Inside the town, there was great confusion. Riotous men were foraging,
that is, plundering from private houses, pretending that they did so at
the Duke's orders. The streets were full of people, nearly all of them
men, the green boughs in their hats. On the beach two long lines of
men with green scarves on their arms were being drilled by an officer.
Horses were picketed in a long line up the main street; they were
mostly very poor cart-stock, ill-provided, as I learned afterwards,
with harness. Men were bringing hay to them from whatever haystack was
nearest. From time to time, there came a loud booming of guns, above
the ringing of the church bells. Three ships in the bay, one of them
La Reina, were firing salutes as they hoisted their colours. It was all
like a very noisy fair or coronation day. It had little appearance of an
armed invasion. We found the Duke busy with Mr. Jermyn enlisting men in
a field above the town.
“That's not Mr. Jermyn. That's Lord Grey,” Mr. Blick said, on hearing me
exclaim. “Mr. Jermyn's only the name he goes by. He's my Lord now, you
must remember.”
Just then the Duke caught sight of us riding up. He took us for local
gentry, coming in to volunteer. He came smiling to welcome us. It must
have been a shrewd disappointment to him to find that we were not what
he thought. All his hopes were in the gentry, poor man. By the time we
were on our feet with our hats off he had turned his back upon us
as though to speak to Lord Grey, but really, I believe, to hide his
chagrin. When he turned to us again both of them welcomed us, saying
that there was work enough for all, in enlisting men, making out
billets, etc. So without more ado we gave our horses to the ostlers at
an inn. Mr. Blick at once began to blarney the standers-by into joining,
while I, sitting at a little table, in the open air, wrote out copies of
a letter addressed to the local gentry. My copies were carried from Lyme
by messengers that afternoon but, alas for my master, they did not bring
many gentry to us.
Now while I was writing at the table, under the great flapping standard,
with the Duke, in his purple coat, walking about in front of me, I had a
pretty full view of the crowd which ringed us in. We were circled about
by a crowd of gaping admirers; from whom, every minute, Mr. Blick, or
the Duke, or Lord Grey, would select a sheepish grinning man to serve
under our colours. Among the crowd I noticed a little old lame man with
a long white beard. He was a puppet-man, who was making the people laugh
by dancing his puppets almost under the Duke's nose. As he jerked the
puppet-strings, he played continually on his pan-pipes the ribald tune
of “Hey, boys, up go we,” then very popular. The Duke spoke to him once;
but he did not answer, only bowed very low, with his hat off, which made
the people think him an idiot or a jester. They laughed heartily at him.
After a bit, it occurred to me that this old puppet-shaker always crept
into the ring (with his hat off to receive alms) whenever the Duke spoke
aside to Lord Grey, or to some other officer. I watched him narrowly to
make sure, because something in his manner made me suspect that he was
trying to catch what our leaders said to each other. I tried to recall
where I had seen the old man; for I had seen him before. He had been at
Exeter on the day we set out for Sidmouth, so much I remembered clearly;
but looking at him carefully, with my head full of memories of faces,
it seemed to me that he had been at Dorchester also. Surely an old man,
lame in the left leg like this man, had gone down a narrow lane in
front of me in Dorchester. I had not thought of it in Dorchester; but I
thought of it now, with a feeling that it was strange to meet again thus
in Lyme. I took good stock of the man, wondering if he were a spy.
He was a dirty old man enough. His dirty fingers poked through ragged
mittens. His cheeks were all swathed up in a woollen comforter. I made
the mistake of looking at him so hard that I made him look at me. Seeing
that I was staring at him, with a face full of suspicion, he walked
boldly up to me, holding out his hat for my charity. We stared at
each other, while he blew a blast on his pan-pipes, at which everybody
laughed.
“Come, come, boy,” said Lord Grey to me, “we want those letters done.
Never mind about the puppets. Here, old man” (giving him a penny), “you
take yourself off now. Or are you going to enlist?”
The people laughed again at this, while the old man, after a flourish of
his hat to me, piped up lively quickstep, called “Jockeys to the Fair.”
