Soldier of Fortune (2 page)

The
attack began at night. Though he had greater numbers, the Duke of Monmouth knew
that he could not win a pitched battle. While the royal army consisted of well-trained,
well- armed professional soldiers, led by seasoned commanders, his own force
was made up largely of willing volunteers with little experience and poor
equipment. Many of them had no weaponry beyond scythes, sickles, pitchforks and
staves. The only hope of success lay in a night-time attack where the element
of surprise would be crucial.

The
omens were good. The government had pitched their tents behind the Bussex
Rhine, a drainage ditch that ran from the moor to the River Parrett. They had
not entrenched their camp and reports came in that the soldiers were enjoying
the local cider, a potent brew that made men sluggish. When a thick mist
descended to cover any nocturnal manoeuvres, the Duke issued his orders. At
eleven o'clock that Sunday night, the rebels set out to change the course of
history.

Discipline
was savage. Like other captains, Nathan Rawson warned his troops that if anyone
disturbed the army's silent progress through the dark, he would be killed on
the spot by his neighbour. The four thousand men who left their camp at Castle
Field did not even dare to whisper. Instead of heading for the enemy in a
direct line, they opted for a circuitous march six miles in length that would
allow them to strike at the northern flank of the royal camp. Following the
Bristol road, they reached Peasey Farm, where they left their baggage train,
continuing their advance until they got to the Langmoor Rhine.

It
was here that the plan faltered. In the swirling fog, the local man acting as
their guide could not find the crossing that had been cut into the deep ditch.
As he beat round in search of it, he was heard by an alert sentry on the other
side of the Rhine. The man also picked up the sound of jingling harness and the
shuffling of hooves in the grass. Firing his pistol to warn the patrol at
Chedzoy, he galloped all the way back to the bank of the Bussex Rhine and
raised the royal camp with shouts of "Beat the drums, the enemy is come!
For the Lord's sake, beat the drums!"

The
battle of Sedgemoor had begun. When the alarm was sounded, the response was
immediate. The royal army was not, in fact, lying in the drunken stupor on
which the rebels had counted. It was ready for action within minutes. Seizing
their weapons, the soldiers deployed between the tents and the Bussex Rhine in
good order, helped by the fact that tapes had been strung out in advance to act
as guide ropes in the darkness. They met the sudden emergency as if they had
been expecting it.

The
rebel infantry was still a mile from the royal camp but the cavalry had no need
to hold back. Thundering across the moor, they headed for the Upper Plungeon,
one of the cattle crossings in the Bussex Rhine. On their way, they were met by
a sizeable mounted picket as it fell back towards the royal camp. Outnumbered
three to one, the regular troops fired with such speed and accuracy that they
drove the rebel cavalry back and managed to secure the Upper Plungeon. When he
saw that the vital crossing was impassable, Lord Grey, the rebel
second-in-command, was forced to lead the bulk of his cavalry along the front
of the royal position in the hope of finding another passage across the gaping
Rhine. It was a disastrous move.

Enlisted
as allies, night and the eddying mist turned traitor, obscuring from them the
fact that the ditch was not, as they had assumed, water-logged after recent
heavy rain. It was simply caked in mud through which they could easily have
ridden. As it was, they presented themselves as irresistible targets for the
Royal Guards who unleashed such a devastating volley that it caused utter
panic. As they were raked by a veritable blizzard of musket balls that killed
or wounded indiscriminately, the rebel cavalry lost all order and control.
Terrified horses and frightened riders could think only of escape.

The
first ranks of infantry hurried towards the Bussex Rhine, only to be buffeted
and scattered by their own cavalry in headlong retreat. When the horsemen
reached Peasey Farm, they called out to the ammunition-handlers that all was
lost and that they should take to their heels. It was a calamitous start to the
battle. At one stroke, Monmouth had been deprived of most of his cavalry, had
his infantry dispersed willy-nilly and lost all of his reserve of powder and
shot. From that moment on, the result was never in doubt.

