The Monmouth Summer (15 page)

"Wait, sir! We're no militia, but the Duke of Monmouth's army, guarding Lyme! Calm yourselves." The man held up his hands, daring William Clegg to come on; and as he halted, there were laughter and cheers behind him. But William was still angry.

"Then what be you devils pointing muskets at us for, and barring our way, when we come to help the Duke?"

The man in the red coat smiled. "Only to check that you
are
for the Duke. friend, and not Lord Albemarle's militia, as you thought
we
were. You can't read a man's allegiance in his face, as you know. And you look fierce enough yourselves, if a trifle disordered in your line of march. But you're all for the Protestant Duke, are you?"

He was answered with a fierce roar of assent, at which there were several heartfelt cries of 'The Lord be praised!' and 'The children of Israel are coming in!' from the musketeers behind the hedge. The young man's smile grew even broader.

"Then welcome, in God's name." He bowed; a short, military bow that was neither clumsy nor affected. "Nathaniel Wade, at your service. Late lawyer of Bristol, now Colonel in the Army of Deliverance. And you?"

Roger Satchell answered for them all. "Men of Colyton. Allow me to present the best of that town, men who have already fought a successful skirmish on the way to join you."

"Indeed! Then you are doubly welcome. But first you should lead your men down to the town, and present yourselves to our quartermaster, who will supply you with arms and victuals and decide where your services are most needed. I hope to see you again later."

And so they squared their shoulders and marched down the steep hill into Lyme, leaning back to counter the effects of the steepest parts of the slope.

The centre of the town was alive with people, swarming purposefully in all directions, like an ants' nest that had been kicked open and must bring itself to order before it is attacked again. The focus of the hubbub was the Town Hall, where a small group of officers were busily enlisting new arrivals, issuing them with arms which were still being ferried ashore from the
Hereldenburg
, forming them into squads and sending them out with their officers to learn the drill of using the weapons at the same time as they guarded the hedges and roads on the outskirts of the town.

The group from Colyton was larger and better organised than most that had come in so far. Several heads turned as they marched down the steep slope, and there was a ragged cheer as they drew up outside the Town Hall. Adam looked about himself curiously as they stopped, surprised by the intense activity everywhere. Down by the beach a group of sailors were heaving a gleaming field-gun up the slope with ropes and tackle; and a group of a dozen labourers and craftsmen like themselves were being pushed and pulled into some semblance of order by a squat, military-looking man in short-cropped hair and a faded red coat, while a preacher in a wide- brimmed Geneva hat read aloud to them out of the Bible. Everywhere there were women and children urgently carrying baskets of food or clothes for the soldiers, or dodging out of the way of a herd of bullocks which were being shooed down the street by a group of farmers, to feed the army.

As Adam watched, there was a sudden alarm as one of the bullocks bore down on a table outside the Town Hall, where a group of fine gentlemen in brightly coloured frock-coats and long periwigs were poring over some papers; but at the last moment a tall gentleman in a purple coat leapt up, waved his hat and yelled at the animal, which veered wildly away to the other side of the street, chasing two women and a boy up onto the high pavement. There were cheers and laughter from the group around the table, and then one of them pointed out Satchell's group to the man in purple. He immediately strode over to meet them, his eyes alight with pleasure.

"So! A fine addition to our forces, indeed! Who have we here?"

"The men of Colyton, my lord, so many as could come. And we have already fought a skirmish for you on the way." Roger Satchell swept off his dusty hat as he spoke, and held it down by his side as he sat his horse; a strange, formal gesture from so blunt a man.

"A skirmish, indeed! D'you hear that, Ford?" The man in the purple coat called to a tall, rather puffy-faced, effete-looking gentleman in a blonde wig and blue riding coat, who raised his eyebrows in reply. "And won it, no doubt. So who are you, sir, who have the honour to lead such heroes? You must tell me about it."

"Roger Satchell, my lord, at your service." Roger bowed again as he spoke.

Adam felt a sharp nudge in his ribs. "Be that the Duke, then?" William Clegg whispered urgently.

