No More Learning

[387]

In the counties more remote from Somersetshire the supporters of the
throne were on the alert. The militia of Sussex began to march westward,
under the command of Richard, Lord Lumley, who, though he had lately
been converted from the Roman Catholic religion, was still firm in his
allegiance to a Roman Catholic King. James Bertie, Earl of Abingdon,
called out the array of Oxfordshire. John Fell, Bishop of Oxford,
who was also Dean of Christchurch, summoned the undergraduates of his
University to take arms for the crown. The gownsmen crowded to give in
their names. Christchurch alone furnished near a hundred pikemen and
musketeers. Young noblemen and gentlemen commoners acted as officers;
and the eldest son of the Lord Lieutenant was Colonel. [388]

But it was chiefly on the regular troops that the King relied. Churchill
had been sent westward with the Blues; and Feversham was following with
all the forces that could be spared from the neighbourhood of London.
A courier had started for Holland with a letter directing Skelton
instantly to request that the three English regiments in the Dutch
service might be sent to the Thames. When the request was made,
the party hostile to the House of Orange, headed by the deputies of
Amsterdam, again tried to cause delay. But the energy of William, who
had almost as much at stake as James, and who saw Monmouth's progress
with serious uneasiness, bore down opposition, and in a few days the
troops sailed. [389] The three Scotch regiments were already in England.
They had arrived at Gravesend in excellent condition, and James had
reviewed them on Blackheath. He repeatedly declared to the Dutch
Ambassador that he had never in his life seen finer or better
disciplined soldiers, and expressed the warmest gratitude to the Prince
of Orange and the States for so valuable and seasonable a reinforcement
This satisfaction, however, was not unmixed. Excellently as the men went
through their drill, they were not untainted with Dutch politics and
Dutch divinity. One of them was shot and another flogged for drinking
the Duke of Monmouth's health. It was therefore not thought advisable to
place them in the post of danger. They were kept in the neighbourhood of
London till the end of the campaign. But their arrival enabled the King
to send to the West some infantry which would otherwise have been wanted
in the capital. [390]

While the government was thus preparing for a conflict with the rebels
in the field, precautions of a different kind were not neglected. In
London alone two hundred of those persons who were thought most likely
to be at the head of a Whig movement were arrested. Among the prisoners
were some merchants of great note. Every man who was obnoxious to the
Court went in fear. A general gloom overhung the capital. Business
languished on the Exchange; and the theatres were so generally deserted
that a new opera, written by Dryden, and set off by decorations of
unprecedented magnificence, was withdrawn, because the receipts would
not cover the expenses of the performance. [391] The magistrates and
clergy were everywhere active, the Dissenters were everywhere closely
observed. In Cheshire and Shropshire a fierce persecution raged; in
Northamptonshire arrests were numerous; and the gaol of Oxford was
crowded with prisoners. No Puritan divine, however moderate his
opinions, however guarded his conduct, could feel any confidence that he
should not be torn from his family and flung into a dungeon. [392]

Meanwhile Monmouth advanced from Bridgewater harassed through the whole
march by Churchill, who appears to have done all that, with a handful
of men, it was possible for a brave and skilful officer to effect. The
rebel army, much annoyed, both by the enemy and by a heavy fall of rain,
halted in the evening of the twenty-second of June at Glastonbury. The
houses of the little town did not afford shelter for so large a force.
Some of the troops were therefore quartered in the churches, and others
lighted their fires among the venerable ruins of the Abbey, once the
wealthiest religious house in our island. From Glastonbury the Duke
marched to Wells, and from Wells to Shepton Mallet. [393]

Hitherto he seems to have wandered from place to place with no other
object than that of collecting troops. It was now necessary for him to
form some plan of military operations. His first scheme was to seize
Bristol. Many of the chief inhabitants of that important place were
Whigs. One of the ramifications of the Whig plot had extended thither.
The garrison consisted only of the Gloucestershire trainbands. If
Beaufort and his rustic followers could be overpowered before the
regular troops arrived, the rebels would at once find themselves
possessed of ample pecuniary resources; the credit of Monmouth's
arms would be raised; and his friends throughout the kingdom would be
encouraged to declare themselves. Bristol had fortifications which, on
the north of the Avon towards Gloucestershire, were weak, but on
the south towards Somersetshire were much stronger. It was therefore
determined that the attack should be made on the Gloucestershire side.
But for this purpose it was necessary to take a circuitous route, and
to cross the Avon at Keynsham. The bridge at Keynsham had been partly
demolished by the militia, and was at present impassable. A detachment
was therefore sent forward to make the necessary repairs. The other
troops followed more slowly, and on the evening of the twenty-fourth
of June halted for repose at Pensford. At Pensford they were only five
miles from the Somersetshire side of Bristol; but the Gloucestershire
side, which could be reached only by going round through Keynsham, was
distant a long day's march. [394]

