Bridgewater Castle and the Battle of Sedgemoor.

Taken from Abbeys, Castles and Ancient Halls Volume 1, by John Timbs and Alexander Gunn. Published by Frederick Warne and Co. (No Date).

Bridgewater Castle and the Battle of Sedgemoor.

p.558

Bridgewater Castle, at one time one of the strongest and most

extensive in the kingdom, was built by William de Briwere in 1202.

On the decease of this knight his estates were divided, and the

castle, manor, and borough of Bridgewater, with the manors of Hay-

grove and Odcombe, fell to the eldest of his sisters, Graecia, who

was married to William de Braose, lord of the manors of Breck-

nock, Radnor, and Abergavenny, and a great baron of his time.

William, the son of this baron, was massacred by Llewellyn, Prince

of Wales, leaving issue four daughters, the eldest of whom, Maud,

wife of Roger Mortimer, inherited the castle and a third part of the

manor of Bridgewater for her share, and bequeathed the same to

William Mortimer her third son. He dying without issue, left the

estate to his elder brother Edmund, Lord Mortimer, from whom it

passed by inheritance to Roger, Earl of March, and through him to

his successive descendants, until at last it passed by an heir female

of the last Earl of March to Richard, Duke of York, and thus to the

Crown. Charles L, in the second year of his reign, granted the castle

and manor, with all the appurtenances attached, to Sir William Whit-

more, Knight, and George Whitmore, Esq., and to their heirs. The

Whitmores soon after sold the manor, castle, &c., of Bridgewater, to

Henry Harvey, whose eldest son, Henry, inherited, but dying with-

out issue bequeathed it to John Harvey, his uncle. In 1643, two

years before the siege of Bridgewater by the parliamentary forces

under Fairfax, the castle was held in lease of the Harveys by

Edmund Wyndham, the King's governor.

At the time of the siege Bridgewater was a very large and noble

structure, and the government of it in the King's name, was vested

only in persons of the highest eminence and distinction. Its walls,

which in most parts were fifteen feet thick, were mounted by forty

guns, and all its fortifications were regular and strong. The moat

was thirty feet wide and of great depth, and the castle, being

situated on the banks of the Parret, at the distance of only six

miles from the sea, this moat was filled with water at every tide.

But neither the natural strength of its situation, the massive cha-

racter of its fortifications, the completeness of its muniments, nor

the gallantry with which it was defended by Col. Edmund Wynd-

ham, who was then governor, could maintain it unscathed against

the furious assault of Fairfax and his Ironsides. The town and

castle were defended for a considerable time with the utmost.

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bravery ; but great part of the former having been fired by grenades

and hot balls shot by the besiegers and much blood having been

shed among the inhabitants, Colonel Wyndham deemed it judicious

to surrender to Fairfax, July 22nd, 1645. In the town were taken

valuable stores of ammunition, arms, cannon, jewels, plate, and

goods of immense value, which had been sent thither from all the

adjacent parts of the country for security ; the governor having

rashly declared that the castle was impregnable against all the

force that could be brought against it. The greater part of the

valuables were conveyed to London and there sold. The money

thus raised was sufficient for the bestowal of five shillings on each

man engaged in the storming of the place. In the assault and sub-

sequently, the castle was practically destroyed. Only the water-

gate and some other fragments forming the wall of a stable remain

to the present day.

The Castle connects itself with the fate of the unfortunate Duke

of Monmouth. This rash, impolitic, and pusillanimous man has a

most singular and interesting history. He was one of the natural

sons (the first, it is supposed) of Charles II. His mother, Lucy

Waters, was a Welsh girl of great beauty, but of weak understand-

ing and dissolute manners, whom Charles had met at the Hague

while wandering on the Continent. As a result of the intrigue a

son was born. Upon this infant Charles lavished an overflowing

fondness, which in his other relations of life did not seem to be

characteristic of his cool and careless nature. The young favourite,

born of a mother whom Evelyn describes as a" browne, beautiful,

bold, but insipid creature," was taught in France the exercises con-

sidered necessary to a fine gentleman of the time, and was com-

mitted to the care of Lord Crofts, who gave him his own name.

