could easily have ridden. As it was, they presented themselves as irresistible targets for the Royal Guards who unleashed such a devastating volley that it caused utter panic. As they were raked by a veritable blizzard of musket balls that killed or wounded indiscriminately, the rebel cavalry lost all order and control. Terrified horses and frightened riders could think only of escape.
The first ranks of infantry hurried towards the Bussex Rhine, only to be buffeted and scattered by their own cavalry in headlong retreat. When the horsemen reached Peasey Farm, they called out to the ammunition-handlers that all was lost and that they should take to their heels. It was a calamitous start to the battle. At one stroke, Monmouth had been deprived of most of his cavalry, had his infantry dispersed willy-nilly and lost all of his reserve of powder and shot. From that moment on, the result was never in doubt.
The rebels, however, did not acknowledge defeat. With their infantry stretched out along the Rhine, they fired successive volleys at the enemy and pounded them with their four cannon guns. While the artillery caused some damage, their musketry was largely ineffective because the royal troops lay flat on the ground and let the bullets fly harmlessly over their heads as they waited for light to improve. In the early stages, the royal army had three glaring deficiencies. They had no artillery, they lacked a full complement of cavalry and as yet they had no commander-of- chief in the field. When these weaknesses were rectified, as they soon were, the government forces were invincible.
While he waited for dawn, the Earl of Feversham prepared to turn defence into attack, consulting with Lord Churchill and his other commanders. By the time the light strengthened, the royal infantry was drawn up in disciplined ranks with the cavalry on its flanks, its artillery continuing its bombardment of the rebels. Monmouth had seen enough. Spurring his horse from the field, he was followed by Lord Grey and the other surviving riders. On a command, the royal troops swarmed across the Rhine in a general assault, dipping their pike-points and plug bayonets in readiness. The cavalry, meanwhile, surged across the ditch to attack both flanks of the enemy.
It was all over. The rebel lines broke and ran. Braver individuals stayed to fight on but they were soon overpowered. The moor was littered with dead bodies and dying men as the cavalry pursued the fleeing rebels and cut them down with ruthless efficiency. Those not killed were captured and Nathan Rawson, having fought bravely to the last, was among the hundreds disarmed and roped together. The Monmouth rebellion had been crushed beyond recall, its army vanquished and its humiliated leader a desperate fugitive.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
It was two days before Daniel Rawson found out what had happened to his father. When he heard that his uncle, Samuel Penry, had been shot in action, that his friend, Ralph Huckvale, had been trampled to death by fleeing rebel cavalry and that the massive Joseph Greengage, who owned a neighbouring farm, had been cut to ribbons during the rout, he began to fear the worst. He eventually discovered that Nathan Rawson was one of over five hundred prisoners crammed into St Mary's Church in Westonzoyland. Daniel was not allowed to see him and was dismayed to learn of the appalling conditions inside the church. Prisoners were unfed, wounds went untreated and those who died of their injuries were left unburied. Captives seemed to have no rights whatsoever. By way of retribution, a few of them had already been summarily hanged.
Daniel was still gazing up the dangling figures on the gibbets when he felt a jab in the ribs. He turned to see the anxious face of Martin Rye, an older boy from the village near his farm.
'Go home, Dan Rawson,' he urged.
'But my father is held prisoner in the church,' said Daniel.
'Then there's no hope for him. My two brothers were also captured at the battle but the only time I'll get to see Will and Arthur again is when they string them up like these poor souls.'
'I feel that my place is here, Martin.'
'Go home while you have a home to go to.'
'What do you mean?'
'Haven't your heard?' asked Rye. 'If anyone took up arms in the name of King Monmouth, they're either burning down his house or seizing his property. Your farm won't be spared.'
'Can this be true?' said Daniel in alarm.
'Ask any of these guards and they'll tell you. But don't get too close to them,' cautioned Rye, gingerly rubbing the side of his head, 'or they'll give you a cuff to help you on your way.'
'When will the prisoners come to trial, Martin?'
'Forget about them. Go home — your mother needs you.'
It was a prophetic warning. Daniel had ridden the eight miles to Westonzoyland on a carthorse. On the journey back, he had to go across the battlefield, stained with the blood of the fallen and scarred by the cumulative brutalities of combat. The grim duty of burying the dead was still going on as putrid corpses were tipped into large pits to share a common grave. When he first traversed the moor, Daniel had been struck by the thought that his Uncle Samuel, Ralph Huckvale and Joseph Greengage all lay somewhere beneath that soil but he did not even accord them a passing sigh this time. His mind was on the possible loss or destruction of his home.
Old Nelly, the carthorse, had been bred for her power rather than speed and she could not be pushed too hard. Daniel nursed her along and only forced her into a canter when the farm at last came into view. Everything seemed exactly as he had left it. The house had not been torched and the livestock still grazed in the fields. His fears, it appeared, had been groundless. When he rode into the courtyard, however, his apprehension returned. Three horses were tethered to a fence and laughter was coming from behind the barn.
Dismounting quickly, he tethered Nelly and ran towards the noise. Tinker was barking now and the laughter increasing. When he came round the angle of the barn, Daniel saw two red-coated soldiers. One of them was lounging against the wall while the other was tossing a large twig for the dog to retrieve. Tinker had entered into the game with spirit but he lost interest the moment that he saw his master. Scurrying across to Daniel, he barked a welcome. The soldiers grinned and sauntered across to the boy.
'You must be Nathan Rawson's son,' said one of them.
'What if I am?' retorted Daniel.
'Then you're about to lose your father.'
'And your mother will have something to remember us by as well,' said the other soldier with a smirk. 'The sergeant is with her.' When Daniel turned instinctively to go, the man put a hand on his shoulder. 'You stay here, lad, until the sergeant has had his sport.'
Daniel was enraged. Pushing the hand aside, he ran towards the house. The soldier tried to follow but Tinker bit his ankle and refused to let go. After trying in vain to shake the dog off, the man seized a pitchfork that was leaning against the barn and used it to kill Tinker, jabbing away hard until his squeals of pain finally stopped. Daniel, meanwhile, had burst into the house. Guided by his mother's screams, he hurtled up the stairs and into his parent's bedroom. It was not occupied by his mother and father now. A distraught Juliana Rawson was lying on the bed, struggling hard against the soldier who was holding her down and trying to stifle her protests with guzzling kisses. He had already discarded his coat and lowered his breeches. Daniel's mother was about to be raped.
The boy did not hesitate. Grabbing the man's sword from the floor, he hacked madly at him until he rolled off his victim then he put all his strength into one purposeful thrust, piercing the ribs and going straight through the man's heart. The sergeant's eyes widened in disbelief for a second then he emitted a long gurgle before sagging to the floor in a heap. Juliana sat up on the bed and hastily smoothed down her ruffled skirt. She looked down at the dead body of her attacker with a mixture of relief and foreboding. Footsteps pounded up the staircase. Eyes blazing and sword in one hand, Daniel put a protective arm around his mother.
Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune
Major-General John, Lord Churchill was a lean, handsome, debonair man in his mid-thirties with an impressive military career behind him. The critical decisions he had taken at Sedgemoor, while his commander-in-chief was still asleep in bed, had saved the lives of royal troops and hastened the defeat of the enemy. He was entitled to feel proud of his contribution towards the quelling of the rebellion. While he admired their courage, Churchill had little sympathy for those who had taken up arms against King James. But their children were another matter.
'Sergeant Hoskins is dead?' he asked incredulously.
'Run through with his own sword, my lord,' explained the soldier before indicating Daniel Rawson. 'And this is the young villain who killed him.'
Churchill's gaze shifted to the boy. 'Is this true?'