He disappeared after this. I did not see him again until our troubles
began, later in the morning. I was finishing off the last of my letters,
when some of our scouts rode in to make a grave report to the Duke. They
had ridden in pretty hard, their horses were lathered all over. They
themselves were in an internal lather; for they had just had their first
sight of war. They had come into touch (so they declared) with the
whole of Albemarle's militia, marching out to attack them. On being
questioned, it turned out that they had heard this from an excited
labourer who had run to them with the news, as they stood guard in
a roadside field a few miles out of Lyme. They themselves had seen
nothing, but the news seemed so probable that the Duke acted on it. He
sent me off at once with a message to a clever, handsome gentleman who
was in charge of the cavalry in the street. It was in giving the message
that I saw the old man again. He was them limping up the street on the
Sidmouth road, going fast, in spite of his lameness. I gave my message
to the captain, who commanded his trumpeter to call to arms. The
trumpeter blew nobly; but the sight of the confusion afterwards showed
me how little raw troops can be trusted. There was a hasty scramble for
horses rather than a setting forth. Some men quarreled over weapons;
others wrestled with harness; others ran about wildly, asking what was
happening, was it to be a battle, what did blowing on the trumpet mean?
Some few, thinking the worst, got wisdom in those few moments. They took
horses from the ranks, but instead of forming up with the regiments,
they galloped off home, having had enough of soldiering at the first
order. The foot behaved rather better, knowing, perhaps, that if they
fought they would be behind hedges, in some sort of shelter. Even so,
they seemed a raw lot of clumsy bumpkins as they marched up. Many of
them were in ploughmen's smock-frocks; hardly any of them had any
sense of handling their guns. They had drums with them, which beat up
a quickstep, giving each man of them a high sense of his importance,
especially if he had been drinking. People in the roadway cheered them,
until they heard that there was to be a battle. Those who were coming in
to join us found it a reason for hesitation.
After a lot of confusion, the army drew out of Lyme along the Sidmouth
road, followed by a host of sightseers. Some of the best mounted rode
on ahead at a trot, under the handsome man, Mr. Fletcher, who was their
captain. I followed on with the foot-soldiers, who marched extremely
slowly. They halted at their own discretion; nor did they seem to
understand that orders given were to be obeyed. What they liked, poor
fellows, was to see the women admiring them. The march up the hill
out of Lyme was a long exhibition of vanity, the women waving their
handkerchiefs, the men putting on all sorts of airs, jetting like
gamecocks. When we got up to the top of the hill, I saw the old lame
puppet-man, sitting on the edge of the wild, unenclosed, gorse-covered
common-land which stretches away towards the town of Axminster. He was
watching us with deep interest. Our men were spreading out into line
upon this common. The horse was ranging on, bobbing about, far ahead.
The foot were looking about eagerly as they got out of the ranks in
which they had marched; but they could see no trace of any enemy.
I caught sight of the Duke four hundred yards away, a little figure
sitting alone on his horse, in front of half a dozen others. They were
all scanning the country, all the way round. Presently I called out that
I saw the enemy. Half a dozen cavalry were riding up a combe far off.
But they were our own men, not the militia. They were some of our scouts
riding off as “feelers” to spy out Albemarle's position. All the time
that we were up there on the hill, the little old man portered about
among the men, now listening to what they had to say, now asking the
soldiers to look at his pretty puppets. When the returning scouts
brought word that no troops were near us, so that we were free to march
back again, he was still there, packing up his puppets in tarred canvas,
as though about to march off to the next market-town. We marched past
him, as he sat in the heather. I passed quite close to him, staring at
him hard, for to tell the truth he was on my mind. I was suspicious of
him. He took off his hat to me, with a smile; but he did not speak. Then
my troops swung round, down the hill, leaving him alone there, watching
the men pass.
Other things put him out of my mind during the afternoon. I was kept
busy writing orders to scouts; for we were sending out scouts in every
direction, partly to protect us from surprise, partly to direct new
recruits to our headquarters. Mr. Blick, who knew the ground dictated
the letters, helped by Mr. Fletcher, who studied a big map with great
attention; I was writing all that afternoon. Lyme grew noisier during
the day, as the recruits became more drunk. Many steady men turned away
from us when they saw our disorder. I myself had been brought up to
abhor drunkenness. I found the state of drunken uproar very terrible. I
feared that such an army would never achieve any great deed. I thought
that such sin would be punished. Our soldiers were not behaving like
knights sworn to a good cause; but like boors at a fair. That day we
lost our only good officer, Mr. Fletcher.