That night was one of great tumult and expectation in Bristol. The
partisans of Monmouth knew that he was almost within sight of their
city, and imagined that he would be among them before daybreak. About
an hour after sunset a merchantman lying at the quay took fire. Such an
occurrence, in a port crowded with shipping, could not but excite great
alarm. The whole river was in commotion. The streets were crowded.
Seditious cries were heard amidst the darkness and confusion. It was
afterwards asserted, both by Whigs and by Tories, that the fire had
been kindled by the friends of Monmouth, in the hope that the trainbands
would be busied in preventing the conflagration from spreading, and that
in the meantime the rebel army would make a bold push, and would enter
the city on the Somersetshire side. If such was the design of the
incendiaries, it completely failed. Beaufort, instead of sending his men
to the quay, kept them all night drawn up under arms round the beautiful
church of Saint Mary Redcliff, on the south of the Avon. He would see
Bristol burnt down, he said, nay, he would burn it down himself, rather
than that it should be occupied by traitors. He was able, with the help
of some regular cavalry which had joined him from Chippenham a few hours
before, to prevent an insurrection. It might perhaps have been beyond
his power at once to overawe the malecontents within the walls and to
repel an attack from without: but no such attack was made. The fire,
which caused so much commotion at Bristol, was distinctly seen at
Pensford. Monmouth, however, did not think it expedient to change his
plan. He remained quiet till sunrise, and then marched to Keynsham.
There he found the bridge repaired. He determined to let his army rest
during the afternoon, and, as soon as night came, to proceed to Bristol.
[395]

But it was too late. The King's forces were now near at hand. Colonel
Oglethorpe, at the head of about a hundred men of the Life Guards,
dashed into Keynsham, scattered two troops of rebel horse which ventured
to oppose him, and retired after inflicting much injury and suffering
little. In these circumstances it was thought necessary to relinquish
the design on Bristol. [396]

But what was to be done? Several schemes were proposed and discussed. It
was suggested that Monmouth might hasten to Gloucester, might cross
the Severn there, might break down the bridge behind him, and, with his
right flank protected by the river, might march through Worcestershire
into Shropshire and Cheshire. He had formerly made a progress through
those counties, and had been received there with as much enthusiasm as
in Somersetshire and Devonshire. His presence might revive the zeal of
his old friends; and his army might in a few days be swollen to double
its present numbers.

On full consideration, however, it appeared that this plan, though
specious, was impracticable. The rebels were ill shod for such work as
they had lately undergone, and were exhausted by toiling, day after day,
through deep mud under heavy rain. Harassed and impeded as they would
be at every stage by the enemy's cavalry, they could not hope to reach
Gloucester without being overtaken by the main body of the royal troops,
and forced to a general action under every disadvantage.

Then it was proposed to enter Wiltshire. Persons who professed to know
that county well assured the Duke that he would be joined there by such
strong reinforcements as would make it safe for him to give battle.
[397]

He took this advice, and turned towards Wiltshire. He first summoned
Bath. But Bath was strongly garrisoned for the King; and Feversham was
fast approaching. The rebels, therefore made no attempt on the walls,
but hastened to Philip's Norton, where they halted on the evening of the
twenty-sixth of June.

Feversham followed them thither. Early on the morning of the
twenty-seventh they were alarmed by tidings that he was close at hand.
They got into order, and lined the hedges leading to the town.

The advanced guard of the royal army soon appeared. It consisted of
about five hundred men, commanded by the Duke of Grafton, a youth of
bold spirit and rough manners, who was probably eager to show that he
had no share in the disloyal schemes of his half brother. Grafton soon
found himself in a deep lane with fences on both sides of him, from
which a galling fire of musketry was kept up. Still he pushed boldly
on till he came to the entrance of Philip's Norton. There his way was
crossed by a barricade, from which a third fire met him full in front.
His men now lost heart, and made the best of their way back. Before
they got out of the lane more than a hundred of them had been killed or
wounded. Grafton's retreat was intercepted by some of the rebel cavalry:
but he cut his way gallantly through them, and came off safe. [398]

The advanced guard, thus repulsed, fell back on the main body of the
royal forces. The two armies were now face to face; and a few shots were
exchanged that did little or no execution. Neither side was impatient to
come to action. Feversham did not wish to fight till his artillery came
up, and fell back to Bradford. Monmouth, as soon as the night closed
in, quitted his position, marched southward, and by daybreak arrived at
Frome, where he hoped to find reinforcements.

