A falling star, p.50
A Falling Star, page 50
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
‘Some reliable friend can surely be found,’ Tabby said. She kneeled beside him, and laid her head in his lap. ‘Don’t — don’t despair. We do not know that he is dead. And, hard as it may be, we must not try to find him, or seek him out — that might lead the soldiers to him. We must be patient, Jonah, we must be, and wait. And meanwhile, sending Libby back to Bristol will give us something positive to do, and to think about.’
Jonah smiled rather wanly and kissed her hand. ‘What would I do without you, my love? You are so wise, so calm…’
‘I have a history of plotting behind me,’ Tabby reminded him. ‘Although it’s a skill I haven’t had occasion to use for years… We must tell the girls what has happened — though, if possible, without frightening or distressing them too much. And we must write to Mother in Chard — she is so fond of Bram, she must be beside herself with worry.’
‘If news of the battle has reached Mistress Musgrave’s establishment,’ Jonah said, ‘I expect the girls will be sent home forthwith. Even if the children are safe from punishment, I doubt very much whether their teachers will be — they’d be well advised to leave Taunton now, before the authorities catch up with them.’
His assessment proved accurate. Only a few minutes later, Sue, Hannah and Libby, tearful and distraught, arrived at the door with a confused account of the battle, gleaned both from a sorrowful address to the whole school by Mistress Musgrave, and from what they had learned in the street on the way home. Like Jonah, the girls were all convinced that Bram and Ben must be dead, and Tabby spent most of the day persuading them that they were, quite possibly, still alive, and escaped from the battle. Hannah, who was after all only eleven, proved the easiest to comfort, but Sue, more realistic, announced between sobs that she preferred to believe that her adored brother had been killed. ‘Because if it’s true, I can’t possibly be more unhappy than I am now — and if he proves to be alive, then it will be such a wonderful surprise.’
Tabby left her to weep, and with considerable reluctance went to her niece’s chamber. As she had suspected, the suggestion that Libby return home to Bristol at first met with tearful refusal. The plain, plump, bookish girl undoubtedly harboured a fondness for her brilliant cousin Bram, six years her senior. It was a calf-love that was certainly doomed, even if Monmouth had never landed at Lyme. Bram, despite his startling looks, had not, to his mother’s knowledge, shown a great deal of interest in the various languishing young ladies who had looked longingly at him over the years, let alone paid much attention to poor Libby, who was probably lumped together with his sisters in his mind. But she could not say this to the girl, or reveal how much she had guessed. Libby would be mortified if she realised that her aunt was well aware of her feelings.
So she pointed out that her parents in Bristol would be very worried about her, and that Taunton would probably be unsafe for a while, if soldiers from the King’s army were billeted in the town, as seemed to be likely. There was even the chance that she and all the other pupils of Mistress Musgrave and her assistants would be punished for making those colours, and presenting them to Monmouth.
‘I don’t want to go home until we know what’s happened to Bram!’ the girl said despairingly, and began to cry. Tabby held her, giving comfort, knowing that the battle had been won. At heart, Libby was reasonable and intelligent, and she loved her parents: she would not want to bring them grief. Tonight, or tomorrow, she would agree, even with tears, to return to the comparative safety of Bristol.
If only Sue and Hannah could be sent with her. But Tabby, selfishly, could not face losing them as well, not even to temporary safety. Bram might be dead, or in terrible danger. Her daughters were all that was left to her, and she would keep them by her side unless absolute disaster threatened.
And in her heart, she could not seriously believe that it would. Times had changed since the wars of her childhood, when ghastly atrocities had been commonplace and she herself, at nine years old, had experienced the savage reality of war at first hand. In these civilised, enlightened days, she could not believe that retribution would descend upon innocent children.
During the latter part of the day, more details of the night’s battle had been brought to Taunton, and over supper, a strained and joyless meal, Jonah, who had been out gathering news, told his family of what he had learned. It seemed that the rebel cavalry had for the most part managed to flee the battlefield unscathed, but that many of the foot soldiers had been slain or captured. The Duke himself was a fugitive, with a price of five thousand pounds for his capture, but there was every chance that he would escape abroad, to the safety of Holland.
