Even those who had often seen him were at first in
doubt whether this were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth.
doubt whether this were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth.
Macaulay
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. Lumley and Portman had alternately watched the Duke day and
night till they had brought him within the walls of the palace. [423]
Both the demeanour of Monmouth and that of Grey, during the journey,
filled all observers with surprise. Monmouth was altogether unnerved.
Grey was not only calm but cheerful, talked pleasantly of horses,
dogs, and field sports, and even made jocose allusions to the perilous
situation in which he stood.
The King cannot be blamed for determining that Monmouth should suffer
death. Every man who heads a rebellion against an established government
stakes his life on the event; and rebellion was the smallest part
of Monmouth's crime. He had declared against his uncle a war without
quarter. In the manifesto put forth at Lyme, James had been held up
to execration as an incendiary, as an assassin who had strangled one
innocent man and cut the throat of another, and, lastly, as the poisoner
of his own brother. To spare an enemy who had not scrupled to resort
to such extremities would have been an act of rare, perhaps of blamable
generosity. But to see him and not to spare him was an outrage on
humanity and decency. [424] This outrage the King resolved to commit.
The arms of the prisoner were bound behind him with a silken cord; and,
thus secured, he was ushered into the presence of the implacable kinsman
whom he had wronged.
Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to the King's
feet. He wept. He tried to embrace his uncle's knees with his pinioned
arms. He begged for life, only life, life at any price. He owned that
he had been guilty of a greet crime, but tried to throw the blame on
others, particularly on Argyle, who would rather have put his legs into
the boots than have saved his own life by such baseness. By the ties
of kindred, by the memory of the late King, who had been the best and
truest of brothers, the unhappy man adjured James to show some mercy.
James gravely replied that this repentance was of the latest, that he
was sorry for the misery which the prisoner had brought on himself,
but that the case was not one for lenity. A Declaration, filled with
atrocious calumnies, had been put forth. The regal title had been
assumed. For treasons so aggravated there could be no pardon on this
side of the grave. The poor terrified Duke vowed that he had never
wished to take the crown, but had been led into that fatal error by
others. As to the Declaration, he had not written it: he had not read
it: he had signed it without looking at it: it was all the work of
Ferguson, that bloody villain Ferguson. "Do you expect me to believe,"
said James, with contempt but too well merited, "that you set your hand
to a paper of such moment without knowing what it contained? " One depth
of infamy only remained; and even to that the prisoner descended. He was
preeminently the champion of the Protestant religion. The interest of
that religion had been his plea for conspiring against the government of
his father, and for bringing on his country the miseries of civil war;
yet he was not ashamed to hint that he was inclined to be reconciled to
the Church of Rome. The King eagerly offered him spiritual assistance,
but said nothing of pardon or respite. "Is there then no hope? " asked
Monmouth. James turned away in silence. Then Monmouth strove to rally
his courage, rose from his knees, and retired with a firmness which he
had not shown since his overthrow. [425]
Grey was introduced next. He behaved with a propriety and fortitude
which moved even the stern and resentful King, frankly owned himself
guilty, made no excuses, and did not once stoop to ask his life. Both
the prisoners were sent to the Tower by water. There was no tumult; but
many thousands of people, with anxiety and sorrow in their faces, tried
to catch a glimpse of the captives. The Duke's resolution failed as soon
as he had left the royal presence. On his way to his prison he bemoaned
himself, accused his followers, and abjectly implored the intercession
of Dartmouth. "I know, my Lord, that you loved my father. For his sake,
for God's sake, try if there be any room for mercy. " Dartmouth replied
that the King had spoken the truth, and that a subject who assumed the
regal title excluded himself from all hope of pardon. [426]
Soon after Monmouth had been lodged in the Tower, he was informed
that his wife had, by the royal command, been sent to see him. She was
accompanied by the Earl of Clarendon, Keeper of the Privy Seal. Her
husband received her very coldly, and addressed almost all his discourse
to Clarendon whose intercession he earnestly implored. Clarendon held
out no hopes; and that same evening two prelates, Turner, Bishop of Ely,
and Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, arrived at the Tower with a solemn
message from the King. It was Monday night. On Wednesday morning
Monmouth was to die.
