Kings of the Boyne (15 page)

F
or the fifth time that morning, Gerald checked that Cait’s drawing of their grandfather’s castle was tucked into his breast pocket.

The morning had begun rather unexpectedly as the camp emptied out with thousands leaving for Rossnaree. He and Jacques had stood watching most of the army march away.

Jacques asked him, ‘So, you understand what is happening, yes? James is off to meet William while we stay here minding the smallest village in the world.’

Gerald scrunched up his face. ‘Did you mean to say “minding”? It’s an odd way to describe it. We are
guarding
the ford in front of us.’

His friend shrugged. ‘We are the finest cavalry in Europe. What is “odd” is that we are
not
accompanying your king to help defeat his rival. Did I leave France to sit
here on my backside?’

Moments earlier, Michael and Joseph had passed by on their way to take up position in and around Oldbridge with the infantry battalions. Michael had lifted his scythe in a cheery salute, ‘See you boys later!’

Joseph had given his customary laugh, though he looked as nervous as Gerald felt.

‘It is a bit strange,’ agreed Gerald, ‘watching them all leave but we have a job to do here that is just as important.’

A dog was nosing its way around the various tents. They both watched it as it scrabbled at the ground, wondering how to get inside one. Finally it looked over at them and whimpered.

Jacques declared, ‘No, I will not help you to steal another man’s food!’

The dog whimpered again and looked at Gerald who was packing up the bullets and cartridges of gunpowder that he had made the previous evening. His gun was polished and ready, as was his sword.

Jacques was doing the same but at a much slower rate. He carried on talking to the dog. ‘But you see, I would not wish our awful bread on you. Please believe me when I say that I am saving you from a dreadful fate.’

The dog sniffed the air, while Gerald rolled his eyes. The inferior quality and bland taste of the Jacobite bread was a
favourite topic for the picky Frenchman. As he said himself, ‘Ah,
oui
, how I miss the pastries at home … the lightest dough that is crisp to touch yet melts on your tongue. Gerald, you poor Irish boy! You have no idea of the bounty that awaits you. I will introduce you to pink icing, chocolate croissants and fruity tarts. Trust me, your mouth will water so much that you will have to hold a cup beneath your chin.’

‘I can’t wait!’ muttered Gerald.

Actually he couldn’t. Ever since Jacques regaled him about the beauty of France with its months of sunshine, sandy beaches, Roman ruins and hundreds of grand churches, he was curious to see it, telling his friend, ‘I cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like to live openly as a Catholic in a Catholic country and be able to speak your own language without any fear of punishment.’

It was Jacques’ idea that Gerald follow in his father’s footsteps and take a boat to France; it took the young Irish soldier a while to commit to it aloud. Even the idea of being in the middle of the ocean, onboard one of those magnificent sailing ships, was enough to excite him. This was not to say that he had forgotten about Offaly. He had already warned Jacques that he wanted to go home first before he left it again.

Jacques had understood but told the boy, ‘When you are
standing under your mother’s roof, with her eyes upon you, you may need to remind yourself how big the world is.’

Jacques had never met Mrs O’Connor but suspected that she was a woman of unaccountable will and might. He even offered to go with Gerald to Offaly, for the sake of ensuring that the boy would be free to leave again, although he did not admit this to Gerald. Instead, he said, ‘I would like to visit this famous Offaly and compare her to my town to see then which one is the best.’

Gerald had thought this a splendid idea. He was anxious for Jacques to see his grandfather’s castle, or what was left of it.

This was the first time that he had made a decision about his own life.
I hope Mother and Cait will understand.
He thought they might accept his decision, but he did not hold the same confidence about his teacher. The priest had never said anything, but Gerald had sometimes felt that Father Nicholas nursed a hope that Gerald might follow in his footsteps and join a monastery. Even though Gerald wanted to see France, he could not imagine staying away from Ireland forever.

