Kings of the Boyne (21 page)

‘Ha! I’m not scared anymore!’

Joseph had barely finished before a volley of shots silenced him. The three Jacobites could not look at one another while Jacques leant over to fasten a grip on Michael’s arm, fearing he would make an enraged dash to confront the boy’s killers. They sat there until they could no longer hear the Williamites. Gerald stole a glance at Michael and, on seeing tears running down the man’s face, said, ‘He saved our lives. He was very brave.’

‘No,’ spat Michael. ‘He was bloody stupid!’

Jacques waited a moment before saying, ‘No, it is war that is stupid.’

He and Michael stared at one another for a moment or two before Michael quietly agreed, ‘Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right. War is stupid.’

He held out his hand to Jacques who gave it a firm shake. Gerald looked from one to the other, not understanding what was going on.

‘I wish you all the best, my friend. Gerald, say goodbye to Michael. He’s going home.’

‘What? Really?’ asked Gerald, not wanting to cause a fuss but needing an explanation all the same.

Michael took Gerald’s pre-offered hand. ‘I must go back to my wife and children. If I die, they will be turned out of the house to starve. It’s funny. I did not really consider the possibility of being killed until Joseph … anyway, my family cannot afford to lose me. I’m all they have.’

Jacques warned him to leave immediately, saying, ‘You could take the Williamite’s coat; it might keep you safe if you run into any of them.’

Michael smiled sadly and shook his head; he did not want to see Joseph who was probably lying mere feet away from the French soldier. ‘Good luck, you two. I better get going in case they come back. Stay safe!’

The two friends walked for a minute or two in silence until Jacques asked, ‘You don’t agree with him leaving?’

Gerald found it a difficult question to answer. ‘I don’t
know … maybe. Isn’t it like giving up, or being a coward?’

He felt guilty talking like this. ‘But he’s no coward. He looked after me earlier, and he tried to look after Joseph.’

Jacques nodded. ‘True and why should his family suffer for King James? Sometimes courage is knowing when to stop.’

I
t had been a long day and it was not over yet. The Jacobites ran the two miles from Oldbridge, and when they had done that they had to run up the hill of Donore itself. And when they had done that they had to fight an army that was four or five times the size of theirs and right in front of them.

But fight they did.

William was on the ground in the midst of his men, using swords, pistols and then his fists. His clothes were still damp from the Boyne, but he sensed that they were almost done and this helped him to ignore his nagging hunger and exhaustion. Those Jacobites were battling to survive and this lent them a great spirit born out of desperation.

Once again, the noise from the muskets was tumultuous, and the billowing smoke was blinding. Red coats mingled
with blood and each other. By this stage, those tiny sprigs of Williamite greenery and bits of Jacobite white paper had just about disappeared from sight, thereby rendering the conditions as treacherous as they could be.

Having just finished off a Jacobite, William was looking about for his next victim when he became aware of a big man who was quickly bearing down on him. The man, who had recently lost thirty of his comrades, had become maddened with grief and rage. He searched and found a redcoat to take his revenge upon. With his sword and bayoneted rifle raised in each hand, he bellowed out some sort of battle-cry and drew himself up to his full height, intending to cut the Papist into several pieces. Just at the last moment, William found his voice. ‘What are you doing Samuel McGregor? Are you angry with me now?’

The man froze, appalled as he recognised the man he had carried out of the Boyne. ‘Sire! My God, forgive me!’

William forgave him immediately. ‘Go find another redcoat to take care of and be sure that he’s your foe not your friend!’

Samuel disappeared, leaving William to reflect on what might have happened had he not noticed the man in time to stop him.
Imagine to have survived this far and then be murdered by one of my own.

The smell of blood was everywhere, and men were dying
in their hundreds on both sides. Because the fighting was up close it was especially brutal and vicious. The closer you are to a man, the more complicated it is to extinguish his life. Therefore, the soldier is forced to be creative and determined. Skulls were smashed, throats were impaled and arms were snapped in two.

William allowed himself to back away from the ruins of the old church, which was the hub of the battle, and be escorted to his horse by a variety of Europeans. Time was marching on, and still those Jacobites stood their ground.