He was greatly agitated. The blood left his cheeks; and it was some time
before he could speak. Most of the short time which remained to him he
wasted in vain attempts to obtain, if not a pardon, at least a respite.
He wrote piteous letters to the King and to several courtiers, but in
vain. Some Roman Catholic divines were sent to him from Whitehall. But
they soon discovered that, though he would gladly have purchased his
life by renouncing the religion of which he had professed himself in an
especial manner the defender, yet, if he was to die, he would as soon
die without their absolution as with it. [427]
Nor were Ken and Turner much better pleased with his frame of mind. The
doctrine of nonresistance was, in their view, as in the view of most of
their brethren, the distinguishing badge of the Anglican Church. The two
Bishops insisted on Monmouth's owning that, in drawing the sword against
the government, he had committed a great sin; and, on this point,
they found him obstinately heterodox. Nor was this his only heresy. He
maintained that his connection with Lady Wentworth was blameless in the
sight of God. He had been married, he said, when a child. He had never
cared for his Duchess. The happiness which he had not found at home
he had sought in a round of loose amours, condemned by religion and
morality. Henrietta had reclaimed him from a life of vice. To her he had
been strictly constant. They had, by common consent, offered up fervent
prayers for the divine guidance. After those prayers they had found
their affection for each other strengthened; and they could then no
longer doubt that, in the sight of God, they were a wedded pair. The
Bishops were so much scandalised by this view of the conjugal relation
that they refused to administer the sacrament to the prisoner. All that
they could obtain from him was a promise that, during the single night
which still remained to him, he would pray to be enlightened if he were
in error.
On the Wednesday morning, at his particular request, Doctor Thomas
Tenison, who then held the vicarage of Saint Martin's, and, in that
important cure, had obtained the high esteem of the public, came to the
Tower. From Tenison, whose opinions were known to be moderate, the Duke
expected more indulgence than Ken and Turner were disposed to show. But
Tenison, whatever might be his sentiments concerning nonresistance in
the abstract, thought the late rebellion rash and wicked, and considered
Monmouth's notion respecting marriage as a most dangerous delusion.
Monmouth was obstinate. He had prayed, he said, for the divine
direction. His sentiments remained unchanged; and he could not doubt
that they were correct. Tenison's exhortations were in milder tone than
those of the Bishops. But he, like them, thought that he should not be
justified in administering the Eucharist to one whose penitence was of
so unsatisfactory a nature. [428]
The hour drew near: all hope was over; and Monmouth had passed from
pusillanimous fear to the apathy of despair. His children were brought
to his room that he might take leave of them, and were followed by his
wife. He spoke to her kindly, but without emotion. Though she was a
woman of great strength of mind, and had little cause to love him, her
misery was such that none of the bystanders could refrain from weeping.
He alone was unmoved. [429]
It was ten o'clock. The coach of the Lieutenant of the Tower was ready.
Monmouth requested his spiritual advisers to accompany him to the place
of execution; and they consented: but they told him that, in their
judgment, he was about to die in a perilous state of mind, and that, if
they attended him it would be their duty to exhort him to the last. As
he passed along the ranks of the guards he saluted them with a smile;
and he mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. Tower Hill was covered
up to the chimney tops with an innumerable multitude of gazers, who, in
awful silence, broken only by sighs and the noise of weeping, listened
for the last accents of the darling of the people. "I shall say little,"
he began. "I come here, not to speak, but to die. I die a Protestant of
the Church of England. " The Bishops interrupted him, and told him that,
unless he acknowledged resistance to be sinful, he was no member of
their church He went on to speak of his Henrietta. She was, he said, a
young lady of virtue and honour. He loved her to the last, and he could
not die without giving utterance to his feelings The Bishops again
interfered, and begged him not to use such language. Some altercation
followed. The divines have been accused of dealing harshly with the
dying man. But they appear to have only discharged what, in their view,
was a sacred duty. Monmouth knew their principles, and, if he wished to
avoid their importunity, should have dispensed with their attendance.