Frome was as zealous in his cause as either Taunton or Bridgewater,
but could do nothing to serve him. There had been a rising a few days
before; and Monmouth's declaration had been posted up in the market
place. But the news of this movement had been carried to the Earl of
Pembroke, who lay at no great distance with the Wiltshire militia. He
had instantly marched to Frome, had routed a mob of rustics who, with
scythes and pitchforks, attempted to oppose him, had entered the town
and had disarmed the inhabitants. No weapons, therefore, were left
there; nor was Monmouth able to furnish any. [399]

The rebel army was in evil case. The march of the preceding night had
been wearisome. The rain had fallen in torrents; and the roads had
become mere quagmires. Nothing was heard of the promised succours from
Wiltshire. One messenger brought news that Argyle's forces had been
dispersed in Scotland. Another reported that Feversham, having been
joined by his artillery, was about to advance. Monmouth understood war
too well not to know that his followers, with all their courage and
all their zeal, were no match for regular soldiers. He had till lately
flattered himself with the hope that some of those regiments which he
had formerly commanded would pass over to his standard: but that hope he
was now compelled to relinquish. His heart failed him. He could scarcely
muster firmness enough to give orders. In his misery he complained
bitterly of the evil counsellors who had induced him to quit his happy
retreat in Brabant. Against Wildman in particular he broke forth into
violent imprecations. [400] And now an ignominious thought rose in his
weak and agitated mind. He would leave to the mercy of the government
the thousands who had, at his call and for his sake, abandoned their
quiet fields and dwellings. He would steal away with his chief officers,
would gain some seaport before his flight was suspected, would escape to
the Continent, and would forget his ambition and his shame in the arms
of Lady Wentworth. He seriously discussed this scheme with his leading
advisers. Some of them, trembling for their necks, listened to it with
approbation; but Grey, who, by the admission of his detractors, was
intrepid everywhere except where swords were clashing and guns going
off around him, opposed the dastardly proposition with great ardour,
and implored the Duke to face every danger rather than requite with
ingratitude and treachery the devoted attachment of the Western
peasantry. [401]

The scheme of flight was abandoned: but it was not now easy to form any
plan for a campaign. To advance towards London would have been madness;
for the road lay right across Salisbury Plain; and on that vast open
space regular troops, and above all regular cavalry, would have acted
with every advantage against undisciplined men. At this juncture a
report reached the camp that the rustics of the marshes near Axbridge
had risen in defence of the Protestant religion, had armed themselves
with flails, bludgeons, and pitchforks, and were assembling by thousands
at Bridgewater. Monmouth determined to return thither, and to strengthen
himself with these new allies. [402]

The rebels accordingly proceeded to Wells, and arrived there in no
amiable temper. They were, with few exceptions, hostile to Prelacy; and
they showed their hostility in a way very little to their honour. They
not only tore the lead from the roof of the magnificent Cathedral to
make bullets, an act for which they might fairly plead the necessities
of war, but wantonly defaced the ornaments of the building. Grey with
difficulty preserved the altar from the insults of some ruffians who
wished to carouse round it, by taking his stand before it with his sword
drawn. [403]

On Thursday, the second of July, Monmouth again entered Bridgewater,
In circumstances far less cheering than those in which he had marched
thence ten days before. The reinforcement which he found there was
inconsiderable. The royal army was close upon him. At one moment he
thought of fortifying the town; and hundreds of labourers were summoned
to dig trenches and throw up mounds. Then his mind recurred to the plan
of marching into Cheshire, a plan which he had rejected as impracticable
when he was at Keynsham, and which assuredly was not more practicable
now that he was at Bridgewater. [404]

While he was thus wavering between projects equally hopeless, the King's
forces came in sight. They consisted of about two thousand five hundred
regular troops, and of about fifteen hundred of the Wiltshire militia.
Early on the morning of Sunday, the fifth of July, they left Somerton,
and pitched their tents that day about three miles from Bridgewater, on
the plain of Sedgemoor.

Dr. Peter Mew, Bishop of Winchester, accompanied them. This prelate had
in his youth borne arms for Charles the First against the Parliament.
Neither his years nor his profession had wholly extinguished his martial
ardour; and he probably thought that the appearance of a father of the
Protestant Church in the King's camp might confirm the loyalty of some
honest men who were wavering between their horror of Popery and their
horror of rebellion.