Earlier, Meinhard Schomberg had sent a messenger to describe his situation, being stuck a mile away from James and unable to get near him. William had ordered the duke’s son to stay put and keep trying to find a way through. If the worst came to the worst and it was impossible to get at them, then at least Meinhard was keeping James and the best part of his army tied up. Thinking about Meinhard reminded William that the general would have to be told about his father.

William was genuinely surprised that his father-in-law did not make an appearance or send some men back to reinforce his battalions at Oldbridge.
The old man makes it easy for me and also spares me the awkwardness of having to capture him … or worse.

A messenger approached and told him that James and a
large convoy were already on the road to Dublin, although the narrow bridge at Duleek had slowed them up terribly. Immediately, William was asked what he wanted to do. ‘We could easily catch up with him, sire?’

William surveyed the scene around him and pitied these misguided men fighting for a king who was no more. He guessed that James was returning to Dublin to board a ship to France. A mere dip of his head and his men would be off to Duleek. William, however, resisted this.
What would that solve? Yes, I could have James brought back to London in chains and imprisoned for the rest of his life, but … what if he actually died in prison? He might become a martyr. The English are so fickle.

William also imagined that James, if given half the chance, might repent his former behaviour and apologise for trying to force his religion upon them.
I must be careful.
I cannot allow James to play the underdog to make people feel sorry for him. No, best let him go. Nobody would wish to champion a coward
.

He told his men, ‘James is no longer a threat to us. Let him flee back to Louis. He is done.’

His men looked at one another in surprise, but William ignored them. Later on, he would write in his diary:
once a leader makes a decision he moves on.

He called for his pistol and prepared to move towards the church once more.
These stubborn fellows will have to be told 
that James has given up on them and I am now their king, whether they like it or not.

He wanted to get back to fighting, to prove his mettle in front of the Jacobites as well as his own men. His secretary tried to dissuade him, ‘But, Your Majesty, your army is winning. There is no need to exhaust yourself further.

William smiled. ‘I will stop when it is obvious to me that I should.’

His bodyguards followed him on horseback up the hill, and William looked around for a suitable target. He could see no sign of the Irish and French commanders.
We are dealing with a headless monster that is backed into a corner. It cannot last much longer.

The hill was crawling with his men. They had more or less surrounded the church ruins, and William could see that a trickle of them had climbed the walls to get at the enemy. He wondered about making a dramatic gesture. Surely his horse could jump that wall, with his bodyguards following, and that might rattle the last nerves of the Jacobites.

As he considered this, there was the most dreadful sound beside him. Actually, he thought the noise was somehow
on
him. His horse reared up momentarily, and William assumed the animal’s ears were ringing just like his own. He experienced the odd sensation of believing that his left leg had been torn from him, though done so fast that he
had no time to feel pain.

Some of his men were talking to him, shouting at him, asking if he were all right, but he could not hear a single word. He felt slightly precarious sitting on his horse, feeling that his balance was being interfered with. He wished that someone would inspect his leg and confirm to him that though it was gone, he would be all right. Losing a leg might help the English warm to him.

Then one of his men was standing to his left and holding up something small in his hand. Clearly, he wanted His Majesty’s attention. William was in a daze but looked anyway.
What on earth is that, a piece of wood? Why, it looks like … a … heel.
His soldiers were pointing and laughing in relief. William looked down and found that his leg was exactly where he had left it, but the heel of his favourite boot had been blown off.

While the ringing in his ears continued he could not hear the roar of battle and it was a welcome break from the noise. William took the time to check the state of the day; the sun had begun its evening shift. He felt bone weary and was sure all the men on the hill, both Catholics and Protestants, felt the exact same way.

Eventually the break came. William saw it happen. First, it was just a handful of Jacobites who had had enough. They simply jumped over the wall and began to run in the direction
of Duleek. Next, it was a few more – up over that wall and away they went. Then that tentative trickle turned into an avalanche of Jacobites dropping their weapons and taking off after their comrades.

William watched them go and did not envy them:
they have another long run ahead of them.

In his deafness he fancied that he could hear the clanging of a bell; maybe it was the now-absent church bell ringing out from the distant past. William smiled to himself.
This place is trying to bewitch me.

