Heaven itself
lent aid to the rebels, for the night brought a thick fog over Sedgemoor
as Monmouth left Bridgwater for the last time. Not a drum beat to the
attack, not a shot was fired; only the word "Soho" was whispered that
men might recognise their friends in the darkness.
Two of the broad trenches which intersected the moor, and where the fog
was thickest, were crossed in silence, but there was a third, protecting
the camp, of which Monmouth knew nothing. The check brought confusion,
and some man in his excitement fired a pistol. The battle had begun, and
although the camp was taken by surprise, and drink made many heavy
sleepers, the drums beat quickly to arms and the peasant warriors had
little advantage. Grey's motley cavalry was scattered in a moment, and
Lord Rosmore, who was amongst those who charged upon them, laughed
aloud. This was a rabble, not an army.
But while darkness lasted the peasants did not lose heart. Monmouth was
in the midst of them, fighting with them, pike in hand. He might know
that the battle was lost, might long for some friendly enemy to deal him
his death blow. His enterprise would fail, but his end would be
glorious.
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