The evening was far advanced when Mr. Wilding and his two companions
descended to Uplyme Common from the heights whence as they rode they had
commanded a clear view of the fair valley of the Axe, lying now under a
thin opalescent veil of evening mist.
They had paused at Ilminster for fresh horses, and there Wilding had
paid a visit to one of his agents from whom he had procured a hundred
guineas. Thence they had come south at a sharp pace, and with little
said. Wilding was moody and thoughtful, filled with chagrin at this
unconscionable rashness of the man upon whom all his hopes were centred.
As they cantered briskly across Uplyme Common in the twilight they
passed several bodies of countrymen, all heading for the town, and one
group sent up a shout of “God save the Protestant Duke!” as they rode
past him.
“Amen to that,” muttered Mr. Wilding grimly, “for I am afraid that no
man can.”
In the narrow lane by Hay Farm a horseman, going in the opposite
direction, passed them at the gallop; but they had met several such
since leaving Ilminster, for indeed the news was spreading fast, and the
whole countryside was alive with messengers, some on foot and some on
horseback, but all hurrying as if their lives depended on their haste.
They made their way to the Market-Place where Monmouth's
declaration--that remarkable manifesto from the pen of Ferguson--had
been read some hours before. Thence, having ascertained where His Grace
was lodged, they made their way to the George Inn.
In Coombe Street they found the crowd so dense that they could but with
difficulty open out a way for their horses through the human press.
Not a window but was open, and thronged with sight-seers--mostly women,
indeed, for the men were in the press below. On every hand resounded the
cries of “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! The Protestant Religion! Religion and
Liberty,” which latter were the words inscribed on the standard Monmouth
had set up that evening on the Church Cliffs.
In truth, Wilding was amazed at what he saw, and said as much to
Trenchard. So pessimistic had been his outlook that he had almost
expected to find the rebellion snuffed out by the time they reached
Lyme-of-the-King. What had the authorities been about that they had
permitted Monmouth to come ashore, or had Vallancey's information been
wrong in the matter of the numbers that accompanied the Protestant
Champion? Wilding's red coat attracted some attention. In the dusk its
colour was almost all that could be discerned of it.
“Here's a militia captain for the Duke!” cried one, and others took up
the cry, and if it did nothing else it opened a way for them through
that solid human mass and permitted them to win through to the yard of
the George Inn. They found the spacious quadrangle thronged with men,
armed and unarmed, and on the steps stood a tall, well-knit, soldierly
man, his hat rakishly cocked, about whom a crowd of townsmen and
country fellows were pressing with insistence. At a glance Mr. Wilding
recognized Captain Venner--raised to the rank of colonel by Monmouth on
the way from Holland.
Trenchard dismounted, and taking a distracted stable-boy by the arm,
bade him see to their horses. The fellow endeavoured to swing himself
free of the other's tenacious grasp.
“Let me go,” he cried. “I am for the Duke!”
“And so are we, my fine rebel,” answered Trenchard, holding fast.
“Let me go,” the lout insisted. “I am going to enlist.”
“And so you shall when you have stabled our nags. See to him, Vallancey;
he is brainsick with the fumes of war.”
The fellow protested, but Trenchard's way was brisk and short; and so,
protesting still, he led away their cattle in the end, Vallancey going
with him to see that he performed this last duty as a stable-boy ere he
too became a champion militant of the Protestant Cause. Trenchard sped
after Wilding, who was elbowing his way through the yokels about the
steps. The glare of a newly lighted lamp from the doorway fell full upon
his long white face as he advanced, and Venner espied and recognized
him.
“Mr. Wilding!” he cried, and there was a glad ring in his voice,
for though cobblers, tailors, deserters from the militia, pot-boys,
stable-boys, and shuffling yokels had been coming in in numbers during
the past few hours since the Declaration had been read, this was the
first gentleman that arrived to welcome Monmouth. The soldier stretched
out a hand to grasp the newcomer's. “His Grace will see you this
instant, not a doubt of it.” He turned and called down the passage.
