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He thought only once of Rowan and that perhaps her Gods were with him, that they would recognize the quiet tread of men along old tracks. He glanced up and down his troop; their broken gait was quieter than the tramp of marching feet, and those who had muskets were holding them close, to prevent any chink of metal. The pikemen had their weapons slanted over their shoulders, except for those who were using the hafts as walking sticks to help them along the muddy track. Ned thought that if it was God’s will that he die here, it would be very like the landscape of his childhood home. If his sister, Alinor, came to find his body, she would know that the last land he had seen was a watery marsh. She would be comforted by that, he knew, just as he was comforted now by the gleam of starlight on the Langmoor Rhine, reminding him of the Broad Rife, where he had manned his father’s ferry all those years ago.
Ahead of them was another ditch, a deeper and darker tributary of the Langmoor Rhine that ran alongside their track, and the cavalryhalted on the brink, their horses shifting warily, backing from the water, which was silver in the moonlight and inky in the shadows. Godfrey the guide was whispering anxiously, going one way along the steep bank, peering downwards, and then turning on himself and going the other way. He knew there was a crossing point; but in the darkness, and with the future of England resting on him, he could not find it. At last, Ned heard him say:
“Here, my lords! Here! It’s not too deep,” and he waded in himself, chest deep in the gurgling water.
Monmouth led on his horse, then the first of the men on foot struggled down into the water and then hauled each other up on the far side. One man lost his boot and one his pike. Ned whispered: “Leave it! Come on! You’ll pick one up.” When suddenly, there was a crack of a shot from a musket nearby, terribly close, the flame bright in the darkness, the report like a smack, and the scream of a wounded horse, and the sound of hooves coming at them out of the darkness.
Monmouth did not hesitate. “Come on! Forward! Now!”
Ned urged his men. “Quick. Leave the cavalry to this. We’ve got to get to the main camp! To the Bussex Rhine!”
He heard Nathaniel Wade repeat the order to his troop behind them. Together, they forced their men over the crossing point and onward at a struggling run, blinded by the ribbons of mist, deaf to the sound of fighting behind them. But Ned heard—just as the royalist sleeping camp certainly heard—a single horse from the royal patrol, galloping flat out, the rider screaming at the top of his voice: “Beat the drums! The rebels are come! Beat the drums! For the Lord’s sake! Beat the drums!”
“Shoot him down!” Monmouth yelled, aiming his pistol. Ned raised his gun, primed his weapon and shot, knowing the man was out of range already and their surprise was betrayed and half their cavalry engaged too soon.
Monmouth wheeled his horse towards the waking royalist camp: “Onward! Follow me! Liberty!”
“Quick march!” Ned shouted to his troops. “Forward!”
He glanced behind him; his men were heads down, running forward, in a race to get to the royalist camp before they were fully awake and armed. As fast as they could go, the men ran and stumbled,picked themselves up and forced themselves onward, half a mile to the Bussex Rhine that curved like a moat before the camp, where they halted, panting, fumbling to prime their guns. At that moment, with intense relief, Ned heard their own cavalry coming up behind them, shaken by their encounter, missing half their force, and saw Grey riding up and down the bank of the ditch, looking for a crossing point. Ned could hear them shouting: “Here! It’s here!” and then: “No! Over here!” as they tried to find a shallow point to break into the royal camp, cut down the troops as they woke, and drive them into the rhine and Monmouth’s waiting army.
But now they heard drums on the far side of the ditch, and saw the flare of light as the royal soldiers kicked campfires into flame. They could see their enemies rising up from sleep, floundering in the darkness, looking for their weapons, unprepared, half of them still drunk, half of them sick. Ned called quietly to his men: “Get ready, lads. Ready for them to come.” Grey’s cavalry were out of sight, but he imagined them, crossing the ditch and forming up to charge; the chaos they would cause when they tore through the waking camp, coming out of the darkness, driving them into the ditch, straight into the rebel fire.
“Steady now, steady,” Ned said. He could barely see his men on either side of him in the darkness, but he could hear them lining up as they had practiced, the loading of the muskets. Behind them, he could hear the cannons being dragged into position, the gunners loading, and then the first roar that plunged the deadly cannonballs over their heads and into the royal camp.
