Edward Marston - Fire and Sword

He was still on his knees when he heard the excited voices of children. Daniel looked up to see a small boy being chased by an even smaller girl. They were running through the churchyard with such joyful irreverence that he was mildly shocked for a moment. He rose to admonish them but their father saved him the trouble. Calling the children over to him, he told them to play on the village green instead. As they raced off happily again, Daniel crossed over to the newcomer.

‘Is that you, Martin?’ he asked, peering intently at him.

‘Indeed, it is,’ replied Martin Rye with a surprised grin. ‘And unless my eyes fail me, I’m talking to Dan Rawson.’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ They shook hands warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again after all this time. You’re a married man now, I see.’

‘I’ve two lovely children to show for it. I couldn’t bring myself to punish them just now. After all, when we were their age, we used to play games here in the churchyard.’

Daniel smiled. ‘The verger chased us away many a time.’

It was over twenty years since he’d seen his old friend. Martin Rye was a boy from the village who’d worked on the Rawson farm for a short while. He’d grown up to be tall and sturdy. Apart from memories of childhood fun together, they shared something else. When the Monmouth rebellion had been crushed at Sedgemoor, Nathan Rawson had been a captain in the defeated army. Rye had two brothers who’d also responded to the call to arms and fought on the losing side. All three of them had been condemned to death at the Bloody Assizes.

‘I know what brought you here, Dan,’ said Rye with envy. ‘When your father was hanged, you cut down his body so that it could lie here in the churchyard.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘I wish we could have rescued my brothers but Will and Arthur had already been tossed into a common grave with all the other poor wretches who danced on the gallows that day.’

‘We were lucky enough to reach my father in time. We brought him here in the dead of night and buried him under the bushes where nobody could find him. It was many years later,’ recalled Daniel, ‘that I was able to dig up the body and see that it had a proper Christian burial.’ He touched Rye’s arm. ‘I’m sorry that your brothers don’t lie in consecrated ground as well. They were brave lads.’ He stood back to look his friend up and down. ‘You’ve filled out since we last met. What are you doing with yourself now?’

‘I’ve taken over the forge from my uncle. Being a blacksmith is hard work but I’ve never been one to shy away from that. What about you, Dan?’ he went on. ‘When I heard you’d fled to Holland with your mother, I thought you’d find a farm there.’

‘I chose to follow the drum instead.’

‘I can see that from your uniform. What regiment are you in?’

‘The 24^th Foot,’ said Daniel, ‘with the rank of captain.’

Rye was impressed. ‘You’ve done well for yourself.’

‘Soldiering is a dangerous occupation, Martin. I’d feel a lot safer if I was a blacksmith like you.’

‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ said the other with a laugh. ‘I’ve got burns all over my arms and horses can give you a nasty kick if they don’t want to be shoed.’

‘At least you don’t have someone trying to kill you every time you go into battle.’

‘That’s true. I’d hate that. How do you put up with it?’

‘You learn to survive.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Too many soldiers’ wives end up as widows.’

‘There’s always that risk,’ admitted Daniel, thinking wistfully of Amalia Janssen. ‘Casualties are often very high. It’s something you have to live with, Martin.’

‘I could never do that.’

‘It’s surprising what you can do when you’re put to the test.’

‘I like my life as it is, Dan.’

There was an endearing simplicity about Martin Rye. He was a big, strong, healthy man in his thirties with limited needs and narrow horizons. The village provided him with everything he wanted and he’d never dream of moving away from it. Had he stayed on the family farm, Daniel mused, he’d probably have grown up to be like his friend and to enjoy a stable existence in the rural tranquillity of Somerset. He’d have employed Rye to shoe the farm horses and drunk with him from time to time in the village tavern. It was a tempting prospect but well beyond his reach now.

‘Why do you serve in the British army?’ asked Rye. ‘I heard that you and your mother had fled to Amsterdam.’

‘That’s exactly what we did.’

‘So why didn’t you join the Dutch army?’

‘I served in it for years when King William was on the throne,’ said Daniel, ‘before deciding to wear a redcoat instead. British and Dutch armies fight side by side now.’

‘Have you fought in many battles?’

‘My whole life has been marked out by battles and sieges.’

‘What about Blenheim?’

‘I was there, Martin.’

Rye whistled in admiration. ‘Were you — what was it like?’

‘If you want the truth, it was desperate.’

‘Yet you don’t have a scratch on you.’

‘I was lucky,’ said Daniel, modestly.

‘We heard so many tales about Blenheim,’ said Rye. ‘The French were well and truly whipped that day. You’re a hero, Dan Rawson. What a wonderful thing to be able to tell your grandchildren — that you fought at Blenheim.’

‘In its own way, Ramillies was an even greater triumph. We beat the French into the ground and lost fewer of our men. I had a much better view of that battle,’ Daniel continued, ‘because I had the honour of serving on the Duke of Marlborough’s personal staff.’

Rye’s manner changed at once. ‘Don’t mention the name of that bastard!’ he said, vehemently.

‘But he was our captain general.’

‘Yes, Dan, and he was also one of the leaders of the army that mowed down the rebels at Sedgemoor. Because of him, and other cruel devils like him, my brothers ended up with a rope around their necks and so did your father.’

‘That’s all in the past, Martin.’

‘Is it?’ demanded the other with passion. ‘Then what are you doing here? Why are you still tending your father’s grave after all these years?’

‘It’s a duty. I’m proud of what my father did.’

‘You’re no more proud of him than I am of Will and Arthur. Before he became a farmer, your father was a trained soldier. He had proper weapons and knew how to use them. My brothers were raw lads with fire in their veins and a pitchfork in their hands. They stood no chance against that monster, Marlborough, and his army.’

‘He wasn’t a duke at the time of Sedgemoor,’ corrected Daniel. ‘He was John, Lord Churchill with the rank of major general and he wasn’t in overall command.’

‘What difference does it make?’ snarled Rye. ‘He was one of them. That’s all that matters. I detest him for what he did.’

‘He wasn’t directly responsible for the deaths of your brothers.’

‘Why are you defending him?’

‘Because I’ve had the advantage of getting to know His Grace,’ said Daniel, proudly. ‘In my opinion, he’s the finest soldier alive.’

‘Well, I think he’s a barefaced traitor.’

‘That’s absurd.’

‘I’m not stupid, Dan,’ said Rye, tapping his chest. ‘You may think we’re cut off down here in this little village but we get to hear things and we remember them. When the Duke or Lord Churchill or whatever you want to call him beat the rebels on that bloodthirsty day, he did so in the name of King James. Am I right or wrong?’

‘You’re quite right, Martin.’