Roger Willoughby Part 18

"Monmouth, and G.o.d with us," was the reply.

Berkley then cried out, "Take this with you," when his own and several battalions opened a heavy fire, and a considerable number of Grey's horses and men fell. When unable any longer to stand the fire, they rode off as hard as they could pelt. A smaller body of horse, to which Stephen belonged, under the command of Captain Jones, made several desperate charges, and were also compelled to retreat without having crossed the ditch, when they went off towards Sutton Hill, where they took up a position to see the issue of the fight. The flight of Lord Grey's horse threw many of the infantry into confusion. Some refused to advance, and others ran away; but a still greater disaster was in store, for on coming to the end of the moor, where forty-two ammunition wagons had been left, the drivers, alarmed at the arrival of the fugitives, and being told that the Duke's army had been routed, took to flight, and did not stop till they arrived at Ware and Axbridge, twelve miles off.

Shortly after the Duke's horse had dispersed themselves over the moor, his infantry advanced at the double, guided through the gloom by the lighted matches of Dumbarton's regiment; but on reaching the edge of the Rhine they halted, and contrary to orders, began firing away, their fire being returned by part of the royal infantry on the opposite side of the bank. For three-quarters of an hour the roar of the musketry was incessant. The guns also opened fire, which was likewise returned by the king's cannon as soon as they could be brought up. For a considerable time the battle raged, the st.u.r.dy Somersets.h.i.+re peasants behaving themselves as though they had been veteran soldiers, though they levelled their pieces too high. Monmouth was seen like a brave man, pike in hand, encouraging his men by voice and example. He by this time saw that all was over; his men had lost the advantage which surprise and darkness had given them. They were deserted by the horse and the ammunition wagons. Lord Churchill had made a new disposition of the royal infantry. The day was about to break. The event of a conflict on an open plain by broad sunlight could not be doubtful; yet, brave as he was, the hope of preserving his life prevailed above all other considerations. In a few minutes the royal cavalry would intercept his retreat. He mounted and rode for his life, till he was joined by Lord Grey and a few other officers; but his brave infantry still made a gallant stand. They were charged right and left by the Life Guards and Blues, but the Somersets.h.i.+re clowns, with their scythes and b.u.t.t-ends of their muskets, fought to the last. At length their powder and ball were spent, and cries were heard of "Ammunition; for G.o.d's sake give us ammunition!" But no ammunition was at hand. The king's artillery began playing on them, and they could no longer maintain their ranks against the king's cavalry. The infantry came pouring across the ditch, but even then the Mendip miners sold their lives dearly. Three hundred of the royal soldiers had been killed or wounded; of Monmouth's men more than a thousand lay dead on the moor.

Their leader, it was found, had disappeared, the cavalry had been dispersed, and the survivors fled across the moor towards Bridgewater.

The king's cavalry, meantime, were sweeping over the plain, cutting down those who attempted to make a stand, which some of the brave fellows did, while they captured others, till the whole army which marched out of Bridgewater the previous evening had been completely dispersed.

Before evening five hundred prisoners had been crowded in the parish church of Weston Zoyland, many of them badly wounded. The church bells sent out a peal which must have had very different effects upon the ears of the victors and of the vanquished. The battle was over, but not the blood-shedding, for Feversham ordered a number of the prisoners for execution. Gibbets were erected in all directions, and the fatal Buss.e.x Tree was long known as the place where numbers were put to death without the form of a trial.

Among those captured was a fine young officer, an ensign in the Duke's army, who was celebrated for his extraordinary feats of agility; his powers were described to Feversham, who promised him his life if he would submit to be stripped, have one end of a rope fastened round his neck, and the other round that of a wild young colt, and would race the colt as long as it could run. He agreed to the ordeal; the brutal Generals and no less brutal soldiers collected round the young man to prepare him for the race, close to the Buss.e.x Rhine in Weston. Away they started at a furious rate till the horse fell exhausted by the side of his ill-fated companion, at Brinsfield Bridge, Chedzoy, a distance of three-quarters of a mile. The young man, worn out with fatigue, extricating himself from the halter, claimed his pardon; but the inhuman General, regardless of his promise, ordered him to be hanged with the rest. A young lady to whom he was betrothed, on hearing of his fate, lost her reason, and for many years was to be seen dressed in white, wandering about the grave in which he and his companions were interred.

The inhabitants of Zoyland still speak of the white lady. We will not enter into the details of the numerous barbarities which were committed, nor will we give a prolonged account of Monmouth's well-known fate. On leaving the battle-field, he was joined by Buise, who, was a German, Lord Grey, and a few other friends, among whom were Stephen Battis...o...b.. and his brother. At Chedzoy he stopped a moment to mount a fresh horse, and then galloped on towards the English Channel. From the rising ground on the north of the fatal field he saw the last volley fired by his hapless followers, and before six o'clock he was twenty miles from Sedgemoor. Here he and his companions pulled rein, many of them advising him to seek refuge in Wales, but he fancied that he could more easily get across to Holland should he reach the New Forest, where, till he could find conveyance, he could hide in the cabins of the wood-cutters and deer-stealers who inhabited that part of the country.