“Hold your fire!” he ordered. “Wait till you see them, they’ll be forced into the water. Wait… wait…” But suddenly, there was a terrible rush in the darkness to his left, and the thunderous noise of horses: a cavalry charge, coming straight for them along their side of the bank. Ned looked, horrified to see the giant silhouettes of dozens of horsemen, riding them down. To his own men he shouted: “Stand firm! Stand firm!”
Even as he spoke, he knew it was the wrong order. No untried infantry could stand against a cavalry charge, they could not bear it. The horses plunged among them, men went down under the hooves, knocked aside like children. Ned was bowled over and as he reached up to grab at the horse’s reins he caught a glimpse, bright as a flash, ofa green leaf in the bridle. He dropped into a crouch, his hands over his head, felt the blow on his side as the horse stumbled over him, realizing, with sick horror, that it was their own cavalry, charging through their own men, on the wrong side of the river. They had failed to cross, they had been frightened into a bolt, they were unable to pull up, hopelessly out of control, mowing down their own musketeers and infantrymen in the rout. And—worst of all—now there could be no charge through the royalist camp. The rebel cavalry had plowed through their own men and were gone. Then the royalist muskets sighted them and the fire crackled out.
“Stand firm!” Ned staggered to his feet, trying to rally his shattered troops. “That’s the worst of it gone! First rank kneel, second rank stand. Hold your fire till you see them… Ready!” They could just see the royalist infantry on the other side of the ditch in the dawning light. “Fire!” Ned shouted, and there was a crack and a blaze of his men’s guns and royalist soldiers went down. The second rank stepped forward and took aim. “Fire!” Ned yelled. But now the royalist muskets had taken aim, and from either side of the ditch the troops exchanged fire.
“Advance! We’ve got to advance!” Nathaniel shouted at him.
Ned shook his head; he knew that if he could get his inexperienced troops to go forward against fire into the shelter of the ditch, he would never be able to get them out again. All the rebel army could do was stand their ground. But the sky was slowly lightening, and now Ned could see the royalist cavalry, horsed and armed, going up and down the bank on their side, looking for the crossing place, so that they could ford the ditch and charge down the rebel army.
“Withdraw to Langmoor Rhine!” Monmouth yelled. “Beat the retreat!”
The drums started to rattle the rhythm for retreat. Ned glanced across to where Nathaniel Wade’s troop were going backwards, those with muskets kneeling in front and firing to cover the pikemen, and then dropping back to kneel and fire again.
“Retreat!” Ned ordered, so that his troop went back, step by step alongside Wade’s men, back along the road. He looked around; he could not see Monmouth; and Lord Grey and the cavalry must be halfway to Bridgport by now. He recognized William Hewling,keeping his men steady, his young face grim. Ned thought that if they could hold the crossing point and get their men out of these deadly levels, they could regroup on higher ground.
Monmouth had found and crossed some shallows. Now he called to the infantry to follow him. Nathaniel Wade and Ned halted their men before the crossing point and formed them up as a rearguard, as the army stumbled past them.
“Hurry!” Ned shouted at them. “It’s not over till we’re all safe home! Hurry!”
They could see the royalist cavalry crossing the Bussex Rhine and forming up for a deadly charge, the Monmouth infantry scattering and running towards them, men dropping one after another under a rattle of musket fire. Ned glanced across to young Nathaniel. “Steady!” he urged. “Hold tight! We’ll hold this till we’ve got the lads across.”
He did not hear the cannon at all. He had heard all the others, he had heard the first crackle of the muskets and the terrible thunder of his own cavalry bolting through his men. But the cannonball that struck him was silent until there was a crunch like a fist against his ear and then nothing at all.
REEKIE WHARF, LONDON, SUMMER 1685
Alinor jerked awake in the early morning, her hand to her ear as if she had been struck by lightning. “Ned!” she cried out before she was even awake. “Ned!”
Her scream woke Alys in the bedroom next door, and she threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and ran into her mother’s room. “Ma? What is it?”
“It’s Ned!” Alinor was white-faced, her hand to her ear, half out of bed. “It’s Ned. He’s hurt, I know it.”
Alys guided her mother back to bed, leaned her back against the pillows. “God save him! God bless us. Sit down, Ma, you’ll make yourself ill.”