“Cragg!” A young man in a buff coat came forward, and to him Venner
delivered Wilding and Trenchard that he might announce them to His
Grace.
In the room that had been set apart for him abovestairs, Monmouth still
sat at table. He had just supped, with but an indifferent appetite,
so fevered was he by the events of his landing. He was excited with
hope--inspired by the readiness with which the men of Lyme and its
neighbourhood had flocked to his banner--and fretted by anxiety that
none of the gentry of the vicinity should yet have followed the example
of the meaner folk, in answer to the messages dispatched at dawn from
Seaton. The board at which he sat was still cumbered with some glasses
and platters and vestiges of his repast. Below him on his right sat
Ferguson--that prince of plotters--very busy with pen and ink, his keen
face almost hidden by his great periwig; opposite were Lord Grey, of
Werke, and Andrew Fletcher, of Saltoun, whilst, standing at the foot of
the table barely within the circle of candlelight from the branch on the
polished oak, was Nathaniel Wade, the lawyer, who had fled to Holland
on account of his alleged complicity in the Rye House plot and was now
returned a major in the Duke's service. Erect and soldierly of figure,
girt with a great sword and with the butt of a pistol protruding from
his belt, he had little the air of a man whose methods of contention
were forensic.
“You understand, then, Major Wade,” His Grace was saying, his voice
pleasant and musical. “It is decided that the guns had best be got
ashore forthwith and mounted.”
Wade bowed. “I shall set about it at once, Your Grace. I shall not want
for help. Have I Your Grace's leave to go?”
Monmouth nodded, and as Wade passed out, Ensign Cragg entered to
announce Mr. Wilding and Mr. Trenchard. The Duke rose to his feet, his
glance suddenly brightening. Fletcher and Grey rose with him; Ferguson
paid no heed, absorbed in his task, which he industriously continued.
“At last!” exclaimed the Duke. “Admit them, sir.”
When they entered, Wilding coming first, his hat under his arm, the Duke
sprang to meet him, a tall young figure, lithe and slender as a blade of
steel, and of a steely strength for all his slimness. He was dressed in
a suit of purple that became him marvellously well, and on his breast a
star of diamonds flashed and smouldered like a thing of fire. He was
of an exceeding beauty of face, wherein he mainly favoured that “bold,
handsome woman” that was his mother, without, however, any of his
mother's insipidity; fine eyes, a good nose, straight and slender, and
a mouth which, if sensual and indicating a lack of strength, was
beautifully shaped. His chin was slightly cleft, the shape of his face
a delicate oval, framed now in the waving masses of his brown wig. Some
likeness to his late Majesty was also discernible, in spite of the wart,
out of which his uncle James made so much capital.
There was a slight flush on his cheeks, an added lustre in his eye, as
he took Wilding's hand and shook it heartily before Wilding had time to
kiss His Grace's.
“You are late,” he said, but there was no reproach in his voice. “We had
looked to find you here when we came ashore. You had my letter?”
“I had not, Your Grace,” answered Wilding, very grave. “It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” cried the Duke, and behind him Grey pressed forward, whilst
even Ferguson paused in his writing to raise his piercing eyes and
listen.
“It is no matter,” Wilding reassured him. “Although stolen, it has but
gone to Whitehall to-day, when it can add little to the news that is
already on its way there.”
The Duke laughed softly, with a flash of white teeth, and looked past
Wilding at Trenchard. Some of the light faded out of his eyes. “They
told me Mr. Trenchard...” he began, when Wilding, half turning to his
friend, explained.
“This is Mr. Nicholas Trenchard--John Trenchard's cousin.
“I bid you welcome, sir,” said the Duke, very agreeably, “and I trust
your cousin follows you.”
“Alas,” said Trenchard, “my cousin is in France,” and in a few brief
words he related the matter of John Trenchard's home-coming on his
acquittal and the trouble there had been connected with it.