"I don't know. Looks like it, don't it?" Adam craned his neck anxiously over John Spragg's shoulder to get a better look at the man in the purple coat. He had seen the Duke once, five years ago in Taunton, but only from a distance. He had not pictured him quite like this. He had expected him to be rich, certainly, but not quite so young. This man was tall, athletic, in his mid-thirties, with an eager, almost boyish look under his brown, curling periwig. A handsome man, certainly, but not a man to fear and respect, as Adam had hoped; not the prophet of which Israel Fuller had preached, but rather a young, disdainful aristocrat of the sort who had so often mocked him and his packhorses on the road, or broken the peace with noisy laughing brawls in the towns he had visited. Surely such a man could not be the leader of the Lord's Protestant army - sober Puritan family men like William and John and himself? Adam watched the young Duke standing, his hands on his hips thrusting back his purple coat, listening in delight to Roger Satchell's story, and felt his own doubts reflected in more than one of the solemn, seamed faces in the ranks around him.

Then the Duke turned towards them, a gay smile on his face, and spread his arms wide. "So welcome, my good friends of Colyton! Your deeds gladden my heart and set a fine example to us all! If the rest of our friends be half as brave as you, I shall soon be leading the finest army this country has ever known! We shall be in London within the month!"

The words were ordinary enough, but somehow, the eager sincerity with which they were spoken warmed their tired hearts, accustomed as they were to scorn and insults from men of his type. And perhaps because they so needed to believe in him, as he did in them, Adam and the men around him felt their doubts vanish in an absurd rush of love for the slim figure of their young general. His eyes searched theirs eagerly, and laughed with real pleasure as they cheered.

He held up his hand for silence. "And now, since you have made me the honourable gift of your courage, 'tis only fair I should give you the tools of your trade in return. Pray step inside the Town Hall here, where my quartermasters will see you are as well equipped as possible for your next encounter with the enemy!"

Inside the Town Hall, their weapons were examined carefully by several quartermasters, working quickly, calmly, and decisively in the rush. One, a short, grey-haired man with an ugly, puckered scar on his chin and the side of his neck, took Adam's musket, cocked it, looked at the pan, squinted down the barrel, and grunted approvingly.

"Well cared for, that is. Do for a spare if we need one." He stacked it against the wall behind him.

"What do you mean, 'spare'? That's my musket, man, give it back!"

"Not now, soldier. Here, grab that." He gave Adam another musket out of a chest on the floor. "Name?"

"Adam Carter. And that's my musket!" Adam was accustomed to dealing with many awkward farmers and merchants in the day-to-day work of his business, but there was something about this man's calm, insolent assumption of authority that stunned him. He began to realise that here he was no longer a trader, a father, a man of standing in his own independent community, but just a name on a list, a soldier to be armed and stood in a line.

"Adam Carter." The man wrote in a large book, sucking air in between his teeth. "Village?"

"Colyton. But ..."

"Col-y-ton. Right." The man looked up, coolly. "Listen, Adam Carter from Colyton. You're in the army now, soon you'll be in a battle. When you're in a battle you'll need the best weapon you can have. That old musket of yours is not so bad as some, it's in good condition for its age. It might even fire a shot if you're lucky ...”

"Of course it fires! I fired it last night!"

"Did you now? That's good." A slight smile crossed the stern lips. "But it's the old fashion. A matchlock. Slow. Difficult to use. So I'm taking it away and giving you something better. That musket you've got in your hands now is brand new. A firelock. Cost eighteen shillings. The best money can buy. See that grease still on it from the gunsmith's in the Hague? And it's all yours, so long as you serve in the Duke of Monmouth's army. So do you still think I'm stealing your musket?"

"No, I suppose not." Adam looked with interest at the musket in his hands. It was true, the barrel and firing pan were still gleaming with the grease that had protected them on their sea journey. But behind the pan in place of the simple lid on his own musket, there was a spring lock and a flint, like ones he had seen on a pistol. And the cover on the pan did not simply turn sideways, as his did, but was hinged and ready to flip open as the hammer struck a spark from it. He tested it cautiously with his thumb.

"You'll learn how to use it soon enough. And you won't be needing that, neither." He touched the long coil of match hanging over Adam's shoulder. Adam took it off and gave it to him. "Now, let's see how you're off for powder and ball."