There was still no news of Bram or Ben, but if they had fled with the horse, none could be expected. Even Jonah seemed to be more hopeful, although the news did not appear to bring much comfort to Sue, who had hardly touched her food.
That evening, Tabby wrote to her mother and stepfather in Chard, telling them of the battle — although the news must surely have reached them already — and that there seemed to be a good chance that Bram and Ben had escaped. More than that, she dared not put, for even though Jonah would ask one of his friends to ride over with it the next morning, there was no telling what might happen, even in the brief miles that separated the two towns. For the same reason, it did not seem wise to send Libby away just yet, with Bridgwater occupied by the King’s army, and soldiers everywhere.
The next morning, they came to Taunton.
The populace gathered to watch the Royal regiment march into the town. After the rather ramshackle, informal appearance of Monmouth’s men, these well-dressed, well-drilled soldiers looked chillingly efficient. They wore the almost ubiquitous scarlet coats, with green facings and breeches, and their weapons — swords, muskets and pikes — were burnished and gleaming. The whisper went round that this was Kirke’s regiment, that had until recently been stationed in Tangier. Their grim, unfriendly faces gave no hope of mercy, and the people watched them in a sullen, unhappy silence. Already, word had come to Taunton of the five hundred prisoners held in the church at Weston Zoyland, in apparently terrible conditions, without food or water. And everyone knew of the gruesome gibbets that lined the road between the battlefield and Bridgwater, each bearing the body of a captured rebel, several in chains like criminals. Some score of men had been hanged there yesterday, without benefit of trial, as an example to anyone still convinced of the merits of rebellion. With fear the people of Taunton wondered if this brutal and summary justice would be extended to those prisoners still held at Weston Zoyland, who must include many of their friends.
The men of Kirke’s regiment pitched their tents in a field just outside the town, to the west of the castle, and made it clear that they considered themselves to be the victorious overlords of a subject and defeated populace. Those unfortunates who happened to live nearest to the camp found groups of soldiers standing menacingly on the doorstep, demanding supplies of food, drink and fuel. Anyone foolish enough to suggest that these should be paid for was abused, threatened and in some cases manhandled. Several women were assaulted, and one or two raped. As the lurid stories spread through Taunton, and the soldiers could be seen on every corner, armed and brutal and unmistakably dangerous, the female half of the population kept within doors, and only went out if absolutely necessary. Jonah forbade any of his womenfolk to venture abroad at all, and told the three maids that they could stay at their homes until the danger was past. The house was well supplied, for the moment, and he or the boy, Elias, could easily slip out to buy whatever might be necessary.
From all over Somerset, the tales came in to Taunton, of fugitives from the battle hunted down, betrayed, imprisoned. And, worst news of all, the bells were rung on the Thursday morning, two days after Kirke’s men had marched into the town, to celebrate the capture in Dorset of Monmouth, their beloved Duke, whom the people of Taunton, not three weeks previously, had joyfully proclaimed to be their lawful King.
There would be no reprieve for him: the handsome young man, darling of the people and of the late King, his father, was assuredly doomed. And as if that were not calamity enough, later that morning Colonel Kirke’s men brought into Taunton the prisoners taken at Sedgemoor and immediately after, who had been kept in Weston Zoyland church. They were to be lodged in the castle prison, until such time as they could be brought to trial for their rebellion.
Word that they were coming had passed round Taunton like a hurricane, and the streets were packed with silent, grieving crowds. No one was sure if they would be glad or sorry to see neighbours or loved ones amongst the prisoners; but all were determined to obtain the best possible view. The press was thickest at Eastreach and around the East Gate, where the convoy would enter the town, but all along East Street, up Fore Street and as far as the entrance to the precincts of the castle, people lined the way.