He had told his secretary that he would only stop when it was obvious. Now, encased by silence, he agreed.
It is enough.

S
everal hours later, in Dublin, James Stuart is a very weary man. Exhausted from his long day, his nose bright red from spending so many hours sitting in the sun, all he wants to do is lie down and pull the covers over his head, but that is impossible. Protocol requires him to get dressed and ready for the evening ahead with his hosts and their guests. It may prove as treacherous as the battle, but he can see no way out of it.

At long last, his return ship is booked, and he is more than eager to step off Irish soil. If there is one thing he knows for certain, it is this: he will never ever return to Ireland and that one thought makes him happy, in spite of everything else.

He knows he has outstayed his welcome, especially after today. No doubt, because of that disastrous battle, this evening is going to be a struggle.
I don’t care. I don’t care about any of them!

The gong is sounded for dinner.
Well,
he thinks,
I am rather hungry and the food is good. It is just the company that might prove tiresome.

As he heads downstairs, he tells himself to ignore any ill feeling,
just think about getting on that ship tomorrow.

He enters the dining room and senses that he has interrupted a conversation of which he was the starring topic. Heads are bowed momentarily, and he coolly returns the brief nods of acknowledgement. The servants are holding out the chairs, and he takes his, reaching gratefully for the glass of red wine. The cutlery twinkles in the candlelight, and his nose twitches from the heavy perfume that his neighbour has doused herself in.

James looks around but avoids catching anyone’s eye.
Cowards! Why don’t they just say what they are thinking?
The first course is served, oysters in wine. James concentrates on his food, too annoyed to make conversation.

There is some attempt to discuss the weather and this and that, but it is understandably difficult to ignore what has happened. His dinner companions know that he leaves in a few hours and expect never to see him again.

Finally, Lady Talbot launches herself superbly. ‘Were you very hungry, My Lord?’

Irritated by the insincerity of her question, James replies unwisely, ‘I am surprised I can eat at all after the day I have had.’

There, let her think upon that! They can all sit here and judge me, but what do any of them know about battle?

The longer he sits, the angrier he becomes at his hosts and their friends, and their accents and … well,
all
Irishmen. Oh, how they love to drink whiskey in copious amounts and tell sensational stories or sing dreary ballads with far too many verses. But they are fools, and he has been wrong to imagine that he could have benefitted from their help. He knows full well what has gone wrong today, and he doesn’t see why he should sit there and feign politeness. He lifts his glass of wine as if to raise a toast and then says, ‘Madam, your countrymen run very fast.’

She takes a sip of wine, to draw out the moment and ensure that everyone was listening, before saying, ‘Maybe so, sire, but you won the race.’

T
wo tired soldiers, bruised and aching, finally reached their destination. It was not Offaly, not just yet.

Paris plodded along beside them, looking unimpressed with his surroundings.

‘There’s Trim Castle,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s a lot bigger than I thought.’

Jacques was studying the river as if it was an old friend he had not seen in a while. He asked, ‘And this is still the River Boyne? Is it coming with us to Offaly, do you think?’

Gerald shrugged. ‘There is an old saying, something about never being able to step into the same river twice.’

His companion raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean that everything changes all the time. A river can only flow forward. There is no going back.’

Instinctively they glanced at the bundle lying across Paris’s back.

Jacques was unsure about this, but Gerald had insisted, ‘It’s the right thing to do and we owe him.’

An old man pointed out the house to them. Jacques took a firm grip of Paris’s reigns as he felt his courage evaporate. He glanced at Gerald who muttered, ‘If it wasn’t for him …’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Jacques. Nancy had told him the very same thing before they left Drogheda.

Gerald offered, ‘Maybe they won’t be in and we can just leave him with a neighbour.’ He felt queasy and his mouth was dry.

As they approached the house, two red-headed children, a boy and a girl, were in the doorway slapping one another on the arm while a third red-head shrilled, ‘Faster! Faster!’

They fell silent as, one by one, they felt themselves being watched. In spite of his nervousness, Jacques had to smile as he found himself faced with three miniature Josephs, complete with freckles and big teeth, who stared open-mouthed at Paris until the youngest demanded, ‘What’s his name?’