After the Restoration" Mr. James Crofts," as the youth was called,

came to England and was handsomely lodged at Hampton Court

and Whitehall. While still little more than a boy he was married

to Anne Scott, heiress of the noble house of Buccleuch. He took

her name and at the same time entered into possession of her

ample domain. The fortune that is said to drive men mad before

killing them now began to turn his head. Titles and substantial

favours were heaped upon him. He was created Duke of Mon-

mouth, Duke of Buccleuch, Knight of the Garter, &c., &c., as well

as Chancellor of the University of Cambridge. Nor did he appear

an object unworthy of such favour. Eminently handsome in person,

gentle in temper, affable and polite in manners, he gathered gra-

560

dually around him a party of considerable strength. Though him-

self a libertine he had the Puritans on his side. His exploits in

Holland, where, as commander of the English auxiliaries sent to

the Continent, he performed many gallant actions, raised him to

a high place in the opinion of the English people, and on his return

he found himself the most popular man in the kingdom. In 1670

he was put forward as the head of the popular party, and as the

rival of the Duke of York (afterwards James II.). In 1678 the

rumour that the "Protestant Duke," as he was called, was indeed

the King's legitimate son, and therefore the rightful heir to the

throne, became universal and was generally accepted. In 1679 he

was sent into Scotland to quell the rebellion there. He defeated

the Scots at Bothwell Bridge ; but his humanity to the wounded

and to the hunted fugitives was so conspicuous, his requests for

mercy to the prisoners so urgent, that they drew upon him at once

the censures of the King and Lauderdale, and justified the Noncon-

formist party in making him their idol. He now began to dabble

in treacherous schemes, participated in the Rye-house plot, and

was obliged to fly to the Continent, where he remained till the death

of the King, He then embarked for England, and was received

with acclamations at Taunton, where he was proclaimed king

under the title of James II. He marched to Bridgewater, was wel-

comed by the mayor and aldermen, who received him in their

robes, and proclaimed him King at the high cross of the town. He

took up his residence in Bridgewater Castle, while his army lay

encamped on Castle Field. His force, amounting to six thousand

men, was poorly armed, and he attempted to increase his army and

obtain weapons by marching from place to place. Meanwhile the

forces of the government were assembling fast.

Monmouth re-entered Bridgewater on the 2nd July, 16S5. His

forces now consisted of 2500 foot and 600 horse. The King's

forces, under Lord Faversham, consisting of 2500 regular troops

and of 1500 of the Wiltshire militia, now came in sight and pitched

their tents, on Sunday the 5th July, on the plain of Sedgemoor.

Monmouth resolved to attack them by night.

The following graphic account of "the last fight deserving

the name of battle that has been fought on English ground"

is from the pages of England's latest and most brilliant his-

torian :

Monmouth, having observed the disposition of the royal forces at

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and having been apprised of the state in which they were, conceived

that a night attack might be attended with success. He resolved

to run the hazard, and preparations were instantly made.

It was Sunday; and his followers, who had for the most part

been brought up after the Puritan fashion, passed a great part of

the day in religious exercises. The Castle Field in which the

enemy was encamped presented a spectacle such as, since the dis-

banding of Cromwell's soldiers, England had never seen. The

dissenting preachers who had taken arms against Popery, and some

of whom had probably fought in the great Civil War, prayed and

preached in red coats and huge jack-boots, with swords by their

sides. Ferguson was one of those who harangued. He took for

his text the awful imprecation by which the Israelites who dwelt

beyond Jordan cleared themselves from the charge ignorantly

brought against them by their brethren on the other side of the

river. "The Lord God of Gods, the Lord God of Gods, he

knoweth ; and Israel he shall know. If it be in rebellion, or if in

transgression against the Lord, save us not this day."

