Kings of the Boyne (20 page)

I
t might be an exaggeration to describe William as being in awe of the Jacobite resistance, but he was certainly astonished at their show of force.

The Boyne, he could plainly see, was causing extreme difficulties for his men that were still engaged in trying to cross it. He could hear their cries and watched helplessly as one man was carried away by the rising tide, his body becoming still and gradually turning over, as if he had suddenly decided to study the riverbed. Meanwhile, whoever wasn’t drowning or fighting to breathe was being shot at by the Jacobite cavalry who had nothing else to do except wait for their approach. It made for painful viewing.

At last, it was time to summon the final battalion, the Danish cavalry, and lead them into the river. It was not going to be easy but he had no choice.
I cannot be seen to lack
in courage or belief in my own victory.

He studied the river and saw it was perilously deep. The water flowed steadily and calmly, as if pretending to the observer that it was not a killer. King William pressed his lips together and continued with the conversation in his head:
Louis built his palace on bog land to show how he can lord it over nature. How I should like to see him take on this river. He’d lose his nerve soon enough

But what if he drowned? That was not a glorious death and, in any case, he did not come here to die.

How Mary would rage if she could see me now.

He had promised his wife he would not take any undue risks and now look at him. The trumpet sounded out and he directed his horse downstream, to make a crossing at some distance from the last one.

Never had the river seemed so wide to him. He would have liked to pick up a rock and fling it into the middle to see how deep it was, but he did not want to intimidate his men any more than they were already. So he simply dug his spurs into the sides of his horse, prompting her to walk in.
That’s the wonderful thing about horses,
he thought.
Once they trust you they will allow you to walk them anywhere. Poor devils! But maybe they are better off. They know nothing about dying.

Within a few short feet, the water reached his knees. It was cold even on such a sunny afternoon as this. Time had
marched on and the hours were adding up. The mare kept her head out of the water as she grunted with the effort of walking against the flow of the Boyne. She shucked her head in frustration, wondering why she could not move at her own speed. Behind her, her fellow horses were experiencing the same confusion. Their riders strained to keep pushing them forward, while some felt it would be easier on the animals if they dismounted and allowed the horse to swim, if it had to, while they hung onto the reins.

With growing alarm William understood that he was in serious trouble. He could not swim so there was no way he would dismount, but his horse was almost at a standstill thanks to the strength of the river. He kicked her sides to keep her moving. Without realising it, he was using his entire body to urge her forward, while trying to resist the current himself. After a few seconds, he was out of breath. A few seconds more and his breathing grew ragged until he could only wheeze. Now his chest ached because his heart was beating so fast and he recognised that his overworked lungs were under attack … in the middle of the River Boyne.
Please, please God, no. I beg you. Don’t let me die like this
. Sprawled over his horse’s neck, he panicked that he might lose consciousness, slip into the water and end up drowning anyway.

There was a buzzing in his ears and the afternoon light
was growing dim. His chin was so close to the water that he could have wetted it without having to move. All he could think about was breathing – such a simple act that most of us never question. He needed to sit up to make it easier to catch his breath, but his exhausted body refused to obey him.

He only became aware that there was a man by his side when he felt himself being dragged from his horse; he was past caring whether he was friend or foe, although, to be sure, it was a relief when he heard a thick accent declare, ‘Don’t you worry, Your Majesty. I’ll have you out in a wee bit.’

William didn’t know what a ‘wee bit’ was, but he didn’t let that bother him. The man, or giant that he was, was using the horse to block the might of the river while carrying his king in reasonable comfort to safety. Goodness only knows how many minutes were involved until his saviour got him and his horse to the southern bank of the Boyne. William was in too much of a daze to thank his saviour, only managing to wheeze out a few words, ‘Wh … who are you?’

‘Samuel McGregor from Enniskillen. Just rest yourself there, Majesty. I need to go and help some of the other lads.’

And off the giant strode, back into the river.

It took some time but the Danish cavalry were finally
across. The water spilled from them and their horses as they nervously checked that their gunpowder and muskets had remained untouched.

William’s breath was returning to normal and he told the men to be ready to fight. How relieved he was that the Boyne was finally behind him.
My God, I did it!