The Duke received the news in silence. He had expected good support from
old Speke's son-in-law. Indeed, there was a promise that when he came,
John Trenchard would bring fifteen hundred men from Taunton. He took a
turn in the room deep in thought, and there was a pause until Ferguson,
rubbing his great Roman nose, asked suddenly had Mr. Wilding seen the
Declaration. Mr. Wilding had not, and thereupon the plotting parson, who
was proud of his composition, would have read it to him there and then,
but that Grey sourly told him the matter would keep, and that they had
other things to discuss with Mr. Wilding.
This the Duke himself confirmed, stating that there were matters on
which he would be glad to have their opinion.
He invited the newcomers to draw chairs to the table; glasses were
called for, and a couple of fresh bottles of Canary went round the
board. The talk was desultory for a few moments, whilst Wilding and
Trenchard washed the dust from their throats; then Monmouth broke the
ice by asking them bluntly what they thought of his coming thus, earlier
than was at first agreed.
Wilding never hesitated in his reply. “Frankly, Your Grace,” said he, “I
like it not at all.”
Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon
Wilding's calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did
Wilding's. Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback. Grey's thick lips were
twisted in a sneering smile.
“Faith,” said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, “in that case it only
remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland.”
“It is what I should advise,” said Wilding slowly and quietly, “if I
thought there was a chance of my advice being taken.” He had a calm,
almost apathetic way of uttering startling things which rendered them
doubly startling. The sneer seemed to freeze on Lord Grey's lips;
Fletcher continued to stare, but his eyes had grown more round; Ferguson
scowled darkly. The Duke's boyish face--it was still very youthful
despite his six-and-thirty years--expressed a wondering consternation.
He looked at Wilding, and from Wilding to the others, and his glance
seemed to entreat them to suggest an answer to him. It was Grey at last
who took the matter up.
“You shall explain your meaning, sir, or we must hold you a traitor,” he
exclaimed.
“King James does that already,” answered Wilding with a quiet smile.
“D'ye mean the Duke of York?” rumbled Ferguson's Scottish accent with
startling suddenness, and Monmouth nodded approval of the correction.
“If ye mean that bloody papist and fratricide, it were well so to speak
of him. Had ye read the Declaration...”
But Fletcher cropped his speech in mid-growth. He was ever a
short-tempered man, intolerant of irrelevancies.
“It were well, perhaps,” said he, his accent abundantly proclaiming him
a fellow countryman of Ferguson's, “to keep to the matter before us. Mr.
Wilding, no doubt, will state the reasons that exist, or that he fancies
may exist, for giving advice which is hardly worthy of the cause to
which he stands committed.”
“Aye, Fletcher,” said Monmouth, “there is sense in you. Tell us what is
in your mind, Mr. Wilding.”
“It is in my mind, Your Grace, that this invasion is rash, premature,
and ill-advised.”
“Odds life!” cried Grey, and he swung angrily round fully to face the
Duke, the nostrils of his heavy nose dilating. “Are we to listen to this
milksop prattle?”
Nick Trenchard, who had hitherto been silent, cleared his throat so
noisily that he drew all eyes to himself.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Wilding pursued, his air calm and dignified, and
gathering more dignity from the circumstance that he proceeded as if
there had been no interruption, “when I had the honour of conferring
with you at The Hague two months ago, it was agreed that you should
spend the summer in Sweden--away from politics and scheming, leaving
the work of preparation to your accredited agents here. That work I have
been slowly but surely pushing forward. It was not to be hurried; men of
position are not to be won over in a day; men with anything to lose need
some guarantee that they are not wantonly casting their possessions to
the winds. By next spring, as was agreed, all would have been ready.
Delay could not have hurt you. Indeed, with every day by which you
delayed your coming you did good service to your cause, you strengthened
its prospects of success; for every day the people's burden of
oppression and persecution grows more heavy, and the people's temper
more short; every day, by the methods that he is pursuing, King James
brings himself into deeper hatred. This hatred is spreading. It was
the business of myself and those others to help it on, until from the
cottage of the ploughman the infection of anger should have spread
to the mansion of the squire. Had Your Grace but given me time, as
I entreated you, and as you promised me, you might have marched to
Whitehall with scarce the shedding of a drop of blood; had Your Grace
but waited until we were ready, England would have so trembled at your
landing that your uncle's throne would have toppled over 'neath the
shock. As it is...” He shrugged his shoulders, sighed and spread his
hands, leaving his sentence uncompleted.