The
rebels, however, did not acknowledge defeat. With their infantry stretched out
along the Rhine, they fired successive volleys at the enemy and pounded them
with their four cannon guns. While the artillery caused some damage, their
musketry was largely ineffective because the royal troops lay flat on the
ground and let the bullets fly harmlessly over their heads as they waited for
light to improve. In the early stages, the royal army had three glaring
deficiencies. They had no artillery, they lacked a full complement of cavalry
and as yet they had no commander-of-chief in the field. When these weaknesses
were rectified, as they soon were, the government forces were invincible.

While
he waited for dawn, the Earl of Feversham prepared to turn defence into attack,
consulting with Lord Churchill and his other commanders. By the time the light
strengthened, the royal infantry was drawn up in disciplined ranks with the
cavalry on its flanks, its artillery continuing its bombardment of the rebels.
Monmouth had seen enough. Spurring his horse from the field, he was followed by
Lord Grey and the other surviving riders. On a command, the royal troops
swarmed across the Rhine in a general assault, dipping their pike-points and
plug bayonets in readiness. The cavalry, meanwhile, surged across the ditch to
attack both flanks of the enemy.

It
was all over. The rebel lines broke and ran. Braver individuals stayed to fight
on but they were soon overpowered. The moor was littered with dead bodies and
dying men as the cavalry pursued the fleeing rebels and cut them down with
ruthless efficiency. Those not killed were captured and Nathan Rawson, having
fought bravely to the last, was among the hundreds disarmed and roped together.
The Monmouth rebellion had been crushed beyond recall, its army vanquished and
its humiliated leader a desperate fugitive.

It
was two days before Daniel Rawson found out what had happened to his father.
When he heard that his uncle, Samuel Penry, had been shot in action, that his
friend, Ralph Huckvale, had been trampled to death by fleeing rebel cavalry and
that the massive Joseph Greengage, who owned a neighbouring farm, had been cut
to ribbons during the rout, he began to fear the worst. He eventually
discovered that Nathan Rawson was one of over five hundred prisoners crammed
into St Mary's Church in Westonzoyland. Daniel was not allowed to see him and
was dismayed to learn of the appalling conditions inside the church. Prisoners
were unfed, wounds went untreated and those who died of their injuries were
left unburied. Captives seemed to have no rights whatsoever. By way of
retribution, a few of them had already been summarily hanged.

Daniel
was still gazing up the dangling figures on the gibbets when he felt a jab in
the ribs. He turned to see the anxious face of Martin Rye, an older boy from
the village near his farm.

'Go
home, Dan Rawson,' he urged.

'But
my father is held prisoner in the church,' said Daniel.

'Then
there's no hope for him. My two brothers were also captured at the battle but
the only time I'll get to see Will and Arthur again is when they string them up
like these poor souls.'

'I
feel that my place is here, Martin.'

'Go
home while you have a home to go to.'

'What
do you mean?'

'Haven't
your heard?' asked Rye. 'If anyone took up arms in the name of King Monmouth,
they're either burning down his house or seizing his property. Your farm won't
be spared.'

'Can
this be true?' said Daniel in alarm.

'Ask
any of these guards and they'll tell you. But don't get too close to them,'
cautioned Rye, gingerly rubbing the side of his head, 'or they'll give you a
cuff to help you on your way.'

'When
will the prisoners come to trial, Martin?'

'Forget
about them. Go home - your mother needs you.'

It
was a prophetic warning. Daniel had ridden the eight miles to Westonzoyland on
a carthorse. On the journey back, he had to go across the battlefield, stained
with the blood of the fallen and scarred by the cumulative brutalities of
combat. The grim duty of burying the dead was still going on as putrid corpses
were tipped into large pits to share a common grave. When he first traversed
the moor, Daniel had been struck by the thought that his Uncle Samuel, Ralph
Huckvale and Joseph Greengage all lay somewhere beneath that soil but he did
not even accord them a passing sigh this time. His mind was on the possible
loss or destruction of his home.