In the camp, the dog jerked its head up and swerved sharply away from the soldiers’ tent before breaking into a full sprint. Gerald watched it in amusement and turned to make a comment to Jacques who put his hand up to silence
him, whispering, ‘Wait!’

And there it was, a thunderous blast that erupted in the near distance, followed by another and then another and another after that. It was the end of silence; each mighty crash was immediately followed by an echoing one so that there was no pause in the explosions.

Gerald froze and waited to be told what to do. Soldiers spilled out of their tents, including Richard Talbot who looked positively enraged.

One of the infantrymen came running towards them, shouting, ‘They’re firing on Oldbridge – a line of cannons set up on their side of the Boyne!’

‘How many?’ roared Jacques.

‘Don’t know, five or six!’

Richard Talbot took command, placing both hands around his mouth to shout at the messenger, ‘Tell the men to fall back from Oldbridge but not to clear the area! I repeat, they are not to clear the area!’

The man bobbed his head forward and his ‘Yes, sir’ could not be heard by anyone, including himself.

Talbot grabbed the soldier nearest to him and bellowed in his ear: ‘Tell them to move the rest of our cannon into position. We’ll give them as good as we’re getting!’

The man sped off to carry out his order. Talbot swallowed hard as he remembered the king had taken the biggest
and best cannon with him. Well, they were just going to have to make do with what they had.

Meanwhile, down by the riverfront, Michael and Joseph were cowering behind one of the buildings, wondering what on earth they were expected to do. The noise was deafening and they took no comfort from the brick wall that trembled with every cannonball. Joseph’s face was bleeding, though he could not fathom why; he could only taste his blood as it slid into his mouth. He stared in bewilderment at Michael, trusting him to make the necessary decision, whatever it was.

All around them they could see their comrades doing exactly the same thing, keeping their heads down in the shadows of the few houses. Michael, who had absolutely no experience of being trapped by several cannons, did, however, guess that they needed to move out of their range. He’d hardly had the time to appreciate the size of the Williamite artillery but, my God, they looked enormous.

‘We need to move farther back!’

Joseph, who was practically leaning on top of him, looked blankly at his friend, not having heard a single word.

The ground was being pummelled around them with stones and grit flying up into their eyes and mouths.

Michael slapped Joseph’s shoulder and pointed backwards, hoping to attract the attention of the others. He shouted,
‘Move back out of the way. It’s our only chance!’

Joseph thought that was an extremely sensible idea. About twenty feet from where they stood was a narrow trench that he and Michael had helped to dig. Surely it had been built for this very situation. Some of the cannonballs were whizzing past them so they would have to run fast and as far as they could before they would be out of range.

Michael waved his arms around until he had the attention of the fellows at the next building who all began to make the same gesture. Just to be sure, Michael yelled, ‘Move back!’

He held up one fist and stuck up one finger and then two fingers and then three, shouting, ‘Go! Go! Go!’

There was no doubt they needed to move and it made no sense to wait for a break as the guns followed one another up and down the line.

So, the Jacobites, clutching their weapons with clammy hands, had to run while the ground was pelted all around them. They heard musket fire but most of them understood that they were out of range from individual shooters. On reaching the trench, they flung themselves into it, to wait it out or until they received orders to do something else.

About eight of them huddled close together, giddy from their narrow escape. Michael felt rather proud and wondered had he actually saved their lives. Joseph certainly
seemed to think so; he beamed at his friend in gratitude.

One of their companions, who bore a scar down the side of his cheek, was enraged. He shook his head and demanded, ‘Where is James? Did he go back to Dublin – that’s what we heard?’

Joseph shook his head and shouted, ‘He’s gone to Rossnaree.’

Only Michael nodded in agreement but then stopped when he saw the scornful expressions on everyone else’s faces.

‘Yeah,’ said the man with the scar, ‘and you believe that, do you? I’d say he’s run back to Dublin along with those haughty French infantry and their fancy cannon. And we’re the fools for staying put.’

Joseph was shocked to the core and stuttered, ‘No! He couldn’t have.’