Monmouth sat sobered by these sober words; the intoxication that had
come to him from the little measure of success that had attended the
opening of the listing on Church Cliffs, deserted him now; he saw the
thing stark and in its true proportions, and not even the shouting of
the folk in the streets below, crying his name and acclaiming him their
champion, served to lighten the gloom that Wilding's words cast like
a cloud over his volatile heart. Alas, poor Monmouth! He was ever a
weathercock, and even as Wilding's words seemed to strike the courage
out of him, so did Grey's short contemptuous answer restore it.
“As it is, we'll thrust that throne over with our hands,” said he after
a moment's pause.
“Aye,” cried Monmouth. “We'll do it, God helping us!”
“Our dependence and trust is in the Lord of Hosts, in Whose Name we
go forth,” boomed the voice of Ferguson, quoting from his precious
Declaration. “The Lord will do that which seemeth good unto Him.”
“An unanswerable argument,” said Wilding, smiling. “But the Lord, I am
told by the gentlemen of your cloth, works in His own good time, and my
fears are all lest, finding us unprepared of ourselves, the Lord's good
time be not yet.”
“Out on ye, sir,” cried Ferguson. “Ye want for reverence!”
“Common sense will serve us better at the moment,” answered Wilding
with a touch of sharpness. He turned to the frowning and perplexed
Duke--whose mind was being tossed this way and that, like a shuttlecock
upon the battledore of these men's words. “Your Grace,” he said,
“forgive me that I speak it if hear it you will, or forbid me to say it
if your resolve is unalterable in this matter.”
“It is unalterable,” answered Grey for the Duke.
But Monmouth gently overruled him for once.
“Nevertheless, speak by all means, Mr. Wilding. Whatever you may say,
you need have no fear that any of us can doubt your good intentions to
ourselves.”
“I thank Your Grace. What I have to say is but a repetition of the
first words I uttered at this table. I would urge Your Grace even now to
retreat.”
“What? Are you mad?” It was Lord Grey who asked the impatient question.
“I doubt it's over-late for that,” said Fletcher slowly.
“I am not so sure,” answered Wilding. “But I am sure that to attempt it
were the safer course--the surer in the end. I myself may not linger
to push forward the task of stirring up the people, for I am already
something more than under suspicion. But there are others who will
remain to carry on the work after I have departed with Your Grace, if
Your Grace thinks well. From the Continent by correspondence we can
mature our plans. In a twelvemonth things will be very different, and we
can return with confidence.”
Grey shrugged and turned his shoulder upon Wilding, but said no word.
There was silence of some few moments. Andrew Fletcher leaned his elbow
on the table and took his brow in his great bony hand. Wilding's words
seemed an echo of those he himself had spoken a week or two ago, only to
be overruled by Grey, who swayed the Duke more than did any other--and
that he did not do so of fell purpose, and seeking deliberately to work
Monmouth's ruin, no man will ever be able to say with certainty.
Ferguson rose, a tall, spare, stooping figure, and smote the board with
his fist. “It is a good cause,” he cried, “and God will not leave us
unless we leave Him.”
“Henry the Seventh landed with fewer men than did Your Grace,” said
Grey, “and he succeeded.”
“True,” put in Fletcher. “But Henry the Seventh was sure of the support
of not a few of the nobility, which does not seem to be our case.”
Ferguson and Grey stared at him in horror; Monmouth sat biting his lip,
more bewildered than thoughtful.
“O man of little faith!” roared Ferguson in a passion. “Are ye to be
swayed like a straw in the wind?”