Their general arguments against resistance had no effect on him. But
when they reminded him of the ruin which he had brought on his brave and
loving followers, of the blood which had been shed, of the souls which
had been sent unprepared to the great account, he was touched, and said,
in a softened voice, "I do own that. I am sorry that it ever happened. "
They prayed with him long and fervently; and he joined in their
petitions till they invoked a blessing on the King. He remained silent.
"Sir," said one of the Bishops, "do you not pray for the King with us? "
Monmouth paused some time, and, after an internal struggle, exclaimed
"Amen. " But it was in vain that the prelates implored him to address to
the soldiers and to the people a few words on the duty of obedience
to the government. "I will make no speeches," he exclaimed. "Only ten
words, my Lord. " He turned away, called his servant, and put into the
man's hand a toothpick case, the last token of ill starred love.
"Give it," he said, "to that person. " He then accosted John Ketch the
executioner, a wretch who had butchered many brave and noble victims,
and whose name has, during a century and a half, been vulgarly given to
all who have succeeded him in his odious office. [430] "Here," said
the Duke, "are six guineas for you. Do not hack me as you did my Lord
Russell. I have heard that you struck him three or four times. My
servant will give you some more gold if you do the work well. " He then
undressed, felt the edge of the axe, expressed some fear that it was
not sharp enough, and laid his head on the block. The divines in the
meantime continued to ejaculate with great energy: "God accept your
repentance! God accept your imperfect repentance! "
The hangman addressed himself to his office. But he had been
disconcerted by what the Duke had said. The first blow inflicted only
a slight wound. The Duke struggled, rose from the block, and looked
reproachfully at the executioner. The head sunk down once more. The
stroke was repeated again and again; but still the neck was not severed,
and the body continued to move. Yells of rage and horror rose from the
crowd. Ketch flung down the axe with a curse. "I cannot do it," he said;
"my heart fails me. " "Take up the axe, man," cried the sheriff. "Fling
him over the rails," roared the mob. At length the axe was taken up. Two
more blows extinguished the last remains of life; but a knife was used
to separate the head from the shoulders. The crowd was wrought up to
such an ecstasy of rage that the executioner was in danger of being torn
in pieces, and was conveyed away under a strong guard. [431]
In the meantime many handkerchiefs were dipped in the Duke's blood; for
by a large part of the multitude he was regarded as a martyr who had
died for the Protestant religion. The head and body were placed in a
coffin covered with black velvet, and were laid privately under the
communion table of Saint Peter's Chapel in the Tower. Within four years
the pavement of the chancel was again disturbed, and hard by the remains
of Monmouth were laid the remains of Jeffreys. In truth there is no
sadder spot on the earth than that little cemetery. Death is there
associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and
virtue, with public veneration and imperishable renown; not, as in
our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most
endearing in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is
darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of
implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice
of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted
fame. Thither have been carried, through successive ages, by the rude
hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics
of men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties,
the oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts. Thither was borne,
before the window where Jane Grey was praying, the mangled corpse of
Guilford Dudley. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, and Protector of
the realm, reposes there by the brother whom he murdered. There has
mouldered away the headless trunk of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester
and Cardinal of Saint Vitalis, a man worthy to have lived in a better
age and to have died in a better cause. There are laid John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland, Lord High Admiral, and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of
Essex, Lord High Treasurer. There, too, is another Essex, on whom nature
and fortune had lavished all their bounties in vain, and whom valour,
grace, genius, royal favour, popular applause, conducted to an early
and ignominious doom. Not far off sleep two chiefs of the great house
of Howard, Thomas, fourth Duke of Norfolk, and Philip, eleventh Earl of
Arundel. Here and there, among the thick graves of unquiet and aspiring
statesmen, lie more delicate sufferers; Margaret of Salisbury, the last
of the proud name of Plantagenet; and those two fair Queens who perished
by the jealous rage of Henry. Such was the dust with which the dust of
Monmouth mingled. [432]
Yet a few months, and the quiet village of Toddington, in Bedfordshire,
witnessed a still sadder funeral. Near that village stood an ancient
and stately hall, the seat of the Wentworths. The transept of the parish
church had long been their burial place. To that burial place, in the
spring which followed the death of Monmouth, was borne the coffin of the
young Baroness Wentworth of Nettlestede. Her family reared a sumptuous
mausoleum over her remains: but a less costly memorial of her was long
contemplated with far deeper interest. Her name, carved by the hand of
him whom she loved too well, was, a few years ago, still discernible on
a tree in the adjoining park.