He fully expected a Jacobite attack of some description, but it didn’t happen. As soon as he could, he got back on his horse, a sign that every single soldier was to get on theirs. The battalion was two thousand strong and he prepared to lead them upstream to reinforce the others.

‘Be on your guard,’ he instructed the men nearest to him. ‘We could be ambushed at any time!’

He looked around in vain for Samuel McGregor.
He did exist, didn’t he?

No matter. They had to press on.

And then they heard it, the Jacobite trumpet blasting out the notes to retreat.

‘Follow me!’ William roared as his horse leapt forward, glad to have her four feet back on dry land.

‘J
acques, look!’ yelled Gerald. ‘William’s cavalry! They’re going to cross farther downstream!’

Jacques scanned the bank behind them and could see no spare men to deal with yet another crossing. They were barely coping as it was and that was no mean battalion over there, it looked to be another couple of thousand men who had not been in combat for hours and, therefore, were fighting fit.

Jacques searched the sky for inspiration but got no further than thinking the obvious:
there are too many!

Turning to Gerald, he said, ‘Go back to Oldbridge and tell them. Go on, now!’

Gerald dug his feet into Troy and they took off. Oldbridge was only a mile or so away; maybe Talbot had already noticed that William was preparing to cross. A shot rang
out, but Gerald took no notice; it was only one of thousands he had heard that day. He was certainly not expecting a sudden reaction from Troy who stumbled, pitching forward onto his forelegs while his hind legs were still in motion. The poor animal made a most dreadful noise, like a baby strangled by whooping cough. Gerald slid off him and saw a gash in the middle of Troy’s chest. As Troy gulped for air, blood pumped out of him. Overcome by terror, Gerald merely stared. The horse rocked his head from side to side, trying to shake off the pain and the blindness which was surely falling.

‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do!’

Who was he talking to … poor Troy himself?

The animal was in agony. It was unbearable to watch, and yet Gerald could not move.

A shadow appeared behind him and a second shot was fired but this time from a different rifle. The horse ceased resisting and slumped forward in silence. Gerald turned to find Michael standing there with a musket in his hand and looking mortified at what he had done.

‘I had to, didn’t I? He was dying and it was the only merciful thing to do.’

Stunned, Gerald walked up to the body.

Michael followed him, saying, ‘It isn’t safe here. We’ve got to get moving.’

Gerald got down on his knees and patted Troy’s neck.

‘Where’s Jacques?’ asked Michael, keeping a look out for Williamites.

‘Back there’ was the dull response.

‘All right. Let’s go and get him, shall we? Where are your weapons? You’ll need to take those along.’

Michael leant over Troy to reach for the sword and the musket that had been dropped to the ground. ‘There you go. Is there anything else you need?’

Gerald shook his head. ‘I just stood there and did nothing, like I always do.’

He looked up at Michael. ‘I could see he was in pain and I didn’t do anything. I should have shot him but I was too afraid.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Of course I could do it. He wasn’t mine, was he? I didn’t know him which made it easier. Look, he’s at peace now, but we’re not. We need to get out of here.’

And then they both heard it, the trumpet signalling retreat.

In the next moment, they were part of a huge crowd of battered-looking Jacobites that were on the move. ‘Come on!’ yelled someone. ‘Head for the Hill of Donore. We can make a stand there!’

‘They’re right behind us. Get going!’

That was enough for Michael. He put his hands under Gerald’s shoulders and dragged him upwards. ‘Right, you’re coming with me. If you want, we can come back later for the funeral, but right now I need you to run like you’ve never run before!’

And with that, he pushed Gerald in front of him and then pushed him again and then again until Gerald snapped out of his daze and broke into a jog.

Michael gushed, ‘That’s the spirit, lad! Keep going until we reach the Hill of Donore.’

Those tired Jacobites had quite a run ahead of them. The hill was about two miles away, but if they managed to reach it, the ruin of the church and its wall would afford them some shelter. They had been fighting for hours now, but if the two miles enabled them to stay alive then it would be worth it.

Michael felt that his heart was bursting out of his chest, while his scythe and stolen musket had never felt so heavy. He did his best to keep up with the boy and had to fight the temptation to stop and take off his red coat … and his boots, if it came to it. He’d much rather be running in his bare feet.