“I am no' swayed. Ye ken this was ever my own view. I feel, in my heart,
that what Mr. Wilding says is right. It is but what I said myself, and
Captain Matthews with me, before we embarked upon this expedition. We
were in danger of ruining all by a needless precipitancy. Nay, man,
never stare so,” he said to Grey, “I am in it now and I am no' the man
to draw back, nor do I go so far as Mr. Wilding in counselling such a
course. We've set our hands to the plough; let us go forward in God's
name. Yet I would remind you that what Mr. Wilding says is true. Had
we waited until next year, we had found the usurper's throne tottering
under him, and, on our landing, it would have toppled o'er of itself.”
“I have said already that we'll overset it with our hands,” Grey
answered.
“How many hands have you?” asked a new voice, a crisp, discordant voice,
much steeped in mockery. It was Nick Trenchard's.
“Have we another here of Mr. Wilding's mind?” cried Grey, staring at
him.
“I am seldom of any other,” answered Trenchard.
“We shall no' want for hands,” Ferguson assured him. “Had ye arrived
earlier ye might have seen how readily men enlisted.” He had risen and
approached the window as he spoke; he pulled it open, to let in the full
volume of sound that rose from the street below.
“A Monmouth! A Monmouth!” voices shouted.
Ferguson struck a theatrical posture, one long, lean arm stretched
outward from the shoulder.
“Ye hear them, sirs,” he cried, and there was a gleam of triumph in his
eye. “That is answer enough to those who want for faith, to the feckless
ones that think the Lord will abandon those that have set out to serve
Him,” and his glance comprehended Fletcher, Trenchard, and Wilding.
The Duke stirred in his chair, stretched a hand for the bottle and
filled a glass. His mercurial spirits were rising again. He smiled at
Wilding.
“I think you are answered, sir,” said he; “and I hope that like Fletcher
there, who shared your doubts, you will come to agree that since we have
set our hands to the plough we must go forward.”
“I have said that which I had it on my conscience to say. Your Grace may
have found me over-ready with my counsel; at least you shall find me no
less ready with my sword.”
“Odso! That is better.” Grey applauded, and his manner was almost
pleasant.
“I never doubted it, Mr. Wilding,” His Grace replied; “but I should like
to hear you say that you are convinced--at least in part,” and he
waved his hand towards the window. It was almost as if he pleaded for
encouragement. In common with most men who came in contact with Wilding,
he had felt the latent force of this man's nature, the strength that was
hidden under that calm surface, and the acuteness of the judgment that
must be wedded to it. He longed to have the word of such a man that his
enterprise was not as desperate as Wilding had seemed at first to paint
it. But Wilding made no concession to hopes or desires when he dealt
with facts.
“Men will flock to you, no doubt; persecution has wearied many of the
country-folk, and they are ready for revolt. But they are all untrained
in arms; they are rustics, not soldiers. If any of the men of position
were to rally round your standard they would bring the militia, and
others in their train; they would bring arms, horses, and money, all of
which Your Grace must be sorely needing.”
“They will come,” answered the Duke.
“Some, no doubt,” Wilding agreed; “but had it been next year, I would
have answered for it that it would have been no handful had ridden in
to welcome you. Scarce a gentleman of Devon or Somerset, of Dorset or
Hampshire, of Wiltshire or Cheshire but would have hastened to your
side.”
“They will come as it is,” the Duke repeated with an almost womanish
insistence, persisting in believing what he hoped, all evidence apart.
The door opened and Ensign Cragg made his appearance. “May it please
Your Grace,” he announced, “Mr. Battiscomb has just arrived, and asks
will Your Grace receive him to-night?”
“Battiscomb!” cried the Duke. Again his cheek flushed and his eye
sparkled. “Aye, in Heaven's name, show him up.”
“And may the Lord refresh us with good tidings!” prayed Ferguson
devoutly.
Monmouth turned to Wilding. “It is the agent I sent ahead of me from
Holland to stir up the gentry from here to the Mersey.”
“I know,” said Wilding; “we conferred together some weeks since.”
“Now you shall see how idle are your fears,” the Duke promised him.
And Wilding, who was better informed on that score, kept silence.