Jacques replied, ‘He is Paris.’

The girl scrunched up her nose and stated, ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’

Unable to come up with a better response, Jacques said, ‘He is a strange horse!’

It was only now that she caught his accent. Giving him a cool look, she asked, ‘Where do you come from?’

Glancing helplessly at Gerald, Jacques confessed, ‘I am from France.’

When the children said nothing to this, Jacques felt it necessary to add, ‘It is a most wonderful place many miles from here.’

The girl conferred with her brother who informed her, ‘It’s probably in Dublin. All the best places are!’

Jacques opened his mouth to take umbrage at this, but Gerald was anxious to press on and asked, ‘Is your mother or father about?’

The youngest of the three siblings turned his head into the house and bawled, ‘Mama!’

Joseph’s mother appeared at the door, fixing her hair into place and finding herself transfixed at the sight that greeted her: two soldiers, one taller than the other, in rumpled uniforms, standing beside a massive, black horse. Meanwhile, Gerald and Jacques had expected to meet a red-haired woman with freckles and bucked teeth and instead found themselves rather shocked by the woman’s beauty. Her hair was as black and sleek as a raven’s wing, her skin clear while her teeth could not be seen until she smiled.

Horribly conscious of the children’s eyes upon him, Gerald stumbled with his words. ‘Mrs O’Leary. We knew …
I mean, we were … are … friends of Joseph.’

She spied the bundle on Paris and guessed the truth from their stricken expressions. ‘Yes, I see.’

The two soldiers stared at the ground, waiting on her instructions.

There was silence until the little girl asked, ‘What’s wrong, Mama?’

She ignored the question, only saying, ‘Take your brothers and run to Mrs Murray. Ask her for some jam. Tell her I’ve got visitors.’

The three children tore off up the street, the little one falling behind and roaring, ‘Wait for me!’

Their mother looked after them in a daze, prompting Jacques to ask, ‘Are you all right, Madame? Is your husband nearby? Can I fetch him for you?’

‘No. He’s working above the estate and won’t be back until late.’

She beckoned them to bring Joseph inside, turning away as they lifted him free of Paris. Gerald tied the horse’s reins to a nearby fence while Jacques stopped in front of Joseph’s mother, her son in his arms, waiting for her to lead the way.

She reached out to touch the blankets that hid her boy from sight but then changed her mind. ‘There is a cot in here.’

Jacques laid Joseph on the narrow bed and followed her
to the small kitchen, where the fire was lit to heat the soup that was bubbling in the cauldron.

‘I was just making the children’s dinner.’

Gerald came in and looked as uncomfortable as Jacques felt.

She ushered them to the table and bade them to sit down, saying, ‘You’ll have something to eat and drink.’

They would have preferred to make their excuses and leave but did not know how to refuse her.

Exchanging brief looks, they sat down, careful not to scrape the legs of the stools against the stone floor.

The house was small but pleasant thanks to the flowers that decorated the room and lent it their perfume. One picture adorned the wall, a stark portrait of a dog. It was sitting up with its two front paws pressed together as if in prayer.

Mrs O’Leary saw Gerald gazing at it and said, ‘Joseph drew it for me. Finn was his best friend until he died last year. Joseph was heartbroken …’

Her voice cracked, and Gerald felt it was dawning on her that Joseph was gone forever too, just like Finn.

The silence was unbearable. Gerald waited for her to ask what had happened. Why were they sitting at her table while her precious son was at rest in the shadows?

‘We’re sorry!’

It was a whisper, but she heard it.

She set down two plates and sighed. ‘Last night I dreamt the front door opened, and I heard him walk around this very room. I guessed he was saying goodbye.’

Gerald hoped that this was true. They had left Joseph in the forest overnight because Jacques judged that it might not be safe to collect his body until morning. But it was not an easy decision to make, to leave him there all alone. However, if Joseph’s ghost had visited his home then surely that meant he wasn’t scared and lonely.
Oh, please forgive us, Joseph, we were afraid. But we came back for you, didn’t we?