The way to the hill lay through a forest and the redcoats disappeared into it, shooting off in all directions. All the while they could hear the triumphant shouts of the Williamites
that were not too far behind them. Michael simply followed Gerald since there was no time to stop and debate the direction they should take. Surely, all that was required was to keep heading south.

As he ran, he repeated their destination to himself:
The Hill of Donore. The Hill of Donore.
In between that, he admonished himself against thinking of anything else. Yes, it was best not to dwell on the perilous fact that they were now being chased by all those thousands upon thousands of Williamites and there was no longer a river between them. What would happen if they were caught?

He was concentrating so hard that he smashed right into Gerald and then was quickly obliged to grab the boy to stop him from falling into a clump of thorny bushes below them. Without realising it, they had run up some sort of mound or slope and there was no way down that did not involve a wild jump that might well break one or both legs before those thorns ripped them to shreds.

Because they were forced to stop running, they suddenly realised that they were in quite a state. Michael said nothing when Gerald collapsed to the ground pleading, ‘Just for a minute. Just let me get my breath back.’

Michael nodded and flopped down beside him, dropping his weapons to wipe his clammy hands against his now filthy coat. He would have to wait until the blood stopped
roaring in his ears to judge how close or far away the Williamites were. He had lost his bearings, but it would be a minute or two before he could care about that. Gerald looked so miserable that Michael was prompted to say, ‘If it’s all right with you and Jacques, I promised Joseph that we’d go to the tavern later.’

Gerald looked at him in bewilderment until Michael winked at him and then, in spite of everything, Gerald dissolved into laughter, shoving the cuff of his coat into his mouth to stop himself from making any noise.

Until then, Michael had all but forgotten about Joseph and was suddenly so overwhelmed with guilt that he could not tell Gerald about sending the boy back to the tents. He put a finger to his lips for silence, and they both listened. There is something magical about a forest, where crowds of people can be swallowed up out of sight, while sounds are magnified but hard to pinpoint exactly where they are coming from.

Gerald could feel his heart thudding against his chest. He strained to decipher the shouts in the distance, wondering where Jacques was.
Will he find Troy’s body and be angry with me?

At least,
thought Michael,
the Williamite cavalry can’t come in here, the forest is too overgrown for horses.
However, they could not stay here. He whispered to Gerald, ‘We need to
get going if we’re to make it to Donore in time.’

‘In time for what?’ asked Gerald.

‘You heard them. We’re making a stand there.’

Just then, they heard a rustle coming from somewhere behind them or was it in front of them? They froze and waited to hear something else and were in no way prepared for the giant shadow that silently swooped just over their heads. Gerald clamped his mouth shut to stifle his scream. It was a hawk and appeared to have vanished in an instant. Michael blessed himself, not caring if it made him look weak in front of the boy.

Gerald shrugged. ‘At least it wasn’t a raven. For a moment I thought it was the banshee.’

His companion groaned. ‘Oh, not you too. Joseph was blathering on about seeing an old woman washing bloodstained shirts in the river. I mean, for God’s sake!’

Gerald blessed himself, and Michael wished he could swallow back his words. The forest was spooking him too; it was like the foliage was reaching for them and he feared that if they did not leave now they would never be allowed to. He stood up and asked Gerald, ‘Well, are you coming?’

The boy only nodded.

How loud their footsteps sounded, as they made their way back down to solid ground. Sunlight pierced the tiniest of cracks in between the trees and Gerald remembered
Father Nicholas telling him that he felt nearer to God in a forest that he did anywhere else. However, this forest was full of Williamites and neither Gerald nor Michael could allow themselves to forget that.

They crept along, wincing at dry twigs that snapped beneath their feet and untangling themselves from branches that snagged their clothes. Michael led the way, while Gerald fought against imagining that he could hear lots of worrying sounds until neither of them could deny it anymore. There were Williamites all around them. They could hear the grunts of running men and shouts in foreign languages. Michael cursed himself silently. They should never have stopped running, now it was too late.

And then, just like that, they stepped out in front of one of the enemy.

It took the Williamite a moment to realise what they were. For a second, no one moved. Then the man smiled unpleasantly as he raised his musket, saying, ‘
Je suis désolé
!’ (‘I am sorry!’)