The steeple of the parish church of Bridgewater is said to be the
loftiest of Somersetshire, and commands a wide view over the surrounding
country. Monmouth, accompanied by some of his officers, went up to
the top of the square tower from which the spire ascends, and observed
through a telescope the position of the enemy. Beneath him lay a flat
expanse, now rich with cornfields and apple trees, but then, as its name
imports, for the most part a dreary morass. When the rains were heavy,
and the Parret and its tributary streams rose above their banks, this
tract was often flooded. It was indeed anciently part of that great
swamp which is renowned in our early chronicles as having arrested the
progress of two successive races of invaders, which long protected
the Celts against the aggressions of the kings of Wessex, and which
sheltered Alfred from the pursuit of the Danes. In those remote times
this region could be traversed only in boats. It was a vast pool,
wherein were scattered many islets of shifting and treacherous soil,
overhung with rank jungle, and swarming with deer and wild swine.
Even in the days of the Tudors, the traveller whose journey lay from
Ilchester to Bridgewater was forced to make a circuit of several miles
in order to avoid the waters. When Monmouth looked upon Sedgemoor, it
had been partially reclaimed by art, and was intersected by many deep
and wide trenches which, in that country, are called rhines. In the
midst of the moor rose, clustering round the towers of churches, a
few villages of which the names seem to indicate that they once were
surrounded by waves. In one of these villages, called Weston Zoyland,
the royal cavalry lay; and Feversham had fixed his headquarters there.
Many persons still living have seen the daughter of the servant girl who
waited on him that day at table; and a large dish of Persian ware, which
was set before him, is still carefully preserved in the neighbourhood.
It is to be observed that the population of Somersetshire does not, like
that of the manufacturing districts, consist of emigrants from distant
places. It is by no means unusual to find farmers who cultivate the same
land which their ancestors cultivated when the Plantagenets reigned in
England. The Somersetshire traditions are therefore, of no small value
to a historian. [405]

At a greater distance from Bridgewater lies the village of Middlezoy.
In that village and its neighbourhood, the Wiltshire militia were
quartered, under the command of Pembroke. On the open moor, not far from
Chedzoy, were encamped several battalions of regular infantry. Monmouth
looked gloomily on them. He could not but remember how, a few years
before, he had, at the head of a column composed of some of those very
men, driven before him in confusion the fierce enthusiasts who defended
Bothwell Bridge He could distinguish among the hostile ranks that
gallant band which was then called from the name of its Colonel,
Dumbarton's regiment, but which has long been known as the first of
the line, and which, in all the four quarters of the world, has nobly
supported its early reputation. "I know those men," said Monmouth; "they
will fight. If I had but them, all would go well. " [406]

Yet the aspect of the enemy was not altogether discouraging. The three
divisions of the royal army lay far apart from one another. There was
all appearance of negligence and of relaxed discipline in all their
movements. It was reported that they were drinking themselves drunk with
the Zoyland cider. The incapacity of Feversham, who commanded in chief,
was notorious. Even at this momentous crisis he thought only of eating
and sleeping. Churchill was indeed a captain equal to tasks far more
arduous than that of scattering a crowd of ill armed and ill trained
peasants. But the genius, which, at a later period, humbled six Marshals
of France, was not now in its proper place. Feversham told Churchill
little, and gave him no encouragement to offer any suggestion. The
lieutenant, conscious of superior abilities and science, impatient of
the control of a chief whom he despised, and trembling for the fate of
the army, nevertheless preserved his characteristic self-command, and
dissembled his feelings so well that Feversham praised his submissive
alacrity, and promised to report it to the King. [407]

Monmouth, having observed the disposition of the royal forces, and
having been apprised of the state in which they were, conceived that
a night attack might be attended with success. He resolved to run the
hazard; and preparations were instantly made.

It was Sunday; and his followers, who had, for the most part, been
brought up after the Puritan fashion, passed a great part of the day in
religious exercises. The Castle Field, in which the army was encamped,
presented a spectacle such as, since the disbanding of Cromwell's
soldiers, England had never seen. The dissenting preachers who had taken
arms against Popery, and some of whom had probably fought in the great
civil war, prayed and preached in red coats and huge jackboots, with
swords by their sides. Ferguson was one of those who harangued. He took
for his text the awful imprecation by which the Israelites who dwelt
beyond Jordan cleared themselves from the charge ignorantly brought
against them by their brethren on the other side of the river. "The Lord
God of Gods, the Lord God of Gods, he knoweth; and Israel he shall know.
If it be in rebellion, or if in transgression against the Lord, save us
not this day. " [408]