And so this conversation might have continued in spite of the explosions, for what else could they do while they waited, except for the fact that Michael suddenly had an urge to check the opposite bank. He couldn’t have explained why but something came over him, prompting him to peek out to see what he could see.

‘Keep your head down!’ warned one of the others.

Michael turned back to his fellow Jacobites in bewilderment. His face had lost its usual colour and his eyes
bulged with horror as if he was still looking at whatever he had seen.

Joseph reached out to him and then stopped, deciding instead to get to his knees and look across the Boyne. They didn’t need to hear him say ‘Oh, my God’ because they could plainly see his lips make those sounds.

Oh, my God.

The cannon kept firing as one by one the soldiers popped their heads up and saw a sight that utterly confused them, each man needing a moment before he could understand what he was looking at, which was this: thousands and thousands and thousands of Williamites were appearing out of the leafy glen and taking up positions all along the banks of the Boyne.

Oh, my God.

Nobody moved. How was this happening? Their sentries had reported hearing the Williamites march away at dawn. Who were these men? How many were they looking at and how many more were there? There seemed to be no end to the rows of colourful jackets pouring out of the glen. And there,
there
was William himself on his black horse looking hale and hearty in his fine regalia. But he should not be there at all because he had gone to Rossnaree which was four miles away.

Or had he?

The sun continued to blaze away while each and every one of those Jacobites only felt a prickly chill that made them tremble.

Michael was the first to react. His mouth was drained of every drop of moisture, therefore his voice sounded scratchy and dull when he said, ‘Someone needs to run back and tell Richard Talbot.’

Joseph looked dazed, only saying, ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand!’

The man with the scar turned and started running even before he had properly got his two feet beneath him.

A few minutes later he was in the middle of a puzzled crowd who tried to understand what he was saying in between taking big gulps of air. ‘The Williamites … they’re not gone, they’re there! Over there!’

Richard Talbot snarled impatiently, ‘What?’

The man took a deep breath. ‘Sir, we’ve just seen thousands of Williamites – too many to count, and William too. They’re all over there.’

His listeners gaped at him and then turned to jog together towards the pathway that led down to Oldbridge, with Talbot calling for his telescope, to which the man with the scar felt desperate enough to say, ‘You won’t need no telescope to see ’em. I promise you that!’

He was right.

Talbot stopped still in shock. Gerald found himself standing next to him and distinctly heard the Lord Lieutenant gasp, ‘Mother of God!’

The scene had continued to unfold since Michael had first registered it because that first battalion of Williamite soldiers, wearing gold and blue, were now walking into the Boyne.

Richard Talbot shook his head as if to deny what was happening. They had made the most dreadful mistake, in actual fact the very worst mistake that any general could make. James had ridden off with most of their army, doing exactly what William had wanted him to do. The Dutchman had played them as if they were puppets in a play he had written.
Why did we assume that it was all of them going to Rossnaree? Why didn’t we check?

Someone else called out, ‘They outnumber us by what … maybe three of them for every one of us?’

There was no reply to this.

Even as they stood there, the Williamites were making their way across the Boyne. Talbot grimly declared, ‘
They’re
the Dutch Blue guards, William’s elite force of professional gun fighters.’

‘Pah!’

More than a few heads turned in the direction of the man who had made such a disrespectful noise.

‘What do you mean by that, soldier?’ Talbot looked ready to thump Jacques simply for the sake of doing something.

Appearing surprised at such an unnecessary question, Jacques gestured towards the occupied Boyne and explained the obvious. ‘It does not matter how good they are with guns that they cannot use while they are in the water.’

Just then there was a volley of fire from somewhere below them that resulted in at least two of the Dutch soldiers dropping with a splash into the water. This was followed by cheering and then more gunfire.

In spite of himself Talbot smiled and then jumped into action. Standing tall, he shouted loud enough to be heard by as many as possible, ‘That’s our side starting the fight. All infantry get yourselves down there and start shooting as if it’s the devil himself who’s coming to get you.’