Gerald felt something tiny hit his hat and glanced upwards to see a grinning Joseph, his mouth bulging with food, sitting on a thick branch in the tree beside them. Michael must have spotted him too because he stared back at the Frenchman while saying, ‘Joseph, stay where you are. Unless you have a musket up there, just stay out of sight.’

‘Are you mad?’ Gerald was baffled. ‘He has to do something or we’re dead!’

The soldier seemed surprised by the sudden burst of conversation. The Jacobites presumed he could not speak English and as long as Joseph kept quiet, he was safe.

Drops of sweat stung Michael’s eyes and he sounded defeated. ‘Leave him be, he can’t do anything. It’s not his fault. His mind … it’s gone.’

‘But we need him!’ said Gerald. ‘You hear that, Joseph, we need you!’

‘
Soyez silencieux
!’

All this talk was making the Williamite edgy. Michael knew if the man shouted out for help they were goners. Therefore, he slowly reached down to place his own musket and sword on the forest floor and then held up his empty hands.

‘Now, Mister Frenchman, you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed soldier, would you?’

Apparently he would. The soldier pulled back the trigger and yelped in surprise as someone rushed out at him, knocked him over and began punching him.

‘Jacques!’ shouted Gerald in heady relief, before being promptly thumped by Michael for making so much noise.

The two Frenchmen were well-matched as they struggled for the upper hand. Keeping his sword at the ready,
Jacques had one free hand to deliver punches. He needed to finish the man off quietly and quickly. The forest was positively crawling with enemy soldiers. Fortunately, they were not actually searching for Jacobites. Instead, they were more concerned with chasing after the retreating army.

Michael focused on trying to get Joseph out of the damned tree, while Gerald wondered how he could help his friend. This was one situation where he would not simply stand and stare. With dagger in hand, he watched the two fighters intently and waited for his moment. Finally it came when the Huguenot rolled over on top of Jacques to pin him to the ground and Gerald was able to plunge his knife into the man’s back. Gerald had meant to stab him a few times; he knew that one stab might not be enough through the man’s bulky coat, but the angle was awkward. What he had not allowed for, however, was that the man would cry out in pain before releasing an anguished yell for help. And yell he did, until Gerald grabbed a rock and smashed it over the man’s head, knocking him unconscious or maybe killing him. He had no idea as he shoved the now-silent body off Jacques.

All he did know was that the man’s shouting had succeeded in attracting his fellow Huguenots. Jacques hissed, ‘They’re coming. We’ve got to get out of here.’

Michael looked up at Joseph, feeling utterly helpless.
‘Please, Joseph, please come down now.’

Joseph merely smiled, and Michael suddenly remembered the magic words: ‘We’re going to the tavern, Joseph. Aren’t you coming with us?’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Gerald.

Jacques had no idea what was going on with Joseph, but he grabbed Michael and began herding him and Gerald away from the excited voices that were calling out for their fallen friend. He would have preferred to cover up the body, but there was no time. The three of them broke into a disjointed run as they climbed over tree trunks and got scraped by brambles, almost losing their hats. To their despair, they found themselves forced to a stop as the brambles thickened and trapped them.

In no time at all they heard exclamations of horror. Jacques whispered, ‘They’ve found him.’

The three of them crouched down. Michael wondered if it was better to split up and take off in three different directions. Jacques listened to the French soldiers and translated, ‘One of them is suggesting that they keep going and come back later for him.’

Gerald was grateful to have Jacques beside him. It was a huge advantage to be able to understand what the enemy soldiers were saying. He and Michael were lucky to have Jacques because if they didn’t, they might do something
unnecessary, not realising that the French soldiers were not going to take the time to avenge their comrade’s murder.

Yes, they were lucky to have Jacques right beside them.

However, neither of them needed Jacques to translate the voice that was speaking now. Instead they just stared at one another in fright as they heard Joseph call out to the Williamites, ‘Look at me, I’m up here. I’m the one who killed your friend!’

Michael jumped up only to be pulled down immediately by the other two. He pleaded with them, ‘He thinks he’s saving us. We have to do something.’

Jacques shook his head, while Gerald put his hands over his ears. If they moved, they were all dead.