So ended the last fight, deserving | in our own time the plough and the the name of battle, that has been spade have not seldom turned up fought on English ground. The im- ghastly memorials of the slaughter, pression left on the simple inhabitants of the neighbourhood was deep and lasting. That impression, indeed, has been frequently renewed. For even cur as he relates them. It is impossible to say when each important occurrence took place, or in what order."-Wellington Papers, August 8. and 17. 1815. skulls, and thighbones, 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.* 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 That five or six have resisted so long. 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. The battle concerning which the Duke of Wellington wrote thus was that of Waterloo, fought only a few weeks before, by broad day, under his own vigilant and experienced eye. What, then, must be the difficulty of compiling from twelve or thirteen narratives an account of a battle fought more than a hundred and sixty years ago in such darkness that not a man of those engaged could see fifty paces before him? The difficulty is aggravated by the circumstance that those witnesses who had the best opportunity of knowing the truth were by no means inclined to tell it. The paper which I have placed at the head of my list of authorities was evidently drawn up with extreme partiality to Feversham. Wade was writing under the dread of the halter: Ferguson, who was seldom scrupulous about the truth of his assertions, lied on this occasion like Bobadil or Parolles. Oldmixon, who was a boy at Bridgewater when the battle was fought, and passed a great part of his subsequent life there, was so much under the influence of local passions that his local information was useless to him. His desire to It was four o'clock: the sun was magnify the valour of the Somersetshire peasants, a valour which their enemies acknow-rising; and the routed army came ledged, and which did not need to be set off by exaggeration and fiction, led him to compose an absurd romance. The eulogy which Barillon, a Frenchman accustomed to despise raw levies, pronounced on the vanquished army, is of much more value. "Son infanterie fit fort bien. On eut de la peine à les rompre, et les soldats combattoient avec les crosses de mousquet et les scies qu'ils avoient au bout de grands bastons au lieu de picques." Little is now to be learned by visiting the field of battle; for the face of the country has been greatly changed; and the old Bussex Rhine, on the banks of which the great struggle took place, has long disappeared. The Rhine now called by that name is of later date, and takes a different course. I have derived much assistance from Mr. Roberts's account of the battle. Life of Monmouth, chap. xxii. His narrative is in the main confirmed by Dummer's plans. 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 * I learned these things from persons living close to Sedgemoor. Pursuit of Flight of protection was kindly and generously | peared on the road leading from Bridgegiven.* water to Weston Zoyland. On each During that day the conquerors con- gibbet a prisoner was suspended. Four tinued to chase the fugitives. of the sufferers were left to rot in irons.* the rebels. The neighbouring villagers Meanwhile Monmouth, accompanied long remembered with what a clatter by Grey, by Buyse, and by a of horsehoofs and what a storm of few other friends, was flying Moncurses the whirlwind of cavalry swept from the field of battle. At mouth. by. Before evening five hundred Chedzoy he stopped a moment to mount prisoners had been crowded into a fresh horse and to hide his blue riband the parish church of Weston Zoy- and his George. He then hastened toland. Eighty of them were wounded; wards the Bristol Channel. From the and five expired within the con- rising ground on the north of the field secrated walls. Great numbers of of battle he saw the flash and the labourers were impressed for the pur- smoke of the last volley fired by his pose 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 Zoy land 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. Feversham passed for a goodnatured Military man: but he was a foreigner, executions. 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 ap • Oldmixon, 704. tLocke's Western Rebellion; Stradling's Chilton Priory. deserted followers. Before six o'clock he was twenty miles from Sedgemoor. Some of his companions advised him to cross the water, and to 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 south east. 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. 