drawn, cried:

"What's that, you saucy dog?"

"Why, this," I thundered, "that I will not serve another minute under such a bloody-minded wretch as you! Here is my commission." And I threw it on the table.

His face and head went red with anger; the veins upon his neck stood out like cords; and for a time he could not speak.

"Whelp!" he hissed at last. "You shall smart for this! Yea, verily," he added, with an awful oath, "but you shall dance like yonder rebel!" He pointed to a struggling figure which had just been raised aloft.

"My Lord Feversham may have a word to say on that point," I answered coldly. "For the rest, I take my chance."

Just then the drums began to beat, and so I turned upon my heel and left him, as he stood there clawing at the air with rage.