Captain Blood | Page 4

this frenzied fanatical heat of rebellion; why the turbulent spirit which
had forced him once from the sedate academical bonds his father would

have imposed upon him, should now remain quiet in the very midst of
turbulence. You realize how he regarded these men who were rallying
to the banners of liberty - the banners woven by the virgins of Taunton,
the girls from the seminaries of Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrove, who -
as the ballad runs - had ripped open their silk petticoats to make colours
for King Monmouth's army. That Latin line, contemptuously flung after
them as they clattered down the cobbled street, reveals his mind. To
him they were fools rushing in wicked frenzy upon their ruin.
You see, he knew too much about this fellow Monmouth and the pretty
brown slut who had borne him, to be deceived by the legend of
legitimacy, on the strength of which this standard of rebellion had been
raised. He had read the absurd proclamation posted at the Cross at
Bridgewater - as it had been posted also at Taunton and elsewhere -
setting forth that "upon the decease of our Sovereign Lord Charles the
Second, the right of succession to the Crown of England, Scotland,
France, and Ireland, with the dominions and territories thereunto
belonging, did legally descend and devolve upon the most illustrious
and high-born Prince James, Duke of Monmouth, son and heir apparent
to the said King Charles the Second."
It had moved him to laughter, as had the further announcement that
"James Duke of York did first cause the said late King to be poysoned,
and immediately thereupon did usurp and invade the Crown."
He knew not which was the greater lie. For Mr. Blood had spent a third
of his life in the Netherlands, where this same James Scott - who now
proclaimed himself James the Second, by the grace of God, King, et
cetera - first saw the light some six-and-thirty years ago, and he was
acquainted with the story current there of the fellow's real paternity. Far
from being legitimate - by virtue of a pretended secret marriage
between Charles Stuart and Lucy Walter - it was possible that this
Monmouth who now proclaimed himself King of England was not even
the illegitimate child of the late sovereign. What but ruin and disaster
could be the end of this grotesque pretension? How could it be hoped
that England would ever swallow such a Perkin? And it was on his
behalf, to uphold his fantastic claim, that these West Country clods, led

by a few armigerous Whigs, had been seduced into rebellion!
"Quo, quo, scelesti, ruitis?"
He laughed and sighed in one; but the laugh dominated the sigh, for Mr.
Blood was unsympathetic, as are most self-sufficient men; and he was
very self-sufficient; adversity had taught him so to be. A more
tender-hearted man, possessing his vision and his knowledge, might
have found cause for tears in the contemplation of these ardent, simple,
Nonconformist sheep going forth to the shambles - escorted to the
rallying ground on Castle Field by wives and daughters, sweethearts
and mothers, sustained by the delusion that they were to take the field
in defence of Right, of Liberty, and of Religion. For he knew, as all
Bridgewater knew and had known now for some hours, that it was
Monmouth's intention to deliver battle that same night. The Duke was
to lead a surprise attack upon the Royalist army under Feversham that
was now encamped on Sedgemoor. Mr. Blood assumed that Lord
Feversham would be equally well-informed, and if in this assumption
he was wrong, at least he was justified of it. He was not to suppose the
Royalist commander so indifferently skilled in the trade he followed.
Mr. Blood knocked the ashes from his pipe, and drew back to close his
window. As he did so, his glance travelling straight across the street
met at last the glance of those hostile eyes that watched him. There
were two pairs, and they belonged to the Misses Pitt, two amiable,
sentimental maiden ladies who yielded to none in Bridgewater in their
worship of the handsome Monmouth.
Mr. Blood smiled and inclined his head, for he was on friendly terms
with these ladies, one of whom, indeed, had been for a little while his
patient. But there was no response to his greeting. Instead, the eyes
gave him back a stare of cold disdain. The smile on his thin lips grew a
little broader, a little less pleasant. He understood the reason of that
hostility, which had been daily growing in this past week since
Monmouth had come to turn the brains of women of all ages. The
Misses Pitt, he apprehended, contemned him that he, a young and
vigorous man, of a