The new adherents were, of course, only local levies of no great quality, but welcome, especially for their arms and the boost they gave to morale. Andrew gained a useful and modern cavalry pistol and some shot. One of the militiamen, a sergeant and better informed than the rest, was able to tell them that the Duke of Albemarle, dull son of a great father, was put in charge of the Devon and Somerset militia, to hold the rising in check until the Earl of Feversham, a Frenchman, came down from London with the main royal army. This news was on the whole good, since it seemed to mean that they had only the part-time local forces to face meantime - and by today's showing these were scarcely crack troops. Also that perhaps King James in London did not trust his English nobility, in that he was entrusting the anti-rising leadership to a Catholic foreigner.
At the council-of-war in the George that evening - at which Lord Grey sat noticeably silent - Andrew did raise the matter of the manifesto, urging its immediate retraction, to Ferguson's voluble offence. But the general reaction was that while his objections might be valid, the matter paled into insignificance before the military situation and should be left meantime - although no further copies w
ould be issued. The real debate
was on what to do next - action. A messenger had arrived from Taunton informing that Dare had managed to muster some three hundred foot and about forty horse, and, marching through the night with these, should reach Lyme in mid-forenoon. More would follow. So although they had no great army, they would add up to almost eight hundred men.
There were two schools of thought. One, to strike whilst the iron was hot, break out from this Lyme area and take the initiative, hoping, believing, that more and more would flock to their standard. The other, that this breathing-space, before the royal army reached the West Country, should be utilised to drill and train their distinctly motley force into some sort of fighting units able to face the militia with confidence. The Duke himself favoured the latter course.
Andrew urged otherwise. "It is clear that the gentry are hot going to rise until they see evidence of our strength - and we need their support for leadership and, more important perhaps, for their horses," he contended. "They will not see that in eight hundred men drilling and counter-marching at Lyme, little more than a village. A demonstration of strength and confidence is necessary. And the occupation of a large town equally so, to quarter and feed our men and to enhance our repute. Also we have proved that it is from the towns that we are going to draw our numbers, in the first place. The town corporations and craft guilds are our strongest allies meantime. So I urge that we march on Exeter, or, better still, on Bristol. Right away. And it will be further for the London army to come to us, giving us more time. And showing the flag in a new area."
There was some support for this, but Monmouth was doubtful.
"I feel that it is too risky, with untrained men and less than one hundred horse," he said. "We should have a few more days here at Lyme, building up, drilling, weapon-training and trying to collect more horses. Then we might head for Bristol and try to bring in the Welsh. My mother was Welsh . . ."
That had to be accepted.
In the morning, however, the Duke came to where Andrew was holding a weapon-training exercise on the pebbly beach -
118 and learning to master his own new pistol in the process - to say that he was sorry if he had seemed to ignore his counsel the previous evening; but he felt strongly that this training was essential for such raw recruits. But he did agree that some gesture, some flag-showing move, was advisable at this juncture. After yesterday's fiasco with Grey, he thought that Andrew should take a party of horse and make a tour through the countryside, looking for militia in the Vale of Honiton area, where such had been reported. A surprise raid there might prove profitable and salutary. Andrew was nothing loth.
It was at this stage that Dare and his Taunton company entered Lyme after their all-night march of almost thirty miles, weary but in good spirits. Andrew, despite his dislike of Dare, did not fail to cheer. He was, to be sure, almost as interested in the quality of the horses as of the men, in his present capacity of Master of Horse. Most of the beasts, being townsmen's mounts and even dray-horses, were fairly dull stuff, but two or three were good stock, in especial a fine bay mare taking his eye. He decided to ride that on this day's ploy; for thirty miles, at walking pace, was not likely to have overtaxed such an animal.
Leaving the newcomers to rest and refresh themselves, he selected some fifty horsemen of a sort and, mounting, rode off westwards.
They made quite a good day of it, although they saw no militia. At Colyton they were told that the local company of the soldiers had gone to join the Duke of Albemarle at Bath. But after proclaiming Monmouth and the Protestant rising at the cross and receiving quite an ovation, Andrew asked to be taken to the militia-barracks in the old castle-prison; into which they broke without compunction and helped themselves to all the remaining arms and ammunition stored therein, quite a considerable haul. Thus, cheered, they rode on to Honiton and back by Wilmington, the country entirely open to them. Andrew wished, however, that they had been riding north to Bristol.
They returned to Lyme in the evening, without major incident but with some satisfaction in their assessment of the general state of the country,
as to strong and swift moves by
Monmouth. But in the stable-yard of the George Inn, such thoughts were banished from Andrew's mind. He had just dismounted when Heywood Dare emerged from the rear door of the hostelry, redder of face than usual and pointing at him with, of all things, a horse-whip, features working.
"You, Fletcher, you Scotch rat!" he shouted. "You stole my horse!"
Scarcely believing his ears or eyes, Andrew stared. "What . . .?"
"You stole my horse, I say, damn you! Mine! I have been waiting for you. I
bought
it. And you took it, curse you! Thieving Scotch scum!"
"Lord, man, are you out of your wits? Have you been drinking? I only borrowed the beast. For duty. This is an armed force, not a private riding stable! The horses are for the cause, not for
..."
"Liar! Rogue! Wretch - I'll teach you your lesson, Fletcher!" And the man raised his whip.
"Put that down, fool! Down, I say! Have you forgot-1 am Master of Horse?"
But the whip flicked back and then struck down. And although Andrew threw up an arm to protect his face, he was too late. The lash cut across ear and cheek and throat.
"You once . . . threatened me . . . with horse-whipping!" Dare panted. "My God - we'll see about that!" And he raised the whip again.