It was not by Lady Wentworth alone that the memory of Monmouth was
cherished with idolatrous fondness. His hold on the hearts of the people
lasted till the generation which had seen him had passed away. Ribands,
buckles, and other trifling articles of apparel which he had worn, were
treasured up as precious relics by those who had fought under him at
Sedgemoor. Old men who long survived him desired, when they were dying,
that these trinkets might be buried with them. One button of gold thread
which narrowly escaped this fate may still be seen at a house which
overlooks the field of battle. Nay, such was the devotion of the people
to their unhappy favourite that, in the face of the strongest evidence
by which the fact of a death was ever verified, many continued to
cherish a hope that he was still living, and that he would again appear
in arms. A person, it was said, who was remarkably like Monmouth,
had sacrificed himself to save the Protestant hero. The vulgar long
continued, at every important crisis, to whisper that the time was at
hand, and that King Monmouth would soon show himself. In 1686, a knave
who had pretended to be the Duke, and had levied contributions in
several villages of Wiltshire, was apprehended, and whipped from Newgate
to Tyburn.
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. Lumley and Portman had alternately watched the Duke day and
night till they had brought him within the walls of the palace. [423]
Both the demeanour of Monmouth and that of Grey, during the journey,
filled all observers with surprise. Monmouth was altogether unnerved.
Grey was not only calm but cheerful, talked pleasantly of horses,
dogs, and field sports, and even made jocose allusions to the perilous
situation in which he stood.
The King cannot be blamed for determining that Monmouth should suffer
death. Every man who heads a rebellion against an established government
stakes his life on the event; and rebellion was the smallest part
of Monmouth's crime. He had declared against his uncle a war without
quarter. In the manifesto put forth at Lyme, James had been held up
to execration as an incendiary, as an assassin who had strangled one
innocent man and cut the throat of another, and, lastly, as the poisoner
of his own brother. To spare an enemy who had not scrupled to resort
to such extremities would have been an act of rare, perhaps of blamable
generosity. But to see him and not to spare him was an outrage on
humanity and decency. [424] This outrage the King resolved to commit.
The arms of the prisoner were bound behind him with a silken cord; and,
thus secured, he was ushered into the presence of the implacable kinsman
whom he had wronged.
Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to the King's
feet. He wept. He tried to embrace his uncle's knees with his pinioned
arms. He begged for life, only life, life at any price. He owned that
he had been guilty of a greet crime, but tried to throw the blame on
others, particularly on Argyle, who would rather have put his legs into
the boots than have saved his own life by such baseness. By the ties
of kindred, by the memory of the late King, who had been the best and
truest of brothers, the unhappy man adjured James to show some mercy.