That an attack was to be made under cover of the night was no

secret in Bridgewater. The town was full of women who had re-

paired thither by hundreds from the surrounding region to see their

husbands, sons, lovers, and brothers once more. There were many

sad partings that day, and many parted never to meet again. The

report of the intended attack came to the ears of a young girl who

was zealous for the King. Though of modest character, she had

the courage to resolve that she would herself bear the intelligence

to Feversham. She stole out of Bridgewater and made her way to

the royal camp. But that camp was not a place where female

innocence could be safe. Even the officers, despising alike the

irregular forces to which they were opposed, and the negligent

general who commanded them, had indulged largely in wine, and

were ready for any excess of licentiousness and cruelty. One of

them seized the unhappy maiden, refused to listen to her errand,

and brutally outraged her. She fled in agonies of rage and shame,

leaving the wicked army to its doom.

The clock struck eleven, and the Duke with his body-guard rode

out of the castle. He was in the frame of mind which befits one

who is about to strike a decisive blow. The very children who

pressed to see him pass, observed, and long remembered, that his

look was sad and full of evil augury. His army marched by a cir-

562

cuitous path near six miles in length, towards the royal encamp-

ment on Sedgemoor. Part of the route is to this day called War

Lane. The foot were led by Monmouth himself. The horse were

confided to Grey, in spite of the remonstrances of some who re-

membered the mishap at Bridport. Orders were given that strict

silence should be preserved, that no drum should be beaten and no

shot fired. The word by which the insurgents were to recognise

one another in the darkness was Soho. It had doubtless been

selected in allusion to Soho Fields in London, where their leader's

palace stood.

At about one on the morning of Monday, the 6th of July, the

rebels were on the open moor. But between them and the enemy

lay three broad rhines (ditches or trenches), filled with water and

soft mud. Two of these, called the Black Ditch and the Langmoor

Rhine, Monmouth knew that he must pass. But, strange to say,

the existence of a trench called the Bussex Rhine, which imme-

diately covered the royal encampment, had not been mentioned to

him by any of his scouts.

The wains which carried the ammunition remained at the en-

trance of the moor. The horse and foot, in a long narrow column,

passed the Black Ditch by a causeway. There was a similar cause-

way across the Langmoor Rhine ; but the guide in the fog missed

his way. There was some delay and some tumult before his error

could be rectified. At length the passage was effected, but in the

confusion a pistol went off. Some men of the Horse Guards, who

were on watch, heard the report, and perceived that a great multi-

tude was advancing through the mist. They fired their car-

bines and galloped off in different directions to give the alarm.

Some hastened to Weston Zoyland, where the cavalry lay. One

trooper spurred to the encampment of the infantry, and cried out

vehemently that the enemy was at hand. The drums of Dumbar-

ton's regiment beat to arms, and the men got fast into their ranks.

It was time, for Monmouth was already drawing up his army for

action. He ordered Grey to lead the way with the cavalry, and

followed himself at the head of the infantry. Grey pushed on till

his progress was unexpectedly arrested by the Bussex Rhine. On

the opposite side of the ditch the King's foot were hastily forming

in order of battle.

" For whom are you ?" called out an officer of the Foot Guards.

"For the king !" replied a voice from the ranks of the rebel cavalry.

" For which king?" was then demanded. The answer was a shout

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of" King Monmouth !" mingled with the war-cry, which forty years

before had been inscribed on the colours of the Parliamentary

regiments," God with us." The royal troops instantly fired such

a volley of musketry as sent the rebel horse flying in all directions.

The world agreed to ascribe this ignominious rout to Grey's pusil-

lanimity. Yet it is by no means clear that Churchill would have

succeded better at the head of men who had never before handled

arms on horseback, and whose horses were unused, not only to

stand fire, but to obey the rein.

A few minutes after the Duke's horse had dispersed themselves

over the moor his infantry came up running fast, and guided

through the gloom by the lighted matches of Dumbarton's

regiment.

Monmouth was startled by finding that a broad and profound

trench lay between him and the camp which he had hoped to sur-

prise. The insurgents halted on the edge of the rhine, and fired.

Part of the royal infantry on the opposite bank returned the fire.