Jonah and his family found themselves a place just opposite the Three Cups, not far from the shop. Their faces, pale and shadow-eyed, showed all too clearly the strains of the past few days. Even the ebullient Hannah was silent and tear-streaked, and held her mother’s hand with the strength of a much younger child. Beside her, Sue stood miserably, certain that they would not see Bram because he was already dead. It was now common knowledge in Taunton that many men of the town, who had formed the Blue Regiment, had died in the battle: they had bravely withstood the Royalist cavalry charges until cut to pieces, and casualties amongst them had been heavy. Bram had not been amongst them, but that did not shake her belief. Libby, pale and somehow fierce, had taken up the opposite view, and was convinced that he was alive, and free.
And the pity of it was, thought Tabby, looking sadly at the three girls, that only the sight of her son’s face amongst the captives would make his fate certain. If he was a fugitive, they might not find out for weeks, or even months, whether he was safe. And if he was dead, whether heaped into the common pits that had been dug on the rich flat field of Sedgemoor, or, much worse, swinging on a gibbet outside Bridgwater, they might never learn what had befallen him.
Something was happening: a buzz ran all along the street, people peered past each other and craned their necks, sobbed in apprehension or pity. Tabby heard the tramp of marching feet and felt Hannah’s small cold hand tighten convulsively in hers. Here came Kirke’s men, nicknamed Lambs from the badge on their uniforms, and also with ironical reference to their demeanour and behaviour. Marching to the beat of the drum, swaggering, arrogant and brutal, the first company presented a poignant contrast to the huddle of men who followed them. Most had been roughly bound or roped together, they were ragged and filthy, and many wore only breeches and shirts: even their shoes had been plundered from them. A low murmur of horror and anger swelled as the prisoners stumbled past. A woman who had obviously recognised someone rushed forward, weeping, and one of the escorting soldiers shoved her back so roughly that she fell with a flurry of skirts into the gutter.
There were so many of them, Tabby saw in despair: so many, so thickly crowded together, that she did not have a hope of glimpsing every face. He had been wearing his good new russet suit, but that would surely have been plundered from him, like the rest. And if he were not here, where was he? Hiding in a ditch? Incarcerated in another prison, at Wells or Bridgwater? Or lying scantily covered with the black peat of Sedgemoor, his golden hair and empty hazel eyes filled and dulled with earth?
She was being morbid. She must not, must not despair. She fixed her gaze on the captive faces, brown-skinned farmers and labourers, pale craftsmen and weavers, all with a hopelessness and misery staring from their eyes, mute, like cattle being driven to the shambles. She could hardly bear to look, but she must, for Bram’s sake, and Ben’s.
‘There he is!’ Libby cried, and jumped up and down, waving frantically. ‘Bram! Bram, Bram, we’re here!’
For a moment, Tabby did not recognise him, her own son. His hair hung lank and matted, his face was almost unrecognisable under the dirt and stubble and streaks of what seemed to be dried blood, he had lost his coat, and his shirt and breeches were torn and filthy. But worst of all was the dead, hopeless expression on his face, as if horror had driven all feeling and all humanity from him. He must have been able to hear Libby’s calls, but he paid no attention to her, or to anything else: his legs, like a sleepwalker’s, carried him past them until other prisoners obscured their view, and they could no longer see him.
Sue was crying softly, her apron over her face. Hannah seemed bewildered. ‘Was that really Bram?’ she asked in distress, turning her hazel eyes up to her mother. ‘It looked like him, but it was as if he wasn’t there…’
‘It was him,’ Libby said, fiercely and inappropriately exultant. ‘It was, it was — I saw him, and he’s alive!’
‘Aye, but for how long?’ said an anonymous masculine voice somewhere in the crowd around them.
The wounded came after, piled groaning in two waggons. No attempt had been made to cover them, or to dress their wounds, some of which were appalling. Hannah gave a sob and buried her face in her mother’s chest, and Tabby, suddenly sickened and angry, put her arms tightly round her. Yes, these pitiful rags of men were rebels and traitors, taken in arms against their legitimate King: but they were also human beings, and Christian compassion demanded that they be treated as such. And she silently thanked God that, whatever else had happened to Bram, at least he seemed to be more or less unhurt. Judging by the sweet, sickly stench that wafted from those terrible waggons, few of the men within them would survive very long, either in or out of prison.