That an attack was to be made under cover of the night was no secret
in Bridgewater. The town was full of women, who had repaired thither
by hundreds from the surrounding region, to see their husbands, sons,
lovers, and brothers once more. There were many sad partings that day;
and many parted never to meet again. [409] The report of the intended
attack came to the ears of a young girl who was zealous for the King.
Though of modest character, she had the courage to resolve that she
would herself bear the intelligence to Feversham. She stole out of
Bridgewater, and made her way to the royal camp. But that camp was not a
place where female innocence could be safe. Even the officers, despising
alike the irregular force to which they were opposed, and the negligent
general who commanded them, had indulged largely in wine, and were ready
for any excess of licentiousness and cruelty. One of them seized the
unhappy maiden, refused to listen to her errand, and brutally outraged
her. She fled in agonies of rage and shame, leaving the wicked army to
its doom. [410]

And now the time for the great hazard drew near. The night was not ill
suited for such an enterprise. The moon was indeed at the full, and the
northern streamers were shining brilliantly. But the marsh fog lay
so thick on Sedgemoor that no object could be discerned there at the
distance of fifty paces. [411]

The clock struck eleven; and the Duke with his body guard rode out of
the Castle. He was not in the frame of mind which befits one who is
about to strike a decisive blow. The very children who pressed to see
him pass observed, and long remembered, that his look was sad and full
of evil augury.
His army marched by a circuitous path, near six miles in
length, towards the royal encampment on Sedgemoor. Part of the route is
to this day called War Lane. The foot were led by Monmouth himself. The
horse were confided to Grey, in spite of the remonstrances of some who
remembered the mishap at Bridport. Orders were given that strict silence
should be preserved, that no drum should be beaten, and no shot fired.
The word by which the insurgents were to recognise one another in the
darkness was Soho. It had doubtless been selected in allusion to Soho
Fields in London, where their leader's palace stood. [412]

At about one in the morning of Monday the sixth of July, the rebels were
on the open moor. But between them and the enemy lay three broad rhines
filled with water and soft mud. Two of these, called the Black Ditch
and the Langmoor Rhine, Monmouth knew that he must pass. But, strange
to say, the existence of a trench, called the Bussex Rhine, which
immediately covered the royal encampment, had not been mentioned to him
by any of his scouts.

The wains which carried the ammunition remained at the entrance of the
moor. The horse and foot, in a long narrow column, passed the Black
Ditch by a causeway. There was a similar causeway across the Langmoor
Rhine: but the guide, in the fog, missed his way. There was some delay
and some tumult before the error could be rectified. At length the
passage was effected: but, in the confusion, a pistol went off. Some men
of the Horse Guards, who were on watch, heard the report, and perceived
that a great multitude was advancing through the mist. They fired their
carbines, and galloped off in different directions to give the alarm.
Some hastened to Weston Zoyland, where the cavalry lay. One trooper
spurred to the encampment of the infantry, and cried out vehemently that
the enemy was at hand. The drums of Dumbarton's regiment beat to arms;
and the men got fast into their ranks. It was time; for Monmouth was
already drawing up his army for action. He ordered Grey to lead the way
with the cavalry, and followed himself at the head of the infantry.
Grey pushed on till his progress was unexpectedly arrested by the Bussex
Rhine. On the opposite side of the ditch the King's foot were hastily
forming in order of battle.

"For whom are you? " called out an officer of the Foot Guards. "For the
King," replied a voice from the ranks of the rebel cavalry. "For which
King? " was then demanded. The answer was a shout of "King Monmouth,"
mingled with the war cry, which forty years before had been inscribed
on the colours of the parliamentary regiments, "God with us. " The royal
troops instantly fired such a volley of musketry as sent the rebel horse
flying in all directions. The world agreed to ascribe this ignominious
rout to Grey's pusillanimity. Yet it is by no means clear that Churchill
would have succeeded better at the head of men who had never before
handled arms on horseback, and whose horses were unused, not only to
stand fire, but to obey the rein.

A few minutes after the Duke's horse had dispersed themselves over the
moor, his infantry came up running fast, and guided through the gloom by
the lighted matches of Dumbarton's regiment.

Monmouth was startled by finding that a broad and profound trench lay
between him and the camp which he had hoped to surprise. The insurgents
halted on the edge of the rhine, and fired. Part of the royal infantry
on the opposite bank returned the fire. During three quarters of an
hour the roar of the musketry was incessant. The Somersetshire peasants
behaved themselves as if they had been veteran soldiers, save only that
they levelled their pieces too high.