During three-quarters of an hour the roar of the musketry was in-

cessant. The Somersetshire peasants behaved themselves as if

they had been veteran soldiers, save only that they levelled their

pieces too high.

But now the other divisions of the royal army were in motion.

The Life Guards and Blues were pricking fast from Weston

Zoyland, and scattered in an instant some of Grey's horse who had

attempted to rally. The fugitives spread a panic among their

comrades in the rear who had charge of the ammunition. The

waggoners drove off at full speed, and never stopped till they were

many miles from the field of battle. Monmouth had hitherto done

his part like a stout and able warrior. He had been seen on foot,

pike in hand, encouraging his infantry by voice and example. But

he was too well acquainted with military affairs not to know that

all was over. His men had lost the advantage which surprise and

darkness had given them. They were deserted by the horse and

by the ammunition waggons. The King's forces were now united

and in good order. Feversham had been awakened by the firing,

had got out of bed, had adjusted his cravat, had looked at himself

well in the glass, and had come to see what his men were doing,

Meanwhile, what was of much more importance, Churchill had

made an entirely new disposition of the royal infantry. The day

was about to break. The event of a conflict on an open plain, by

broad sunlight, could not be doubtful. Yet Monmouth should

564

have felt that it was not for him to fly, while thousands, whom

affection for him had hurried to destruction, were still fighting

manfully in his cause. But vain hopes and the intense love of life

prevailed. He saw that if he tarried the royal cavalry would soon

intercept his retreat. He mounted and rode from the field.

Yet his foot, though deserted, made a gallant stand. The Life

Guards attacked them on the right, the Blues on the left ; but the

Somersetshire clowns, with their scythes and the butt-ends of their

muskets, faced the royal horse like old soldiers. Oglethorpe made

a vigorous attempt to break them, and was manfully repulsed.

Sarsfield, a brave Irish officer, whose name afterwards attained a

melancholy celebrity, charged on the other flank. His men were

beaten back. He was himself struck to the ground, and lay for a

time as one dead. But the struggle of the hardy rustics could not

last. Their powder and ball were spent. Cries were heard of

" Ammunition ! for God's sake, ammunition !" But no ammunition

was at hand. And now the King's artillery came up. It had been

posted half a mile off, on the high road from Weston Zoyland to

Bridgewater. So defective were then the appointments of an

English army that there would have been much difficulty in

dragging the great guns to the place where the battle was raging,

had not the Bishop of Winchester offered his coach horses and

traces for the purpose. This interference of a Christian prelate in

a matter of blood has, with strange inconsistency, been condemned

by some Whig writers, who can see nothing criminal in the conduct

of the numerous Puritan ministers then in arms against the Govern-

ment. Even when the guns had arrived there was such a want of

gunners that a sergeant of Dumbarton's regiment was forced to

take on himself the management of several pieces. The cannon,

however, though ill served, brought the engagement to a speedy

close. The pikes of the rebel battalions began to shake : the ranks

broke ; the King's cavalry charged again, and bore down everything

before them ; the King's infantry came pouring across the ditch.

Even in that extremity the Mcndip miners stood bravely to their

arms, and sold their lives dearly. But the rout was in a few

minutes complete. Three hundred of the soldiers had been killed

or wounded. Of the rebels more than a thousand lay dead on the

moor.

Meanwhile Monmouth, accompanied by Grey and the German,

Buyer, fled from the field, directing their course to the New Forest,

in Hampshire, in which they hoped to lurk till conveyance to the

565

Continent could be procured. At Cranbourne Castle the strength

of their horses failed them, and the fugitives having obtained the

clothes of common rustics, proceeded thus disguised towards the

New Forest on foot. But a cordon of pursuers was now around?"

them, and was closing upon them every hour. On the morning of

the seventh Grey was taken, and on the morning of the following

day Buyer was taken. The German owned that he had parted

from the Duke only a few hours before. "The corn and copse-

wood," continues Macaulay, " were now beaten with more care than

ever. At length a gaunt figure was discovered hidden in a ditch.