Jacques watched Mrs O’Leary cut the bread and paid Joseph the highest compliment he knew. ‘He was a brave soldier. You can be very proud of him.’

Gerald quickly added, ‘He saved our lives and another man too. He saved the three of us.’

Mrs O’Leary seemed unmoved by this incredible truth but appreciated their kindness, their good intentions. She told them, ‘His father sent him off to join the army.’

Sensing that she wanted someone to blame, Gerald said quietly, ‘But we all were there on the orders or wishes of someone else.’

She looked at Gerald, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘And who sent you off to fight?’

Gerald was honest in his appraisal. ‘My parents, I suppose,
and my tutor Father Nicholas. There have always been soldiers in our family who have fought for Ireland. It was time for me to do my part.’

Mrs O’Leary sat down, forgetting to attend to the soup. ‘And how was it? Did you get to do your part?’

Gerald thought for a moment but then shook his head, unable to sum up the previous day in a few words. He had killed many men over those eight hours. Their blood was all over his clothes. He could still hear the screams and the gunfire – in particular the bullet that felled Troy and the terrifying volley that silenced Joseph forever. And he struggled to make sense of it all. Their defeat had been brutal, while the man, their chosen king, who was going to change their world, had stayed away, knowing that they would be overwhelmed. It was a wonder that there were not lots more bodies. It was a miracle.

‘It could have been worse,’ said Gerald to nobody in particular.

‘Actually I might like to leave Ireland. At least that’s what I think now.’ There was something about the little kitchen that provoked him to blurt this out. He felt tired and empty. His various cuts stung, and he longed to take off the bloodied uniform. How long had it been since he sat at a table? Of course it reminded him of home, though maybe he felt freer here. Mrs O’Leary was gentle and calm and accepting
… so different from his mother who never stopped pushing him. He envied Joseph and then felt guilty for being alive but only for a second or two. Poor Joseph!

Jacques checked Joseph’s mother to see if she was offended by this sudden confession. He put his hand on Gerald’s arm to remind him where they were. To his surprise, however, Mrs O’Leary was immediately interested and asked the boy, ‘Why now?’

Gerald spoke slowly. ‘Well, I think they may be disappointed with me. I was meant to be returning in triumph.’

It was somewhat insensitive but Mrs O’Leary let it slide. She could have reminded him that, unlike her son, Gerald would not be coming home wrapped in blankets, and his mother should be grateful for that no matter what.

The boy picked at the dirt beneath his nails, oblivious to the tear that meandered down his cheek. His voice was low. ‘I tried my best, I really did. I was scared and then that happened to Joseph, and Michael left. And my horse was killed. And I couldn’t save him.’

Gerald had refused to think about Troy until now. How had he stood there and watched him strain in agony? He even thought of that girl swinging from the tree, though he could barely remember her features now.

‘But it might not be enough for them. I might never be enough for them. I cannot make everything go back to
how it was. I’m not my grandfather and I’ve never lived in a castle.’

Here, he looked up at them in surprise as something occurred to him. ‘I don’t even want to live in a castle. Is that wrong?’

Mrs O’Leary gave him a watery smile.

‘I can’t … I can’t …’

Jacques tried to get his attention, but Gerald was temporarily lost to him as he sought for the right words and then found them. ‘I can’t hate like them. I just can’t.’

Gerald pleaded with his listeners, ‘But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love Ireland. It’s just that I want to know more about the world beyond ruined graves and broken bricks.’

Mrs O’Leary stood up and fetched two bowls. She began to ladle the soup first into one bowl and then into a second one.

Placing the bowls in front of them, she spoke slowly, as if she, like Gerald, was reaching for how she truly felt. ‘Lately I have wondered whether it matters to God if someone is a Catholic or a Protestant. What’s in a name when all is said and done?’

Eager to join in, Jacques said, ‘Yes, I know what you mean. My king likes to be called the “Sun King”. When he was younger he dressed up as the sun for a party and loved his costume so much that he continues to this day to think
of himself as the sun.’

Gerald and Mrs O’Leary waited politely for the Frenchman to make his point.

Jacques glanced from one to the other and murmured, ‘I just wish I had his confidence.’