James gravely replied that this repentance was of the latest, that he
was sorry for the misery which the prisoner had brought on himself,
but that the case was not one for lenity. A Declaration, filled with
atrocious calumnies, had been put forth. The regal title had been
assumed. For treasons so aggravated there could be no pardon on this
side of the grave. The poor terrified Duke vowed that he had never
wished to take the crown, but had been led into that fatal error by
others. As to the Declaration, he had not written it: he had not read
it: he had signed it without looking at it: it was all the work of
Ferguson, that bloody villain Ferguson. "Do you expect me to believe,"
said James, with contempt but too well merited, "that you set your hand
to a paper of such moment without knowing what it contained? " One depth
of infamy only remained; and even to that the prisoner descended. He was
preeminently the champion of the Protestant religion. The interest of
that religion had been his plea for conspiring against the government of
his father, and for bringing on his country the miseries of civil war;
yet he was not ashamed to hint that he was inclined to be reconciled to
the Church of Rome. The King eagerly offered him spiritual assistance,
but said nothing of pardon or respite. "Is there then no hope? " asked
Monmouth. James turned away in silence. Then Monmouth strove to rally
his courage, rose from his knees, and retired with a firmness which he
had not shown since his overthrow. [425]
Grey was introduced next. He behaved with a propriety and fortitude
which moved even the stern and resentful King, frankly owned himself
guilty, made no excuses, and did not once stoop to ask his life. Both
the prisoners were sent to the Tower by water. There was no tumult; but
many thousands of people, with anxiety and sorrow in their faces, tried
to catch a glimpse of the captives. The Duke's resolution failed as soon
as he had left the royal presence. On his way to his prison he bemoaned
himself, accused his followers, and abjectly implored the intercession
of Dartmouth. "I know, my Lord, that you loved my father. For his sake,
for God's sake, try if there be any room for mercy. " Dartmouth replied
that the King had spoken the truth, and that a subject who assumed the
regal title excluded himself from all hope of pardon. [426]
Soon after Monmouth had been lodged in the Tower, he was informed
that his wife had, by the royal command, been sent to see him. She was
accompanied by the Earl of Clarendon, Keeper of the Privy Seal. Her
husband received her very coldly, and addressed almost all his discourse
to Clarendon whose intercession he earnestly implored. Clarendon held
out no hopes; and that same evening two prelates, Turner, Bishop of Ely,
and Ken, Bishop of Bath and Wells, arrived at the Tower with a solemn
message from the King. It was Monday night. On Wednesday morning
Monmouth was to die.
He was greatly agitated. The blood left his cheeks; and it was some time
before he could speak. Most of the short time which remained to him he
wasted in vain attempts to obtain, if not a pardon, at least a respite.
He wrote piteous letters to the King and to several courtiers, but in
vain. Some Roman Catholic divines were sent to him from Whitehall. But
they soon discovered that, though he would gladly have purchased his
life by renouncing the religion of which he had professed himself in an
especial manner the defender, yet, if he was to die, he would as soon
die without their absolution as with it. [427]
Nor were Ken and Turner much better pleased with his frame of mind. The
doctrine of nonresistance was, in their view, as in the view of most of
their brethren, the distinguishing badge of the Anglican Church. The two
Bishops insisted on Monmouth's owning that, in drawing the sword against
the government, he had committed a great sin; and, on this point,
they found him obstinately heterodox. Nor was this his only heresy. He
maintained that his connection with Lady Wentworth was blameless in the
sight of God. He had been married, he said, when a child. He had never
cared for his Duchess. The happiness which he had not found at home
he had sought in a round of loose amours, condemned by religion and
morality. Henrietta had reclaimed him from a life of vice. To her he had
been strictly constant. They had, by common consent, offered up fervent
prayers for the divine guidance. After those prayers they had found
their affection for each other strengthened; and they could then no
longer doubt that, in the sight of God, they were a wedded pair. The
Bishops were so much scandalised by this view of the conjugal relation
that they refused to administer the sacrament to the prisoner. All that
they could obtain from him was a promise that, during the single night
which still remained to him, he would pray to be enlightened if he were
in error.
On the Wednesday morning, at his particular request, Doctor Thomas
Tenison, who then held the vicarage of Saint Martin's, and, in that
important cure, had obtained the high esteem of the public, came to the
Tower. From Tenison, whose opinions were known to be moderate, the Duke
expected more indulgence than Ken and Turner were disposed to show. But
Tenison, whatever might be his sentiments concerning nonresistance in
the abstract, thought the late rebellion rash and wicked, and considered
Monmouth's notion respecting marriage as a most dangerous delusion.