But now the other divisions of the royal army were in motion. The Life
Guards and Blues came pricking fast from Weston Zoyland, and scattered
in an instant some of Grey's horse, who had attempted to rally. The
fugitives spread a panic among their comrades in the rear, who had
charge of the ammunition. The waggoners drove off at full speed, and
never stopped till they were many miles from the field of battle.
Monmouth had hitherto done his part like a stout and able warrior. He
had been seen on foot, pike in hand, encouraging his infantry by voice
and by example. But he was too well acquainted with military affairs not
to know that all was over. His men had lost the advantage which surprise
and darkness had given them. They were deserted by the horse and by the
ammunition waggons. The King's forces were now united and in good order.
Feversham had been awakened by the firing, had got out of bed, had
adjusted his cravat, had looked at himself well in the glass, and had
come to see what his men were doing. Meanwhile, what was of much more
importance, Churchill had rapidly made an entirely 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 Monmouth
should have felt that it was not for him to fly, while thousands
whom affection for him had hurried to destruction were still fighting
manfully in his cause. But vain hopes and the intense love of life
prevailed. He saw that if he tarried the royal cavalry would soon
intercept his retreat. He mounted and rode from the field.

Yet his foot, though deserted, made a gallant stand. The Life Guards
attacked them on the right, the Blues on the left; but the Somersetshire
clowns, with their scythes and the butt ends of their muskets, faced
the royal horse like old soldiers. Oglethorpe made a vigorous attempt to
break them and was manfully repulsed. Sarsfield, a brave Irish officer,
whose name afterwards obtained a melancholy celebrity, charged on the
other flank. His men were beaten back. He was himself struck to the
ground, and lay for a time as one dead. But the struggle of the hardy
rustics could not last. Their powder and ball were spent. Cries were
heard of "Ammunition! For God's sake ammunition! " But no ammunition was
at hand. And now the King's artillery came up. It had been posted half
a mile off, on the high road from Weston Zoyland to Bridgewater. So
defective were then the appointments of an English army that there would
have been much difficulty in dragging the great guns to the place where
the battle was raging, had not the Bishop of Winchester offered
his coach horses and traces for the purpose. This interference of a
Christian prelate in a matter of blood has, with strange inconsistency,
been condemned by some Whig writers who can see nothing criminal in
the conduct of the numerous Puritan ministers then in arms against the
government. Even when the guns had arrived, there was such a want of
gunners that a serjeant of Dumbarton's regiment was forced to take on
himself the management of several pieces. [413] The cannon, however,
though ill served, brought the engagement to a speedy close. The pikes
of the rebel battalions began to shake: the ranks broke; the King's
cavalry charged again, and bore down everything before them; the King's
infantry came pouring across the ditch. Even in that extremity the
Mendip miners stood bravely to their arms, and sold their lives dearly.
But the rout was in a few minutes complete. Three hundred of the
soldiers had been killed or wounded. Of the rebels more than a thousand
lay dead on the moor. [414]

So ended the last fight deserving the name of battle, that has been
fought on English ground. The impression left on the simple inhabitants
of the neighbourhood was deep and lasting. That impression, indeed, has
been frequently renewed. For even in our own time the plough and the
spade have not seldom turned up ghastly memorials of the slaughter,
skulls, and thigh bones, and strange weapons made out of implements of
husbandry. Old peasants related very recently that, in their childhood,
they were accustomed to play on the moor at the fight between King
James's men and King Monmouth's men, and that King Monmouth's men always
raised the cry of Soho. [415]

What seems most extraordinary in the battle of Sedgemoor is that the
event should have been for a moment doubtful, and that the rebels should
have resisted so long. That five or six thousand colliers and ploughmen
should contend during an hour with half that number of regular cavalry
and infantry would now be thought a miracle. Our wonder will, perhaps,
be diminished when we remember that, in the time of James the Second,
the discipline of the regular army was extremely lax, and that, on the
other hand, the peasantry were accustomed to serve in the militia.
The difference, therefore, between a regiment of the Foot Guards and a
regiment of clowns just enrolled, though doubtless considerable, was by
no means what it now is. Monmouth did not lead a mere mob to attack good
soldiers. For his followers were not altogether without a tincture of
soldiership; and Feversham's troops, when compared with English troops
of our time, might almost be called a mob.

It was four o'clock: the sun was rising; and the routed army came
pouring into the streets of Bridgewater. The uproar, the blood, the
gashes, the ghastly figures which sank down and never rose again,
spread horror and dismay through the town. The pursuers, too, were close
behind. Those inhabitants who had favoured the insurrection expected
sack and massacre, and implored the protection of their neighbours
who professed the Roman Catholic religion, or had made themselves
conspicuous by Tory politics; and it is acknowledged by the bitterest
of Whig historians that this protection was kindly and generously given.
[416]

