God's Playthings 2

God's Playthings 2

He was brave in his spirit, but of an exceeding modesty and softness

in his temper, of a sweet disposition, averse to offend, fearful

of hardship, a passionate lover of life, generously weak to the

importunities of others.

 

Yet for a great while he withstood them, avoided Argyll, shut his doors

to Lord Grey and Ferguson and was all for retirement with the lady whom

he truly loved, Harriet Wentworth.

 

But from Love for whom he would put by these temptations came the

goad to urge him into the arms of Ambition, and she, who in her pride

would see him set on a throne, joined her entreaties to the arguments

of the men who needed a King’s son for their leader, and pawned the

very jewels in her ears to buy him arms. And he was prevailed upon to

undertake this sad and bitter voyage with but a few adventurers whose

much enthusiasm must take the place of money and wits, for of these

last they had neither. At first his Grace’s heart utterly misgave him

and he was more despondent than any man had ever known him, being

indeed in a black and bitter mood, reluctant to speak on anything but

Brussels and my lady waiting there.

 

This brought him into some discredit with his followers, but Ferguson

had spirit enough to inspire the ignorant, and Lord Grey, who, though a

man dishonoured in private and public life, was of a quick moving wit

and an affable carriage, animated the little company of us, not above a

hundred, who had joined together on this doleful enterprise.

 

But when we had landed on the rocky shores of Lyme Regis, it was his

Grace whose mood became cheerful, for his ready sensibility was moved

by the extraordinary and deep welcome these people of the West gave us,

for, whereas we who were at first, as I have said, but a hundred, in

a few days were six thousand, all hot on an encounter and confident;

truly it was marvellous to see how these people loved his Grace and how

he was at the very height of joyous exaltation in this fair successful

opening.

 

Taunton saw a day of triumph when his Grace was proclaimed King in the

market-place by a mad speech of Ferguson in which wild and horrible

crimes were laid to the charge of James Stewart, and I think Monmouth

saw himself King indeed, at Whitehall, so gracious and gay was his

bearing.

 

But my lord Grey looked cynically, for not a single person of any

consideration had joined us, and, while the gentry held back, ill-aimed

and untrained peasants were of no use to us. Yet had his Grace done

better to trust their fanatical valour and march on for Bristol and so

take that wealthy town, instead of spending his time endeavouring to

train his men–God knows he was no general, though a brave soldier in

his services in the Low Countries!

 

While he dallied, my lord Beaufort was raising the trained bands, and

my lord Feversham came down from London with some of the King’s troops.

Then came that attempt of my lord Grey on Bridport when he forsook his

men and fled; though this was proved cowardice, his Grace was too soft

to even reprimand him.

 

In miserable searching for food, in vain straggling marches, in

hesitations, in fatal delays the time passed; his Grace might have had

Bristol, a place abounding in his own friends; yet, hearing that the

Duke of Beaufort had threatened to fire it rather than open the gates,

he turned towards Bath, saying he could not endure to bring disaster on

so fair a city.

 

This faint-hearted gentleness was not fitted for the position he

had assumed; at Bath they killed his herald and returned a fierce

defiance. So we fell back on Frome in disorder; and my lord saw his

visions melting, his dream of Kingship vanish, for in the same day

he received three pieces of news: that the three Dutch regiments had

landed at Gravesend, that my lord Argyll was a prisoner, and that my

lord Feversham was marching upon him with three thousand men and thirty

pieces of cannon.

 

And now the full utter madness of what he had undertaken was apparent;

we had neither cannon nor arms, scarcely powder; and he who had seen

the fine armies of Holland and France could not but see the hopeless

position he held with a force of these poor peasants, the cavalry

mounted on cart and plough horses, the foot but armed with scythes and

pruning-knives. Despair and dismay gained an audience of his mind;

he fell suddenly into agonies of fear and remorse for what he must

bring on these followers of his; from every one who came near him he

asked advice, and the anguish of his spirit was visible in his altered

countenance. He called councils in which nothing was resolved but the

desperate state they were in, and nothing talked of but the folly that

had put them there; his Grace passionately blaming Ferguson and Argyll

for their evil urgings. Then it was resolved to retreat on Bridgewater

to be nearer the sea; on this march some few left his Grace, but most

stayed in a dogged love, and this faith touched his tender heart as

much as his own danger, and wrought such a passion of weak agony in him

it was piteous to see the __EXPRESSION__ of it in his face.

 

At Bridgewater he viewed the enemy through his glasses from the top of

the church tower; there and then, I think, he knew that he gazed on a

country he must soon for ever leave.