Monmouth was obstinate. He had prayed, he said, for the divine
direction. His sentiments remained unchanged; and he could not doubt
that they were correct. Tenison's exhortations were in milder tone than
those of the Bishops. But he, like them, thought that he should not be
justified in administering the Eucharist to one whose penitence was of
so unsatisfactory a nature. [428]
The hour drew near: all hope was over; and Monmouth had passed from
pusillanimous fear to the apathy of despair. His children were brought
to his room that he might take leave of them, and were followed by his
wife. He spoke to her kindly, but without emotion. Though she was a
woman of great strength of mind, and had little cause to love him, her
misery was such that none of the bystanders could refrain from weeping.
He alone was unmoved. [429]
It was ten o'clock. The coach of the Lieutenant of the Tower was ready.
Monmouth requested his spiritual advisers to accompany him to the place
of execution; and they consented: but they told him that, in their
judgment, he was about to die in a perilous state of mind, and that, if
they attended him it would be their duty to exhort him to the last. As
he passed along the ranks of the guards he saluted them with a smile;
and he mounted the scaffold with a firm tread. Tower Hill was covered
up to the chimney tops with an innumerable multitude of gazers, who, in
awful silence, broken only by sighs and the noise of weeping, listened
for the last accents of the darling of the people. "I shall say little,"
he began. "I come here, not to speak, but to die. I die a Protestant of
the Church of England. " The Bishops interrupted him, and told him that,
unless he acknowledged resistance to be sinful, he was no member of
their church He went on to speak of his Henrietta. She was, he said, a
young lady of virtue and honour. He loved her to the last, and he could
not die without giving utterance to his feelings The Bishops again
interfered, and begged him not to use such language. Some altercation
followed. The divines have been accused of dealing harshly with the
dying man. But they appear to have only discharged what, in their view,
was a sacred duty. Monmouth knew their principles, and, if he wished to
avoid their importunity, should have dispensed with their attendance.
Their general arguments against resistance had no effect on him. But
when they reminded him of the ruin which he had brought on his brave and
loving followers, of the blood which had been shed, of the souls which
had been sent unprepared to the great account, he was touched, and said,
in a softened voice, "I do own that. I am sorry that it ever happened. "
They prayed with him long and fervently; and he joined in their
petitions till they invoked a blessing on the King. He remained silent.
"Sir," said one of the Bishops, "do you not pray for the King with us? "
Monmouth paused some time, and, after an internal struggle, exclaimed
"Amen. " But it was in vain that the prelates implored him to address to
the soldiers and to the people a few words on the duty of obedience
to the government. "I will make no speeches," he exclaimed. "Only ten
words, my Lord. " He turned away, called his servant, and put into the
man's hand a toothpick case, the last token of ill starred love.
"Give it," he said, "to that person. " He then accosted John Ketch the
executioner, a wretch who had butchered many brave and noble victims,
and whose name has, during a century and a half, been vulgarly given to
all who have succeeded him in his odious office. [430] "Here," said
the Duke, "are six guineas for you. Do not hack me as you did my Lord
Russell. I have heard that you struck him three or four times. My
servant will give you some more gold if you do the work well. " He then
undressed, felt the edge of the axe, expressed some fear that it was
not sharp enough, and laid his head on the block. The divines in the
meantime continued to ejaculate with great energy: "God accept your
repentance! God accept your imperfect repentance! "
The hangman addressed himself to his office. But he had been
disconcerted by what the Duke had said. The first blow inflicted only
a slight wound. The Duke struggled, rose from the block, and looked
reproachfully at the executioner. The head sunk down once more. The
stroke was repeated again and again; but still the neck was not severed,
and the body continued to move. Yells of rage and horror rose from the
crowd. Ketch flung down the axe with a curse. "I cannot do it," he said;
"my heart fails me. " "Take up the axe, man," cried the sheriff. "Fling
him over the rails," roared the mob. At length the axe was taken up. Two
more blows extinguished the last remains of life; but a knife was used