He, Lord Grey, and Buise consequently separated from the rest, who took different courses. He and his companions galloped on till they reached Cranbourne Chase, where their horses broke down. Having concealed the bridles and saddles, and disguised themselves in the dresses of countrymen, they proceeded on foot to the New Forest. The direction they had taken had been discovered, and a large body of militia surrounded them on every side. Lord Grey was first captured, and a short time afterwards Buise, who acknowledged that he had parted from the Duke only a few hours before. The pursuers recommenced the search with more zeal than ever, and at length a tall gaunt figure was discovered in a ditch. Some of the men were about to fire at him, but Sir William Portman coming up, forbade them to use violence. He was dressed as a shepherd, his beard, several days' growth, was prematurely grey. He trembled, and was unable to speak. Even those who had often seen the Duke of Monmouth did not recognise him, till, examining his pockets, the insignia of the George was discovered, with a purse of gold and other articles, among them some raw pease, which he had gathered to satisfy his hunger. This left no doubt who he was. He and Lord Grey were kept at Ringwood strictly guarded for two days, and then sent up to London. Broken-down in health and spirits, he wrote abject letters to his uncle entreating for pardon, and begging that the king would see him. The latter pet.i.tion was agreed to, and he was brought into the presence of James, his arms secured by a silken cord. He had fancied that should the king see him, his life would be spared, and he made the most abject proposals to obtain it. James had resolved that the hated rival should be put out of the way as soon as possible, and refused to listen to his plea. Lord Grey behaved with far more dignity and courage than the Duke. Both were sent to the Tower; the Duke was ordered for execution, Lord Grey was allowed to live, and ultimately, on the payment of a heavy fine, escaped, though hundreds who were certainly less guilty in the eye of the law were mercilessly put to death. The Duke was beheaded a couple of days after being sent to the Tower. As his blood flowed on the scaffold, the crowd rushed forward to dip their handkerchiefs in it, and his memory was long cherished by those who had risen in arms to support his cause, while no inconsiderable number believed that he was still alive, and would appear again to lead them to victory. Two impostors in succession, taking advantage of this belief, represented Monmouth. One was whipped from Newgate to Tyburn; another, who had raised considerable contributions, was thrown into prison, where he was maintained in luxury by his deluded followers. So ends the ill-starred Monmouth's sad history.

We must now return to the more prominent characters of our tale.

Stephen and his brother Andrew, on parting from the Duke, consulted what direction they should take. They agreed that it would be madness to attempt returning home. They were proscribed men, and even should they reach Langton Park, search would be made for them, and their father would be exposed to danger for sheltering them. Stephen said that he was sure Mr Willoughby would willingly try to conceal them, but the Colonel might object to his doing so, from the danger to which he would be exposed should they be discovered. They agreed at length that their safest course would be to push to the north coast of Devon or Cornwall, where they might obtain concealment in the cottages of the fishermen or miners, who were generally favourable to the Protestant cause, and thence cross over to the Welsh coast.

"Let us then commence our march," said Stephen, "and pray that we may escape the dangers that surround us." They rode on rapidly without speaking. Both their hearts were sad; they had lost many friends and faithful followers, whom they had led to join the ill-fated expedition.

Stephen was full of self-reproaches. He thought of Alice, who had warned and besought him not to engage in the enterprise. He had acted with courage on several occasions, but following the example of his chief, he had fled from the field of battle, and he felt ashamed of himself for not having remained with the brave men who fought to the last, and fallen among them.

"We should have done it," he exclaimed at length, as they had to rein in their steeds while they ascended a steep hill.

"Done what?" asked Andrew.

"Died on the field, as I wish that the Duke and Lord Grey had done rather than run away," replied Stephen.

"As we are doing," remarked Andrew; "for my part, I think it is the wisest course we could have pursued. I hope they will escape to fight in the same cause on a more favourable occasion; we should have gained nothing by remaining on the field of battle, and lost everything if we should have either been killed or captured."

"We should have preserved our honour," said Stephen.

"I do not consider that we have lost that, since every man who had a horse to carry him has done the same; but there is little use discussing the subject. At present we must exert our wits to preserve our lives, and any honour we have lost may be retrieved on a future opportunity."

Andrew had generally an answer for his brother's remarks. Having gained the brow of the hill, they again pushed forward, keeping as near the coast as the nature of the ground would allow, and avoiding all villages and hamlets, though they hoped that the news of their defeat would not have preceded them in the direction they were going.

The evening of that fatal day was drawing on when they saw before them a lone cottage by the seaside. Both their horses were knocked up, and they themselves were much fatigued and desperately hungry. Still Stephen was unwilling to approach the cottage without first ascertaining the character of the inmates.

"Ride on a short distance to the south and wait for me there," he said to his brother; "I will then turn back and see if the people are likely to treat us hospitably. I will tell them that we want a place of rest, as we know of none in the neighbourhood, and that if they will find some oats or beans or other provender for our horses, and provide us with some food, we will be thankful and pay them whatever they may demand."