Jonah’s face was grey and bleak. He said quietly, ‘At least he’s alive, and unharmed as yet. Let’s go home. We can do nothing for him at present.’
There was certainly little sense in joining the huge crush of people following behind the procession of prisoners. Tabby, gathering her family around her, was suddenly smitten by conscience. She said urgently, ‘Did anyone see Ben?’
No one had. ‘I forgot about him,’ Libby confessed, rather shamefacedly. ‘I was so glad to see Bram.’
‘Glad?’ Sue cried angrily. ‘Glad to see him a prisoner?’
‘Of course not,’ Libby said indignantly. ‘I was just pleased to see that he’s still alive — or would you rather he was dead?’
‘Oh, please stop it!’ Hannah wailed, distraught, and burst into inconsolable tears. Tabby was tempted to echo her words, and follow them up with a sound scolding, but she could understand the reaction of the two older girls only too well.
‘Come on,’ she said softly, her arm around Hannah’s shaking shoulders. ‘Let’s go home.’
*
Mercy was not a word that had ever been prominent in Colonel Percy Kirke’s vocabulary. He had served twenty years in the army, and his experiences, culminating in governorship of the garrison of Tangier, had hardened him to the point of brutality. He had no knowledge of Somerset, and no feelings whatsoever for the inhabitants of Taunton. They were a fractious, unruly and rebellious people, and needed to be taught a severe lesson. Living amongst them on free quarter, terrorising the women and threatening the men, was not enough. Treason was a most foul and unnatural crime, and only a comprehensive illustration of the just penalties would deter these seditious peasants from future revolt.
That afternoon, a gallows tree was erected in the marketplace, in front of the White Hart Inn, and the inhabitants of Taunton, in a grim, appalled silence, watched as several cartloads of prisoners, apparently selected at random, drew up beneath it. Kirke and his officers watched from the White Hart as the men were turned off, one by one, and drank a health in claret to each jerking contorted body, while the drums and fifes of the regiment sounded below to drown the cries of the remaining prisoners and the prayers and lamentations of the people filling the marketplace.
Tabby had been afraid, so afraid, that Bram would be amongst those chosen for summary execution, but none of these faces, bewildered, frightened or defiant, belonged to her son. Indeed, only one or two, out of nearly a score, were Taunton men, although all the deaths were greeted alike with loud sobs and cries. She forced herself to watch the end of each one, feeling the grief and hatred rising from the crowd pressed thick about her and Jonah, like a real and living thing.
But Colonel Kirke, the focus of their disgust and loathing, lounged at the window of the White Hart, glass in hand, his heavy face flushed with triumph and relish, oblivious. And Tabby prayed, but without very much hope, that these nineteen men, summarily despatched today to teach Taunton the consequences of rebellion, would be the last victims of his savage brand of justice.
*
‘Loveridge? Any here called Loveridge?’
Tabby had never had the occasion to visit the castle prison before, and the reality of it, the stench, the squalor, the desperate overcrowding in the cells that normally held at most a couple of dozen, and now contained close on five hundred, shocked and appalled her. With other hopefuls, she and Jonah had waited hours for admittance, and paid a fat bribe to the gaoler for the privilege. She had been prepared to be horrified, but this was beyond all her worst imaginings: she would not have considered keeping rats confined in such conditions as these. A kerchief to her nose to muffle the worst of the stink, she stood close by her husband, peering into the dim fetid cell beyond, as the gaoler shouted her son’s name again.
‘Moi name be Loveridge.’
The undersized, pockmarked man who shuffled forward was not Bram. The gaoler looked at Jonah impatiently as he shut the door. ‘Be ee sure he be here, sir? He bain’t in any of the cells so far.’
‘Try them all,’ said Tabby firmly. ‘I saw him brought here, I’m certain of it.’
The last room was even more crowded than the rest, if that were possible, and the reek that flowed out of it almost overwhelmed her. Her eyes watered, and she nearly retched. ‘This is disgusting — they’ll all die of gaol fever in conditions like this!’