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 * Locke's Western Rebellion; Stradling's Chilton Priory; Oldmixon, 704. † Aubrey's Natural History of Wiltshire, 1691. themselves, and proceeded on foot to- | seen and fired at; they then separated, wards the New Forest. They passed and concealed themselves in different the night in the open air: but before hiding places. morning they were surrounded on every At sunrise the next morning the side by toils. Lord Lumley, who lay search recommenced, and Buyse His at Ringwood with a strong body of the was found. He owned that he capture. Sussex militia, had sent forth parties in had parted from the Duke only a few every direction. Sir William Portman, hours before. The corn and copsewood with the Somerset militia, had formed a were now beaten with more care than chain of posts from the sea to the north-ever. At length a gaunt figure was ern extremity of Dorset. At five in the discovered hidden in a ditch. The morning of the seventh, Grey, who had pursuers sprang on their prey. Some wandered from his friends, was seized of them were about to fire: but Portby two of the Sussex scouts. He sub-man forbade all violence. The prisoner's mitted to his fate with the calmness dress was that of a shepherd; his beard, of one to whom suspense was more prematurely grey, was of several days' intolerable than despair. "Since we growth. He trembled greatly, and was landed," he said, "I have not had one unable to speak. Even those who had comfortable meal or one quiet night." often seen him were at first in doubt It could hardly be doubted that the whether this were truly the brilliant chief rebel was not far off. The pur- and graceful Monmouth. His pockets suers redoubled their vigilance and were searched by Portman, and in them activity. The cottages scattered over were found, among some raw pease the heathy country on the boundaries gathered in the rage of hunger, a watch, of Dorsetshire and Hampshire were a purse of gold, a small treatise on forstrictly examined by Lumley; and tification, an album filled with songs, the clown with whom Monmouth_had receipts, prayers, and charms, and the changed clothes was discovered. Port- George with which, many years before, man came with a strong body of horse King Charles the Second had decorated and foot to assist in the search. At- his favourite son. Messengers were tention was soon drawn to a place well instantly despatched to Whitehall with fitted to shelter fugitives. It was an the good news, and with the George as extensive tract of land separated by an a token that the news was true. The enclosure from the open country, and prisoner was conveyed under a strong divided by numerous hedges into small guard to Ringwood.* 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 fugi-jesty's command; Gazette de France, July tives ventured to look through the outer 18. 1685; Eachard, iii. 770.; Burnet, i. 664., hedge but everywhere they found a and Dartmouth's note; Van Citters, July sentinel on the alert: once they were 10. 1685. : 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 Lion-hearted, 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 * Account of the manner of taking the late Duke of Monmouth, published by His Ma 28 20 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. of a man whom a craven fear had made insensible to shame. He His letter 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.† Monmouth and Grey remained at Ringwood two days. They He is carwere then carried up to Lon- ried to don, under the guard of a large London. 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 sus-body of regular troops and militia. In tained on the field of battle by the the coach with the Duke was an officer excitement of action, by the hope of whose orders were to stab the prisoner victory, by the strange influence of sym- if a rescue were attempted. At every pathy. All such aids were now taken town along the road the trainbands of away. The spoiled darling of the court the neighbourhood had been mustered and of the populace, accustomed to be under the command of the principal loved and worshipped wherever he ap- gentry. The march lasted three days, peared, was now surrounded by stern and terminated at Vauxhall, where a gaolers in whose eyes he read his doom. regiment, commanded by George Legge, Yet a few hours of gloomy seclusion, Lord Dartmouth, was in readiness to and he must die a violent and shameful receive the prisoners. They were put death. on board of a state barge, and carried 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 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. down the river to Whitehall Stairs. | on Argyle, who would rather have put Lumley and Portman had alternately his legs into the boots than have saved watched the Duke day and night till his own life by such baseness. By the they had brought him within the walls ties of kindred, by the memory of the of the palace.* 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 Frotestant 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.* 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. 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. His inter Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to the view with King's feet. He wept. He the King. 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 great crime, but tried to throw the blame on others, particularly *Account of the manner of taking the Duke of Monmouth; Gazette, July 16. 1685; Van Citters, July 14. † Barillon was evidently much shocked. "Il se vient," he says, "de passer icy une chose bien extraordinaire et fort opposée à l'usage ordinaire des autres nations." July 23.1685. 13 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 *Burnet, i. 644.; Evelyn's Diary, July 15.; Sir J. Bramston's Memoirs; Reresby's Memoirs; James to the Prince of Orange, July 14. 1685; Barillon, July 1. Buccleuch MS. 16 26 |