During that day the conquerors continued to chase the fugitives. The
neighbouring villagers long remembered with what a clatter of horsehoofs
and what a storm of curses the whirlwind of cavalry swept by. Before
evening five hundred prisoners had been crowded into the parish church
of Weston Zoyland. Eighty of them were wounded; and five expired within
the consecrated walls. Great numbers of labourers were impressed for the
purpose of burying the slain. A few, who were notoriously partial to the
vanquished side, were set apart for the hideous office of quartering the
captives. The tithing men of the neighbouring parishes were busied in
setting up gibbets and providing chains. All this while the bells of
Weston Zoyland and Chedzoy rang joyously; and the soldiers sang
and rioted on the moor amidst the corpses. For the farmers of the
neighbourhood had made haste, as soon as the event of the fight was
known to send hogsheads of their best cider as peace offerings to the
victors. [417]

Feversham passed for a goodnatured man: but he was a foreigner,
ignorant of the laws and careless of the feelings of the English. He was
accustomed to the military license of France, and had learned from
his great kinsman, the conqueror and devastator of the Palatinate, not
indeed how to conquer, but how to devastate. A considerable number of
prisoners were immediately selected for execution. Among them was a
youth famous for his speed. Hopes were held out to him that his life
would be spared If he could run a race with one of the colts of the
marsh. The space through which the man kept up with the horse is still
marked by well known bounds on the moor, and is about three quarters of
a mile. Feversham was not ashamed, after seeing the performance, to
send the wretched performer to the gallows. The next day a long line of
gibbets appeared on the road leading from Bridgewater to Weston Zoyland.
On each gibbet a prisoner was suspended. Four of the sufferers were left
to rot in irons. [418]

Meanwhile Monmouth, accompanied by Grey, by Buyse, and by a few other
friends, was flying from the field of battle. At Chedzoy he stopped
a moment to mount a fresh horse and to hide his blue riband and his
George. He then hastened towards the Bristol Channel. From the rising
ground on the north of the field of battle he saw the flash and the
smoke of the last volley fired by his deserted followers. Before six
o'clock he was twenty miles from Sedgemoor. Some of his companions
advised him to cross the water, and seek refuge in Wales; and this would
undoubtedly have been his wisest course. He would have been in Wales
many hours before the news of his defeat was known there; and in a
country so wild and so remote from the seat of government, he might
have remained long undiscovered. He determined, however, to push for
Hampshire, in the hope that he might lurk in the cabins of deerstealers
among the oaks of the New Forest, till means of conveyance to the
Continent could be procured. He therefore, with Grey and the German,
turned to the southeast. But the way was beset with dangers. The three
fugitives had to traverse a country in which every one already knew the
event of the battle, and in which no traveller of suspicious appearance
could escape a close scrutiny. They rode on all day, shunning towns and
villages. Nor was this so difficult as it may now appear. For men then
living could remember the time when the wild deer ranged freely through
a succession of forests from the banks of the Avon in Wiltshire to the
southern coast of Hampshire. [419] At length, on Cranbourne Chase, the
strength of the horses failed. They were therefore turned loose. The
bridles and saddles were concealed. Monmouth and his friends procured
rustic attire, disguised themselves, and proceeded on foot towards the
New Forest. They passed the night in the open air: but before morning
they were Surrounded on every side by toils. Lord Lumley, who lay
at Ringwood with a strong body of the Sussex militia, had sent forth
parties in every direction. Sir William Portman, with the Somerset
militia, had formed a chain of posts from the sea to the northern
extremity of Dorset. At five in the morning of the seventh, Grey, who
had wandered from his friends, was seized by two of the Sussex scouts.
He submitted to his fate with the calmness of one to whom suspense was
more intolerable than despair. "Since we landed," he said, "I have not
had one comfortable meal or one quiet night. " It could hardly be doubted
that the chief rebel was not far off. The pursuers redoubled their
vigilance and activity. The cottages scattered over the heathy country
on the boundaries of Dorsetshire and Hampshire were strictly examined
by Lumley; and the clown with whom Monmouth had changed clothes was
discovered. Portman came with a strong body of horse and foot to assist
in the search. Attention was soon drawn to a place well fitted to
shelter fugitives. It was an extensive tract of land separated by an
enclosure from the open country, and divided by numerous hedges into
small fields. In some of these fields the rye, the pease, and the oats
were high enough to conceal a man. Others were overgrown with fern and
brambles. A poor woman reported that she had seen two strangers lurking
in this covert. The near prospect of reward animated the zeal of the
troops. It was agreed that every man who did his duty in the search
should have a share of the promised five thousand pounds. The outer
fence was strictly guarded: the space within was examined with
indefatigable diligence; and several dogs of quick scent were turned out
among the bushes. The day closed before the work could be completed: but
careful watch was kept all night. Thirty times the fugitives ventured
to look through the outer hedge: but everywhere they found a sentinel
on the alert: once they were seen and fired at; they then separated and
concealed themselves in different hiding places.