I have spoken of this gentleman. He was in command of the horse under
Lord Grey. He was a much better soldier than my Lord; a better officer,
too; a better man. Now in the day's confusion, with everything topsy
turvy, the Duke's messenger, “Old Dare,” rode into Lyme from Taunton,
where he had galloped the day before to spread the news of our arrival.
This Dare was a quick-tempered, not very clever, popular man with a
great deal of influence in the countryside. On his way back to us from
Taunton, someone lent, or gave, him a very fine horse. It may have been
meant as a gift to the Duke; I do not know. Anyhow Old Dare rode in on
this horse with letters from Taunton, which he handed to Mr. Fletcher to
give to the Duke. Fletcher, our cavalry commander, had as yet no horse;
so seeing the splendid charger on which Old Dare rode, he ordered Old
Dare to give it up to him. He was the real commander of the army, with
a military right, if no real right, to take what horse he liked from
any subordinate officer. But Old Dare, like so many of our men, had no
knowledge of what soldier's discipline meant. He saw, in Fletcher, a
gentleman with whom he had lived as an equal for the last fortnight. He
was not going to give up his horse like that; not he. Fletcher (speaking
sharply) told him to obey without further words, at which Dare in a
sudden flush of temper struck him with his riding switch. Fletcher
was not a patient man. He could not let an act of gross mutiny pass
unpunished, nor would he suffer an insult. He shot Dare dead upon
the spot, in full view of some hundreds of us. It was all done in an
instant. There was Dare lying dead, never to stir again. There was
Fletcher, our only soldier, with a smoking pistol in his hand, thinking
that he had taught the army a lesson in obedience. There was the
army all about him, flocking round in a swarm, not looking at it as a
military punishment but as a savage murder, for which he deserved to be
hanged. Then the Duke hastened up to make things quiet, before the army
avenged their friend. He drew Fletcher aside, though the people murmured
at him for speaking to a murderer. He was unnerved by Fletcher's act. He
had no great vitality. Sudden crises such as this unnerved him, by
using up his forces. A crisis of this kind (a small thing in a great
rebellion) was often enough to keep his brain from considering other,
more important, more burning questions concerning the entire army. The
end of this business was as unhappy as its beginning. Fletcher, our only
soldier, was sent aboard the frigate in which the Duke had sailed from
Holland. When the tide served, she set sail with him for Corunna in
Spain. With him she carried all our hopes of success, together with a
quantity of stores which would have been of use later in the expedition.
As I left the Cobb, or pier, which makes Lyme harbour, I saw the little
lame puppet-man turning away from the beach with a company of men who
wore our green boughs. For a few steps I hurried towards him, so that I
might overhear what he was saying; I made so sure that he was a spy. Mr.
Blick, to whom I told my fears, bade me not to worry myself. “Why, boy,”
he said, “there are five hundred spies in Lyme; but they can't hurt us.
Before they can get off to tell our enemies all about us there won't
be any enemies left. We shall be marching at once. We shall drive
everything before us.” He spoke with such confidence that I believed
him; yet the old man troubled me, for all that. When you see a face
continually, at a time when you are excited, you connect the face with
your excitement; it troubles your nerves.
The day wore by with all the unreality of a day of confusion. I was kept
at work until the light was gone; then served at the Duke's table while
he supped, then snatched a hurried supper while he talked with his
officers. After supper, I had to go from billet to billet, looking for
people whom the officers wished to see. Something very important was in
the air. The discussion in the inn's great room was the first serious
council of the war. About eleven o'clock, Lord Grey came out of the
room, telling me to follow him. We went out into the street, where
presently our men began to fall in, four or five abreast, about a
hundred ranks of them. A few cavalry came, too, but not enough, I heard
Lord Grey say, not enough to do any good with. In spite of all the
efforts of those who loved us (by efforts I mean the robbing of
farm-stables) we were very short of horses. Those which we had were not
good; they were cart, not saddle-horses, unused to the noise of guns.
Still, such as they were, they formed up in the street ahead of the
foot. The force took a long time to form; for the men kept saying that
they had forgotten something, their powder-horn, their cartridges, their
guns, even. Then they had to run back to their billets to fetch whatever
it was, while those who remained behind, puzzled at the movement so late
at night, when they wished to sleep, began to get nervous. They began to
ask where it was that we were going, was it to Axminster, or to Bridport.