A red mist before his eyes, shame and fury and lacerated pride rather than the pain which he scarcely felt at that moment, Andrew's hand dropped to where his sword should have hung. But it was still in its saddle-scabbard, cavalry-fashion. Instead his fingers gripped the pistol-butt projecting from his belt. Staggering back, he whipped the weapon out.
Lunging at him again, a pace forward, Dare brought the whip down. The pistol, still primed from the day's sortie, was thrown up. But not in time to prevent the second lash. Andrew pressed the serpentine trigger and the flint-lock and cap was released. The charge exploded.
Shot at point-blank range, Heywood Dare crumpled and fell, while the other ga
zed aghast, gulping, trembling.
Dare was dead before they got him back into the inn.
The Duke of Monmouth paced up and down his upper chamber, brows drawn, features tight.
"...
I repeat-you will have to go," he said.
"Yes, Highness. I am sorry."
"Sorry, man! Why keep saying that you are sorry? God knows, we are all sorry! More than sorry - desolated. You have, at one blow, removed two of my most needful supporters and friends. Dare and yourself. For I can no longer keep you with me. You must see that? When Dare's people learn of this -if some have not already heard - they will be hot for
your
blood! You cannot hope to lead my troops now. You must flee. And at once."
"Surely there is some way that I can serve Your Highness still?"
"Not here, not now. One day, perhaps. See you - you have committed what could be named murder. On English soil. You are condemned for treason in Scotland - now you could be condemned for murder in England! You cannot stay here, in this country."
"I could go secretly. To Bristol or otherwise. On your behalf. Seek to prepare your way . . ."
"No. It is impossible. I cannot be seen to employ you. Dare had much influence in this West Country. His death will not be forgotten or forgiven. Whatever the circumstances of it. No - you must go. Go at once aboard the
Helderenberg.
Tonight, secretly. She was to sail in two days' time. I will have the shipmaster to sail tomorrow, early. She is bound for Bilbao in Spain. Where the rest of her cargo is destined. You will be safe there."
"Safety, sir, is not what I seek!" That was anguished.
"I daresay not, Mr. Fletcher." Monmouth's features softened. "So I must seek it for you. Somebody must."
"What can I say? I blame myself, more than Your Highness can ever do. I have an evil temper, I know. Gilbert Burnet often warned me of it. And my brother. But
...
I was much provoked. Whip-lashed . . ."
"Yes, yes. God knows, I might have done the same myself! If I blame you, it is because of the hurt to my cause. But it is done now and cannot be undone. I am going to miss you greatly, my friend. For, temper or none, I have valued your counsel and your company. Even if I have not always acted on your advice. Dare's
company
I can do without! But he was loyal and useful, however ill his manners. I needed you both."
They eyed each other in silence. Then the Duke held out his hand.
"I am for my bed now. I advise that you get yourself down to the ship. I do not want you here in the morning. But - God speed, my friend! I hope your road is not too grievous. Perhaps we shall meet again in happier circumstances. If I gain my throne, I shall not forget your aid and goodwill."
Andrew shook his head, wordless, as the other ushered him out.
An hour or so later he slipped out of that back door of the inn, with his valise and without other farewells, and made his way down through the June night to the quayside, a man lost.
8
At the port of Bilbao, where the Pyrenees join the Bay of Biscay, in Northern Spain, Andrew Fletcher waited. He was getting used to a life of waiting now - but this time he did so differently, lethargically not impatiently as was his nature, almost uncaring of the passing days and weeks of that hot summer, idle, depressed, drinking too much. He was forced to wait there. Bilbao was a busy wine-exporting seaport, with much coming and going of shipping. On arrival in the
Helderenberg,
he had sent a letter to Henry, by a vessel bound for Dysart in Fife, giving some news of his situation and requesting money from Saltoun. So he must stay until there was a reply. Besides, where was he to go? No alternative destination drew him - save to Sc
otland itself, for which he was
direly homesick. But that was impossible; he would be arrested as a traitor and hanged.
Those were the most grievously unhappy months of Andrew's life. Having a man's death on his conscience was like a leaden weight all his waking hours. He belaboured himself for letting his temper take control of him and for having failed Monmouth, set his hand to a task, however reluctantly, and then had to throw it up and flee ignominiously, leaving others to the test. All savour was gone from living, the future not only uncertain and dark but pointless.
His outlook was by no means lightened when, about a month after his arrival, a ship from Bristol brought news from England, desperate news. Monmouth's attempt was over, finished, ended in complete disaster. There had been a battle at Sedgemoor, a mere score of miles north of Lyme - so the Duke had remained in that area, after all - which had developed into something of a massacre of the innocents. Feversham's regulars had cut down the insurgents like ripe corn - and thereafter slaughtered vastly more, as prisoners. The royal troops had then instituted a reign of terror in the West Country; and a judge, Jeffreys by name, was sent down from London to give a gloss of legality to the savagery but in fact, by his heartless and indiscriminate mockery of justice, multiplied the horror many-fold. Monmouth himself had escaped the slaughter but, with his uncle putting a price of £5,000 on his head, he had soon been captured and was now in the Tower of London awaiting trial for high treason.
Andrew grieved. He had, in truth, hardly expected success; but this bitter calamity and appalling aftermath desolated his already stricken spirit. He even found occasion further to blame himself. If he had been there, he might just have made some difference. At least he would have pressed his utmost to have a move made to take Bristol, before Feversham could come up. And who could tell how much Dare's death had contributed to the result, through the offence of his Taunton recruits? The entire ill-conceived enterprise might have been fated from the first, as he had felt in Holland; but his own failures could have made it all worse.