When they were all enrolled and equipped, they formed up again outside. Adam saw that many of the others had firelock muskets, too, to replace their own, while some of the stronger men had been given sixteen-foot pikes like the one Tom had brought. A few had hung on to their sharp hedging tools and scythes, but William Clegg had surrendered his for a musket. All looked surprised and pleased with their new equipment.

Roger Satchell spoke to them from the Town Hall steps.

"Right, my friends, we're all turned out like proper soldiers now. And since we're so many come together, we're to stay together. The Duke's asked me to be your captain, if ye'll have me."

There was good-humoured laughter at this, especially when William Clegg, remembering an accident Roger Satchell had had hunting deer last winter, called out: "So long as 'ee do carry thy horse 'ome thyself, and not expect us to carry 'un over the hedges after 'ee!"

Roger Satchell laughed too. "No fear of that, Will - I'm to leave my horse to the cavalry, and trudge along with you lot on foot. Else I'd be forever picking you up behind me when you got sore feet!"

But there were no further objections. Roger Satchell had been their natural leader, both by rank and character, from the beginning.

"So if ye will have me, my first order is, that you spend the next quarter of an hour here, eating such food as you have brought with you, or can find in the town. After that, we are detailed to return to the West Hill with Colonel Wade. Remember, be ready at the stroke of eight - you see the Town Hall clock!"

Eight o'clock. In the great stone-flagged kitchen where the betrothal feast had been, Ann and her mother and sisters moved about their morning tasks like sleepwalkers, their bodies doing what their minds knew nothing of. There was the wreckage of the feast to clear, the floor to sweep, water to draw. Young Rachel, quiet and unsmiling, put the smoky remains of the good beeswax candles away in a drawer, against a time they might need to melt them together for more.

They had talked and wept enough the night before, until little Oliver and Sarah had come downstairs, tousled and confused in the early birdsong, to be kissed and cuddled and fussed back to bed. Now they sat crushed in a corner, their awed eyes silently watching their mother and sisters bustle round the room like grim ghosts. Simon sat with his leg propped on a stool, his eyes staring at some strange vision beyond the wall, his hand clenching and flexing unconsciously on the arm of his father's chair.

So quiet were they, that little Oliver thought they might be listening for the sound of his father fighting in the distance; yet when he and Ann went out into the streets to buy milk and eggs, there was nothing unusual to hear. Nothing, that is, except the strange silence in the blacksmith's and saddler's shops, and unusual surges of talk from little groups of women. These little groups formed and dissolved everywhere in the streets as women wandered, dazed and anxious, from house to house as if they had lost something, an answer to a riddle that someone else might have.

So many stopped them to talk, that Ann was not in the least surprised to come home and find Ruth Spragg and Martha Goodchild sitting with her mother around the great table. She thought how worried her mother looked, her usually busy fingers pressing against the sides of her temples, as she listened to Ruth Spragg.

"I know he had talked of it, often enough, but I never thought it would happen," Ruth was saying. "'Twas always 'At the Day of Judgement' or 'If the Duke comes', but I never thought he would. And now John may - they may all be killed!"

"Death comes to us all in the end, my dear," said Martha solemnly. "'Tis no shame for it to be in a righteous cause."

"Oh, I know, but ..." Ann saw Ruth's pale blue eyes glaring at Martha Goodchild, and could almost hear the words Ruth wanted to say.
'But that's easy for you to say -  your husband hasn't gone!'
But Ann saw Ruth bite her lip as she remembered Martha's son had gone instead, on the very day of his betrothal. Truly, the pain was much the same for them all.

"Let us pray it is a righteous cause," Ruth finished lamely, looking miserably down at the table.

Ann felt sorry for Ruth Spragg. Though she had three children of her own, Ruth felt and looked younger than the other women, and on normal days her gay laughter and trim sprightly figure made her seem to Ann more like an elder sister than a friend of her mother and Martha Goodchild.

"I'm sure it is, Ruth," she said, touching her hand in sympathy. "Just think, men from all over the West Country will be going - there'll be thousands of them. They'll be sure to win."