Old
Nelly, the carthorse, had been bred for her power rather than speed and she
could not be pushed too hard. Daniel nursed her along and only forced her into
a canter when the farm at last came into view. Everything seemed exactly as he
had left it. The house had not been torched and the livestock still grazed in
the fields. His fears, it appeared, had been groundless. When he rode into the
courtyard, however, his apprehension returned. Three horses were tethered to a
fence and laughter was coming from behind the barn.

Dismounting
quickly, he tethered Nelly and ran towards the noise. Tinker was barking now
and the laughter increasing. When he came round the angle of the barn, Daniel
saw two red-coated soldiers. One of them was lounging against the wall while
the other was tossing a large twig for the dog to retrieve. Tinker had entered
into the game with spirit but he lost interest the moment that he saw his
master. Scurrying across to Daniel, he barked a welcome. The soldiers grinned
and sauntered across to the boy.

'You
must be Nathan Rawson's son,' said one of them.

'What
if I am?' retorted Daniel.

'Then
you're about to lose your father.'

'And
your mother will have something to remember us by as well,' said the other
soldier with a smirk. 'The sergeant is with her.' When Daniel turned
instinctively to go, the man put a hand on his shoulder. 'You stay here, lad,
until the sergeant has had his sport.'

Daniel
was enraged. Pushing the hand aside, he ran towards the house. The soldier
tried to follow but Tinker bit his ankle and refused to let go. After trying in
vain to shake the dog off, the man seized a pitchfork that was leaning against
the barn and used it to kill Tinker, jabbing away hard until his squeals of
pain finally stopped. Daniel, meanwhile, had burst into the house. Guided by
his mother's screams, he hurtled up the stairs and into his parent's bedroom.
It was not occupied by his mother and father now. A distraught Juliana Rawson
was lying on the bed, struggling hard against the soldier who was holding her
down and trying to stifle her protests with guzzling kisses. He had already
discarded his coat and lowered his breeches. Daniel's mother was about to be
raped.

The
boy did not hesitate. Grabbing the man's sword from the floor, he hacked madly
at him until he rolled off his victim then he put all his strength into one
purposeful thrust, piercing the ribs and going straight through the man's
heart. The sergeant's eyes widened in disbelief for a second then he emitted a
long gurgle before sagging to the floor in a heap. Juliana sat up on the bed
and hastily smoothed down her ruffled skirt. She looked down at the dead body
of her attacker with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Footsteps pounded up
the staircase. Eyes blazing and sword in one hand, Daniel put a protective arm
around his mother.

Major-General
John, Lord Churchill was a lean, handsome, debonair man in his mid-thirties
with an impressive military career behind him. The critical decisions he had
taken at Sedgemoor, while his commander-in-chief was still asleep in bed, had
saved the lives of royal troops and hastened the defeat of the enemy. He was
entitled to feel proud of his contribution towards the quelling of the
rebellion. While he admired their courage, Churchill had little sympathy for
those who had taken up arms against King James. But their children were another
matter.

'Sergeant
Hoskins is
dead
?'
he asked incredulously.

'Run
through with his own sword, my lord,' explained the soldier before indicating
Daniel Rawson. 'And this is the young villain who killed him.'

Churchill's
gaze shifted to the boy. 'Is this true?'

'He
deserved it, sir,' replied the boy stoutly.

'I
didn't ask you about his deserts. I want simply to establish the facts. Did you
or did you not kill Sergeant Hoskins?'

'Yes,
sir.'

'And
do you regret your action?'

'No,
sir,' said Daniel firmly. 'I'd do the same again.'

'What's
your name, boy?'

'Daniel
Rawson.'

'His
father is held prisoner at Westonzoyland,' said the soldier.