At sunrise the next morning the search recommenced, and Buyse was found.
He owned that he had parted from the Duke only a few hours before. The
corn and copsewood were now beaten with more care than ever. At length
a gaunt figure was discovered hidden in a ditch. The pursuers sprang
on their prey. Some of them were about to fire: but Portman forbade
all violence. The prisoner's dress was that of a shepherd; his beard,
prematurely grey, was of several days' growth. He trembled greatly, and
was unable to speak. Even those who had often seen him were at first in
doubt whether this were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth. His
pockets were searched by Portman, and in them were found, among some raw
pease gathered in the rage of hunger, a watch, a purse of gold, a
small treatise on fortification, an album filled with songs, receipts,
prayers, and charms, and the George with which, many years before, King
Charles the Second had decorated his favourite son. Messengers were
instantly despatched to Whitehall with the good news, and with the
George as a token that the news was true. The prisoner was conveyed
under a strong guard to Ringwood. [420]

And all was lost; and nothing remained but that he should prepare to
meet death as became one who had thought himself not unworthy to wear
the crown of William the Conqueror and of Richard the Lionhearted,
of the hero of Cressy and of the hero of Agincourt. The captive might
easily have called to mind other domestic examples, still better suited
to his condition. Within a hundred years, two sovereigns whose blood ran
in his veins, one of them a delicate woman, had been placed in the same
situation in which he now stood. They had shown, in the prison and on
the scaffold, virtue of which, in the season of prosperity, they had
seemed incapable, and had half redeemed great crimes and errors
by enduring with Christian meekness and princely dignity all that
victorious enemies could inflict. Of cowardice Monmouth had never been
accused; and, even had he been wanting in constitutional courage, it
might have been expected that the defect would be supplied by pride
and by despair. The eyes of the whole world were upon him. The latest
generations would know how, in that extremity, he had borne himself.
To the brave peasants of the West he owed it to show that they had not
poured forth their blood for a leader unworthy of their attachment. To
her who had sacrificed everything for his sake he owed it so to bear
himself that, though she might weep for him, she should not blush for
him. It was not for him to lament and supplicate. His reason, too,
should have told him that lamentation and supplication would be
unavailing. He had done that which could never be forgiven. He was in
the grasp of one who never forgave.

But the fortitude of Monmouth was not that highest sort of fortitude
which is derived from reflection and from selfrespect; nor had nature
given him one of those stout hearts from which neither adversity nor
peril can extort any sign of weakness. His courage rose and fell with
his animal spirits. It was sustained on the field of battle by the
excitement of action. By the hope of victory, by the strange influence
of sympathy. All such aids were now taken away. The spoiled darling of
the court and of the populace, accustomed to be loved and worshipped
wherever he appeared, was now surrounded by stern gaolers in whose eyes
he read his doom. Yet a few hours of gloomy seclusion, and he must die a
violent and shameful death. His heart sank within him. Life seemed worth
purchasing by any humiliation; nor could his mind, always feeble, and
now distracted by terror, perceive that humiliation must degrade, but
could not save him.

As soon as he reached Ringwood he wrote to the King. The letter was that
of a man whom a craven fear had made insensible to shame. He professed
in vehement terms his remorse for his treason. He affirmed that, when he
promised his cousins at the Hague not to raise troubles in England,
he had fully meant to keep his word. Unhappily he had afterwards been
seduced from his allegiance by some horrid people who had heated his
mind by calumnies and misled him by sophistry; but now he abhorred
them: he abhorred himself. He begged in piteous terms that he might be
admitted to the royal presence. There was a secret which he could not
trust to paper, a secret which lay in a single word, and which, if he
spoke that word, would secure the throne against all danger. On the
following day he despatched letters, imploring the Queen Dowager and the
Lord Treasurer to intercede in his behalf. [421]

When it was known in London how he had abased himself the general
surprise was great; and no man was more amazed than Barillon, who
had resided in England during two bloody proscriptions, and had seen
numerous victims, both of the Opposition and of the Court, submit to
their fate without womanish entreaties and lamentations. [422]

Monmouth and Grey remained at Ringwood two days. They were then carried
up to London, under the guard of a large body of regular troops and
militia. In the coach with the Duke was an officer whose orders were to
stab the prisoner if a rescue were attempted. At every town along the
road the trainbands of the neighbourhood had been mustered under the
command of the principal gentry. The march lasted three days, and
terminated at Vauxhall, where a regiment, commanded by George Legge,
Lord Dartmouth, was in readiness to receive the prisoners. They were
put on board of a state barge, and carried down the river to Whitehall
Stairs.