The History of England, from the Accession of James the Second - Volume 1 by Thomas Babington Macaulay (diy ebook reader .txt) π
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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
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
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