'There's
no disgrace in fighting for a cause in which you believe,' said Daniel boldly,
quoting his father word for word. 'Had I been old enough, I'd have joined the
Duke's army as well. My father is Captain Nathan Rawson and he has great
respect for you, sir. He served under you in Flanders.'

Churchill's
eyebrows rose. 'Really?'

'That's
where he met my mother.'

Juliana
nodded sadly. They were in the parlour of a house that Churchill had
requisitioned for his private use. Though he was not a tall man, he still
towered over them. They stood before him with the armed soldier beside them.
The bloodstained sword belonging to the late Sergeant Gregory Hoskins lay on a
table nearby. His mother was cowed by the presence of so distinguished a man
but Daniel met his searching gaze without flinching. Churchill looked from one
to the other before glancing at the soldier.

'There's
something you haven't told me,' he said quietly.

'I
gave you a full report, my lord,' claimed the other. 'Sergeant Hoskins went
into the house to inform this woman that the property would be seized from her
in due course. She reviled him and the sergeant tried to remonstrate with her.
While they were arguing, the boy rushed in and killed him.'

'And
he did so with the sergeant's own sword?'

'Yes,
my lord.'

'It
was very foolish of Sergeant Hoskins to hand the boy his weapon,' said
Churchill wryly. 'A lad of this age is no match for a veteran soldier. Whatever
possessed the sergeant to be so reckless?'

The
soldier licked his lips. 'He had put his sword aside, my lord.'

'How
do you know? You were not present at the time.'

'It's
the only explanation.'

'Very
well,' said Churchill courteously. 'You've given me your version of events and
I daresay that your companion at the farm will tell the same tale. Now I would
like to hear what
really
happened.'

'I've
already told you,' insisted the man.

'Let
the others speak - they were actually there. Now,' he went on, looking at
Daniel, 'where did this distressing incident take place?'

'In
the parlour, my lord,' said the soldier.

'Hold
your peace,' advised Churchill, making it more of a polite request than a
brusque command.

'It
was in my parents' bedroom, sir,' said Daniel quietly. 'He had no right to be
there and to be doing...what he was doing. If you don't believe me,' he added
with a hint of truculence, 'you can come to the farm and see for yourself. The
bed sheets are covered in blood.'

'A
visit will not be necessary,' said Churchill. 'You came to your mother's aid as
any good son would do in that situation. You are to be commended, Daniel
Rawson.'

Daniel
and his mother exchanged a glance of surprise.

'He
killed Sergeant Hoskins, my lord,' argued the soldier. 'He must pay the penalty
for that. I say that he should hang beside his father and be left to rot.'

'Fortunately,'
said Churchill suavely, 'sentence will not be left to you. Indeed, you are more
likely to be facing justice than dispensing it. If I learn that you condoned
the actions of Sergeant Hoskins, you and your companion will answer to me. I'll
not tolerate rape or pillage. I saw enough of both in Tangier to last me my
whole life. Men who serve under me have a code of honour and I'll not let one
of them besmirch that code.' He pointed a peremptory finger. 'Wait outside.'

'We
had no idea what the sergeant was doing, my lord.'

'I
gave you an order!'

'Yes,
my lord.'

Drawing
himself the attention, the man mumbled an apology then left the room quickly.
Daniel and his mother could not believe what they had just witnessed. On the
way there, they had been warned by the two soldiers to say nothing at all
because they would not be believed. The least they could expect, they were
told, was lengthy imprisonment. Instead, Daniel had been listened to and
exonerated. Churchill had not merely understood what had happened at the farm,
he had spared Juliana the embarrassment of having to recount it in detail.

'On
behalf of my men,' said Churchill gravely, 'I owe you my profound apologies.
You will be given ample time to gather your possessions together before you
quit the property. I give you my word that nobody will harass you. As for you,

Daniel,'
he continued, picking up the sword from the table, 'I can think of only one way
to reward your valour. Take this sword as your own and wear it with more honour
than the man from whom you took it.'