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

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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 he 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