Argyll’s father had been leader of the Covenanters in the days of Charles the First, and after the Restoration he lost his head. The son, Monmouth’s fellow-conspirator, refused to take the oath of the Scottish Test Act without adding a statement that thereby he was not precluded from trying to amend both Church and State. For this he was brought to trial, and on evidence that would not hang a dog condemned to death. Fortunately, however, he escaped in disguise, and found a refuge in Amsterdam, where the leading English and Scottish exiles were assembled. Though there was not much sympathy between Monmouth and Argyll, they joined hands, and arranged that the great MacCallum More should rouse his clansmen and head a rising in Scotland. This was to be promptly followed by Monmouth’s descent on England.
The Scottish expedition was doomed to failure from the first, because it was commanded, not by a single general, but by a committee, which disputed and quarrelled on every possible occasion. The expedition reached Campbeltown, on the coast of Kintyre, and here Argyll issued a proclamation declaring that King James had murdered King Charles, and that Monmouth was the rightful king. His clansmen flocked to him; but the Lowland leaders despised them, and endeavoured to raise the Cameronians of Ayrshire, who showed not the slightest disposition to take up arms. Soon the committee was at loggerheads, and all was confusion and despondency. Food ran short, and the Highlanders deserted in hundreds. Argyll now yielded to the committeemen, who urged him to march into the Lowlands. Ere a battle could be fought his army had melted away, and his only safety lay in flight.
Argyll disguised himself as a peasant, and pretended to be the guide of Major Fullarton. The friends journeyed through Renfrewshire until they reached the junction of the Black Cart and the White Cart. Here they found that the only practicable ford was held by a party of militia. The travellers were challenged, their answers were evasive, and an attempt was made to seize the supposed guide. He broke loose and sprang into the water, where for a short time he held his own against five assailants. His pistols, however, had been wetted and were useless. Struck down with a broadsword, he was easily overcome, and his captors learnt to their dismay that the champion of the Protestant religion, the heir of a great and honoured name in Scotland, was in their hands.
On June 20, 1685, Argyll was dragged through the streets of Edinburgh bareheaded, his hands tied behind his back, guards surrounding him, and the hangman walking in front. Up the Canongate and the High Street he passed, and when the castle was reached he was put in irons and informed that he had but a few days to live. No new trial was necessary; he was to be executed on his old sentence. He heard his fate with majestic resignation, for he did not fear death. Torture was threatened, but the threat did not move him, and not a word would he say to betray a friend. He composed his own epitaph, and spent the short remaining hours in devotion.
On the very day on which he was to die he dined well, and according to his wont, lay down for a short slumber after the meal. A Lord of the Council who came with a message insisted on seeing him. He was told that the earl was asleep, but could not believe that such was the case. The door of the cell was softly opened, “and there lay Argyll on his bed, sleeping in his irons the placid sleep of infancy.” In his last hour he wrote a most loving and cheering letter to his wife, and at the call of his jailers mounted the scaffold with undaunted courage. He made a short speech to the people, declaring that he died “not only a Protestant, but with a heart-hatred of Popery, of Prelacy, and of all superstition.” He then embraced his friends, gave them tokens of remembrance, prayed a few moments, and the axe fell.
Now, having seen a noble man pay the price of failure, let us turn to the progress of Monmouth. On the morning of June 11, 1685, a week before the capture of Argyll, three ships appeared off the little port of Lyme Regis, in Dorsetshire. The inhabitants from the cliffs saw eighty well-armed men land on the shore, kneel down, and pray for a blessing on their venture. Then they saw a gallant figure draw his sword and lead his men over the cliffs into the little town. His name and the character of his mission were soon known, and there was great excitement in the place. The fishermen flocked to him shouting, “A Monmouth! a Monmouth! the Protestant religion!” Meanwhile a blue flag had been set up in the market-place, and now Monmouth’s Declaration was read. It was full of wild charges against James, and accused him of burning London and poisoning the late king, his brother. James was denounced as a tyrant, murderer, and usurper. Monmouth said that he had come as captain-general of the English Protestants in arms against tyranny and Popery.
The news of his coming spread like wildfire through the West Country. Many of the people were Dissenters, who had suffered all kinds of petty persecution, and they hailed the advent of Monmouth with the utmost eagerness. They remembered how he had endeared himself to them when he made his progress through the country five years before, and they rushed to his banner with alacrity. By the time he reached Exeter nearly all Devonshire had flocked to him, and nine hundred young men in white uniform marched before him into the city. Recruits came in by hundreds daily; there were not enough clerks to take down their names. Arming and drilling went on all day, and everything promised well.
On June 18, Monmouth reached the pleasant and prosperous town of Taunton, which gave him a right royal welcome. The children of the men who had helped Blake to hold out against the Cavaliers now welcomed Monmouth with unrestrained joy. Every door and window was adorned with wreaths of flowers, and no man appeared in the streets without the badge of the popular cause in his hat. Damsels of the best families in the town wove colours for the rebels. One flag in particular was embroidered with the royal arms, and was offered to Monmouth by a party of school-girls. Their school-mistress presented the duke with a small Bible of great price. He took it with a show of reverence. “I come,” he said, “to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if it must be so, with my blood.”
Now let us hasten on to the final scene. It is Sunday morning, July 5, 1685, and “King” Monmouth is standing on the lofty tower of Bridgwater parish church, looking out over an expanse of fertile and well-wooded country, with the Mendip Hills to the north-east and the Quantocks to the south-west. He turns his eyes anxiously towards the south-east, where there is a wide extent of dreary morass known as Sedgemoor. In the villages round the moor the royal troops are encamped, and are rapidly drinking themselves drunk with Somerset cider. Monmouth is in a despondent mood; his heart has failed him, and he has already meditated flight. The trainbands of the surrounding counties and the life-guards of the king are closing in upon him in overwhelming force, and if victory is to be secured a battle must be fought without delay. He forthwith determines to march that very night, under cover of the darkness, and fall on the surprised enemy before dawn.
As the clock strikes eleven, Monmouth and his men march out of Taunton, the moon shining brightly and the northern streamers flashing in the sky. By one o’clock his half-armed rabble is on the moor, where the marsh-fog lies so thick that nothing can be seen fifty paces away. Between him and the enemy are three broad ditches or rhines full of mud and water. Monmouth knows of two of these ditches, and has planned the advance so as to cross them by the causeways. He is, however, ignorant of the third, and when his army reaches its brink it is powerless to cross and attack the king’s troops, only a few paces away. A random pistol-shot has already aroused the Royalists; their drums beat to arms, and the cavalry and foot, scrambling into order, advance towards the rhine which separates them from the enemy. “For whom are you?” shouts an officer of foot-guards. “For the king,” is the reply from the rebel ranks. “For which king?” is then demanded. The answer is a loud shout of “King Monmouth! God be with us!” The royal troops fire; the rebel horsemen flee, and the drivers of the ammunition wagons hasten after them with the powder and ball.