The pursuers sprang on their prey. . . . The prisoners dress

was that of a shepherd ; his beard, prematurely grey, was of several

days' growth. He trembled greatly, and was unable to speak. Even

those who had often seen him were at first in doubt whether this

were truly the brilliant and graceful Monmouth. . . . Nothing

remained but that he should prepare to meet death as became one

who had thought himself not unworthy to wear the crown of

William the Conqueror and of Richard the Lion-hearted, of the

hero of Cressy, and of the hero of Agincourt. . . . But the forti-

tude of Monmouth was not that of the highest sort of fortitude

which is derived from reflection and from self-respect. . . .

His heart sunk within him. Life seemed worth purchasing by any

humiliation ; nor could his mind, always feeble, and now distracted

by terror, perceive that humiliation must degrade, but could not

save him."

As soon as he reached Ringwood he wrote to the King. The

letter was that of a man whom a craven fear had made insensible

to shame. He professed in vehement terms his remorse for his

treason. He affirmed that when he promised his cousins at

the Hague not to raise troubles in England, he had fully meant to

keep his word. Unhappily he had afterwards been seduced from

his allegiance by some horrid people who had heated his mind by

calumnies, and misled him by sophistry. He begged in piteous

terms that he might be admitted to the royal presence. The King

resolved to see Monmouth, but resolved also to show him no mercy.

"To see him and not to spare him was an outrage on humanity

and decency. This outrage the King resolved to commit. The

arms of the prisoner w^ere bound behind him with a silken cord,

and thus secured he was ushered into the presence of the impla-

cable kinsman whom he had wronged."

"Then Monmouth threw himself on the ground, and crawled to

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the King's feet. He wept. He tried to embrace his uncle's knees

with his pinioned arms. He begged for life, only life, life at any

price. He owned that he had been guilty of a great crime, but

tried to throw the blame on others, particularly on Arglye, who

would rather have put his legs into the boots than have saved him-

self by such baseness. By the ties of kindred, by the memory of

the late King, who had been the best and truest of brothers, the

unhappy man adjured James to show some mercy. . . . One

depth of infamy alone remained ; and even to that the prisoner

descended. He was pre-eminently the champion of the Protestant

religion. The interest of that religion had been his plea for con-

spiracy against the government of his father, and for bringing on

his country the miseries of civil war, yet he was not ashamed to

hint that he was inclined to be reconciled to the Church of Rome.

The King eagerly offered him spiritual assistance, but said nothing

of pardon or respite. ' Is there then no hope?' asked Monmouth.

James turned away in silence. Then Monmouth strove to rally his

courage, rose from his knees, and retired with a firmness which he

had not shown since his overthrow."

When, on Monday night, the date appointed for his execution

—the Wednesday morning following — was announced to him, he was

greatly agitated.

"The blood left his cheeks, and it was some time

before he could speak." During the interval between this time and

the fatal morning Monmouth sank into a condition of abject

despair. On the scaffold he presented the executioner, John Ketch,

whose name has been used generically since this period, with a

sum of money. " Do not hack me as you did my Lord Russel,"

said he. "I have heard that you struck him three or four times.

My servant will give you some more gold if you do the work well."

He then undressed, felt the edge of the axe, expressed some fear

that it was not sharp enough, a«d laid his head on the block.

The hangman addressed himself to his office. But he had been

disconcerted by what the Duke had said. The first blow inflicted

only a slight wound. The Duke struggled, rose from the block,

and looked reproachfully at the executioner. The head sank down

once more. The stroke was repeated again and again, but still the

neck was not severed, and the body continued to move. Yells of

rage and horror rose from the crowd. Ketch flung down the axe

with a curse. "I cannot do it," said he, "my heart fails me."

"Take up the axe, man," cried the sheriff.

"Fling him over the rails," roared the mob.

At length the axe was taken up.

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Two more blows extinguished the last remains of life, but a knife was

used to separate the head from the shoulders.

And so the revolting scene — the last scene of a frivolous and

wicked drama — comes to an end.

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