 

Alas! alas! In my nostrils is still the scent of that July afternoon,

the perfume from the slumbrous grasses, the scent of the peaceful

flowers.…

 

That day we had a very splendid sunset; all the west was gold and

violet and the whole sky clear of clouds, yet over the morass below

the castle the marsh fog lay cold and thick, for lately it had rained

heavily and the Parret had overflowed its banks, so the whole earth was

wet–very clearly I recall all details of that day.

 

Here I come to that picture that is for ever with me–the last Council

of my lord. Had I the skill of some of those Hollanders whom I have

seen abroad, who can limn a scene just to the life, I could give this

scene on canvas with every colour exact.

 

It was a room in the Castle, not large, looking on to the garden;

through the open window showed that emblazoned sunset, and a rose and

vine leaf entwined against the mullions.

 

The panelling of the chamber was darkened and polished, above the

mantelpiece was a painting of a stone vase of striped and gaudy tulips,

very like, and there were logs ready on the hearth, for the evenings

were chilly. On the floor was a little carpet of Persia, and in the

centre a table with stools set about it, all of a heavy, rather ancient

design. A little brass clock with a mighty pendulum stood against the

wall on a bracket; on the table were two branched candlesticks, clumsy

and shining.

 

There were gathered the rebel officers, talking themselves into a

boastful confidence; the only man of quality among them, my lord Grey,

stood a little apart beside the open window–and smiled; he was a

curious man, not well-favoured, but one whom it was pleasant to look

upon, tall and dark, with that little fault in the eyes that casteth

them crooked. My office was an idle one, for there was nothing to

write, so I watched the others and felt chilled at the heart for the

hopelessness of it all.

 

When the dusk gathered, my lord Grey drew the curtains across the

rising mists and lit the candles slowly.

 

When the last flame rose up, Monmouth entered quietly: he ever had a

light step.

 

Marred as he then was by his inward misery, he was still the loveliest

gentleman in England and of a winning beauty impossible to be realised

by those who have not seen him; he wore a riding coat of brown cloth

and a black hat with a penache of white plumes, being more plainly

dressed than ever he had been before, I think, in all his easy life.

 

They all rose when he entered, but he motioned them to their seats

again, and I saw that he had not the firmness to command his voice

to speak. He took the place they had left for him, and Lord Grey,

shading the candle flame from his eyes, stared at him with that crossed

glance of his and that immovable __EXPRESSION__ of amusement on his lips.

For a while they spoke together, to cover, as I took it, this dismal

discomposure on the part of their leader.

 

But presently he took off his hat impatiently, showing his long soft

hair of that English-coloured brown and his eyes, of the tint of a

chestnut, that usually shone with so bright a light, and leaning a

little forward in his chair he broke into astonishing speech.

 

“I cannot go on,” he said. “I will not go on–there is nothing ahead but

ruin.”

 

At these words that so stript the poor pretence of hope from their

councils, these officers sat revealed as fearful and stricken men. They

looked at Monmouth as one who would be the mouthpiece of their own

terrors; my lord Grey withdrew himself a little from them and went to

stand by the mantelshelf, from there observing all.

 

The red came into the Duke’s face and he eyed them wildly.

 

“What are we going on?” he said. “We are not such fools as to think we

can prevail now.… I saw Dumbarton’s Scots yonder on Sedgemoor.… I know

how they can fight … they were under me at Bothwell Brig.…” He pressed

his handkerchief to his lips and he was trembling like a sick maid.

 

They saw in his eyes that he considered them, as the play saith,

on “the edge of doom,” and as he had given them leave for ignoble

thoughts, so each took advantage of it and bethought him of his own sad

condition.

 

“We have but a rabble,” said one. “And there is yet a chance to get

over seas—”

 

“I cannot fall into the hands of James Stewart,” muttered Monmouth;

“for I have done that which cannot be forgiven.” And there was such

pusillanimous fear in his wretched look of shivered dread that it

passed like a panic through all that they too had done what could

not be forgiven; nor was James Stewart a merciful man. One voiced the

general terror:

 

“We could get to the coast before any guessed we had left

Bridgewater–in flight lies our only chance.”

 

Then my lord Grey made this speech.

 

“There are six thousand people have left their homes to follow

you–would you, my lord, abandon them to that fate ye cannot face

yourself?”

 

Monmouth looked at him; maybe he thought it strange that the man that

had been a proved coward under fire should speak so intrepidly in the

council, yet he was too unnerved for a retort or an answer.

 

“Oh, you,” added Lord Grey, with a flick of a scorn in his tone, “who

took the title of a King, and are a King’s son, cannot you make a more seemly show of it than this?”