Near the cottage was a boat-house, which appeared to be high enough to serve as a stable, and they hoped that their horses might be sheltered in it during the night. Accordingly, after proceeding a little distance beyond the cottage, Stephen turned back and rode up to the door, and gave a couple of knocks with the hilt of his sword. The next instant it was opened, and a grey-headed old man in a fisherman's dress appeared.

"What do you want here, master?" he asked.

Stephen, after surveying the old man, answered as he had intended.

"Food for a horse I don't keep in store, and for a man I have little enough, though I might give you some bread and cheese," said the old fisherman.

"We will pay you for whatever you can supply us with and be thankful,"

said Stephen.

"Two men and horses; why, you will eat me out of house and home," said the old man, peering forth at Andrew, whom he could see in the distance.

"My son, however, will be in anon from fis.h.i.+ng; if he has got a good haul there will be food enough, and as for the horses, why, now I come to think on't, I have a couple of sacks of damaged oats, got out of a vessel not far off; if your animals are hungry, as you say, they will manage to eat them."

"By all means, my friend," said Stephen. "And I suppose you can put our horses up in your boat-house?"

"As to that, as the boat's away, and it is summer weather, there is room for them."

"Well, then, I will call my brother, and we will take advantage of your hospitality," said Stephen, and he rode back and called Andrew.

"Bring us the oats without delay, my friend," said Stephen; "our poor beasts want food as much as we do."

The old man went into his hut and reappeared with a good-sized basketful of oats. The young men, taking off their bridles, allowed the poor beasts to commence their meal, fastening them up with some ropes, of which there were several coils in the boat-house.

"You have come far, I suspect," observed the old fisherman, as he watched the horses devour their provender.

"You must give them some water, though," said Stephen, "or they will not get through enough food to sustain them."

The old man got a bucket, and went to a well a little distance from the cottage, among a group of trees, the only ones to be seen in the neighbourhood.

"A merciful man is merciful to his beast," he observed, as he brought the water, which the horses greedily drank. "Travellers have need to look after their steeds for their own sakes. Are you riding northward?

It may be if you are, you are going to join the Duke of Monmouth's army.

We have heard say that he has gone in that direction."

"No, we have no intention of joining his army," answered Stephen evasively, thankful to find that the news of the Duke's defeat had not as yet reached thus far. They now, closing the door of the boat-house, accompanied the old man to the cottage. They fancied that he was alone, but on entering they discovered an old woman seated by the fire, engaged in preparing the evening meal. She looked up from her task, and asked her husband who the strangers were.

"Travellers, goodwife; they want some food, and you must just put on whatever you have got to give them. Fry some more bacon and some of the salt fish we have in store. They will pay for it, goodwife," he whispered in her ear. "It is some time since your eyes have been gladdened by the sight of silver."

The old lady looked satisfied, and was soon frying a further supply of bacon and fish. The smell made Stephen and Andrew feel so sick with hunger, that they begged leave to fall-to without waiting for the return of Mark, the son of the old couple. It took them some time, however, to appease their appet.i.tes. The old man and his wife looked on with astonishment at the amount of food they stowed away.

"One would suppose that you two had not eaten anything since yesterday,"

observed the old man.

"You are not far wrong, friend," answered Stephen. "We have had good reason for spurring fast. As we are weary, we will beg you to let us stow ourselves away in a corner of your room and go to sleep, asking you to call us should any strangers come near the hut."

"You are welcome to do that, seeing we have no beds to offer you except Mark's, and he might grumble should he find himself turned out of his."

"We would not do that on any account. Do let us lie down without delay," said Stephen. "See, my brother's head is already nodding over the table."

They had brought in their cloaks, unstrapped from their saddles, and rolling themselves up in them, with some lumps of wood for pillows, they were asleep almost as soon as they had stretched themselves on the ground.

The old man and his wife sat talking in low voices for some time, every now and then glancing at their guests, till the door opened, and the son they had spoken of entered the room. He was a big, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man.

"Whom have we here?" he asked, turning his eyes towards the sleeping fugitives.

"That is more than I can tell you, Mark," answered his father. "They say they came from the south, and, as far as I can make out, they are pus.h.i.+ng on to Bristol. They seem to have ridden hard, and are dead beat."

"That may or may not be," said Mark. "I heard say yesterday a good many men have been deserting from the Duke of Monmouth's army. That is not to be wondered at, seeing that the king's forces are rapidly gathering around him; wiser if they had never joined. However, that is no business of ours."

"So I say, son Mark," said the old man. "You are a wise fellow not to run your head into danger, let the world wag as it lists; all we have to do is to catch fish and find a market for them. Have you had a good haul?"

"Pretty fair; and I hope the packman will be here ere long to carry them to Bridgewater, where they say the Duke of Monmouth and his men are encamped. I will now turn in, father, to be ready to send off the fish as soon as the packman comes."

Mark accordingly turned into his bunk in a little recess, for it could not be called a room, in the hut, and was soon snoring away, while his father sat up by the fire in a rough arm-chair, ready, apparently, to awaken him as soon as the packman should arrive. Stephen and Andrew were so thoroughly done up that they slept on the whole night through, undisturbed by voices or any other noise; indeed, had a gun been fired over their heads, they would scarcely have heard it. They started up at daybreak.