I Leave the Service of King James
When I reached the battle-field, the dawn was breaking and the fight was all but done. Only the gallant men of Somerset still held their ground--a handful of doomed heroes, who scorned to yield to anything save death, which rushed upon them from all sides. 'Twas a moving sight indeed to see these brave, misguided fellows standing there--hemmed in on every side; deserted by their comrades; mowed down by dozens every minute: yet still fighting manfully with pike and scythe and musket for the cause they held so dear. In the midst of them stood a tall, red-coated minister waving a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other, the while he shouted words of exhortation and encouragement; but just as I drew close a musket bullet struck him in the mouth, and down he went to everlasting silence. Almost as he fell their firing slackened, and a wild, beseeching cry broke from them:
"Powder! for God's sake, powder!"
Their only answer to this piteous appeal was another furious onfall of the Royalist horse, which swept them clean away--and all was over. The struggle for a kingly crown had once more been decided by the sacrifice of innocent and simple men.
The Duke had long since fled the field. While there was hope he fought with bravery (or at least 'tis said so, for I never saw him), leading his men on foot, with pike in hand. But no sooner did defeat seem certain than he galloped off with Grey--his general of horse, and Buyse, the German soldier--leaving his hapless followers to their fate; an act of perfidy, it seems to me, which must for ever brand him as a coward. Yet it availed him nothing, for, as ye know, he was taken two days afterwards, hiding in a ditch at Ringwood, in Hampshire--a wretched, half-starved, bearded creature, disguised in shepherd's clothing, and so changed that those who captured him scarce knew him for the handsome, smiling fellow who had stepped ashore at Lyme less than a month before. From Ringwood he was borne to London, and, notwithstanding all his abject cries for pardon to the king, his uncle, he lost his head within a week on Tower Hill.
But to return to Sedgemoor. The fight was over, and what had it cost? Well, a thousand of the Duke's men lay there dead upon the moor, with some three hundred of our own to keep them company. But this was only the beginning of such wanton butchery as sent all England cold with horror when the tidings of it spread abroad. For throughout those western counties men were harried day and night--hunted down like vermin--and either shot, stabbed, or hanged; while those who escaped so swift a death were driven into the towns chained together like great flocks of sheep, and there cast into prison to await a no less certain doom when Jeffreys came his bloody rounds.
The frightened tithing-men, fearful lest lack of zeal might be construed into a favouring of the rebels, made haste to set up rough gibbets in wellnigh every village, and thereon, day in, day out, hanging went forward at a sickening pace. Nor was this all. It did not stop at hanging. Commands went forth that drawing and quartering was to follow; and so heads and trunks, well seethed in pitch, were scattered broadcast, to be set up as warnings to a people who were already far too terrified to need them.
During those awful days I saw such sights as make this quill of mine pause, shuddering, when I think of them. I will not harrow you by dwelling on them, but here is one instance, out of many, which will go to prove my statement. A youth, but little older than myself, was taken prisoner, and, being famous as a runner, begged for a chance to save his life by racing with a wild moor colt. This, to the captain of the troop which captured him, seemed something of a merry jest. A colt was straightway caught, and they were started off together. Ye will scarce credit it, but the youth kept well ahead for half a mile or more, then dropped. When they came up with him he rose and claimed his life for having won the race. But, no. The cruel brutes made haste to hang him for his pains upon the nearest tree!
Enough--let us leave these awful matters. They are among the blackest annals of our country, and one man at any rate still goes hot with shame to think he only saw such horrors.
After the battle my Lord Feversham posted up to London, there to receive his honours, and left one Colonel Kirke in command at Bridgewater. This fellow was as vile and merciless a wretch as e'er drew sword, while the men of his own regiment (called Kirke's Lambs in bitter mockery) were not a whit less cruel than their master. Nor age nor sex was spared by them.