to separate the head from the shoulders. The crowd was wrought up to
such an ecstasy of rage that the executioner was in danger of being torn
in pieces, and was conveyed away under a strong guard. [431]
In the meantime many handkerchiefs were dipped in the Duke's blood; for
by a large part of the multitude he was regarded as a martyr who had
died for the Protestant religion. The head and body were placed in a
coffin covered with black velvet, and were laid privately under the
communion table of Saint Peter's Chapel in the Tower. Within four years
the pavement of the chancel was again disturbed, and hard by the remains
of Monmouth were laid the remains of Jeffreys. In truth there is no
sadder spot on the earth than that little cemetery. Death is there
associated, not, as in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, with genius and
virtue, with public veneration and imperishable renown; not, as in
our humblest churches and churchyards, with everything that is most
endearing in social and domestic charities; but with whatever is
darkest in human nature and in human destiny, with the savage triumph of
implacable enemies, with the inconstancy, the ingratitude, the cowardice
of friends, with all the miseries of fallen greatness and of blighted
fame. Thither have been carried, through successive ages, by the rude
hands of gaolers, without one mourner following, the bleeding relics
of men who had been the captains of armies, the leaders of parties,
the oracles of senates, and the ornaments of courts. Thither was borne,
before the window where Jane Grey was praying, the mangled corpse of
Guilford Dudley. Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, and Protector of
the realm, reposes there by the brother whom he murdered. There has
mouldered away the headless trunk of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester
and Cardinal of Saint Vitalis, a man worthy to have lived in a better
age and to have died in a better cause. There are laid John Dudley,
Duke of Northumberland, Lord High Admiral, and Thomas Cromwell, Earl of
Essex, Lord High Treasurer. There, too, is another Essex, on whom nature
and fortune had lavished all their bounties in vain, and whom valour,
grace, genius, royal favour, popular applause, conducted to an early
and ignominious doom. Not far off sleep two chiefs of the great house
of Howard, Thomas, fourth Duke of Norfolk, and Philip, eleventh Earl of
Arundel. Here and there, among the thick graves of unquiet and aspiring
statesmen, lie more delicate sufferers; Margaret of Salisbury, the last
of the proud name of Plantagenet; and those two fair Queens who perished
by the jealous rage of Henry. Such was the dust with which the dust of
Monmouth mingled. [432]
Yet a few months, and the quiet village of Toddington, in Bedfordshire,
witnessed a still sadder funeral. Near that village stood an ancient
and stately hall, the seat of the Wentworths. The transept of the parish
church had long been their burial place. To that burial place, in the
spring which followed the death of Monmouth, was borne the coffin of the
young Baroness Wentworth of Nettlestede. Her family reared a sumptuous
mausoleum over her remains: but a less costly memorial of her was long
contemplated with far deeper interest. Her name, carved by the hand of
him whom she loved too well, was, a few years ago, still discernible on
a tree in the adjoining park.
It was not by Lady Wentworth alone that the memory of Monmouth was
cherished with idolatrous fondness. His hold on the hearts of the people
lasted till the generation which had seen him had passed away. Ribands,
buckles, and other trifling articles of apparel which he had worn, were
treasured up as precious relics by those who had fought under him at
Sedgemoor. Old men who long survived him desired, when they were dying,
that these trinkets might be buried with them. One button of gold thread
which narrowly escaped this fate may still be seen at a house which
overlooks the field of battle. Nay, such was the devotion of the people
to their unhappy favourite that, in the face of the strongest evidence
by which the fact of a death was ever verified, many continued to
cherish a hope that he was still living, and that he would again appear
in arms. A person, it was said, who was remarkably like Monmouth,
had sacrificed himself to save the Protestant hero. The vulgar long
continued, at every important crisis, to whisper that the time was at
hand, and that King Monmouth would soon show himself. In 1686, a knave
who had pretended to be the Duke, and had levied contributions in
several villages of Wiltshire, was apprehended, and whipped from Newgate
to Tyburn.
