by Angus Donald
‘If I’m not himself, if I am some bold impostor pretending to be the great and terrible Galloping Hogan, is the big man there going to shoot me down? With two score of my friends outside this very door? I don’t see you as stupid enough to try that. So what will ye do? If I’m not Hogan. I’m just a little curious, you understand? What can ye do?’
Guillaume du Clos made a growling noise in the back of his throat.
‘And I’ve another question for the pair of you.’ The raparee seemed at ease; he lolled in his chair, the heavy, half-full pewter tankard held low in his right hand like a threat. ‘That wagon out there – that would be the load of new muskets that was long promised by Sarsfield, arms for Hogan’s men, a mark of gratitude for the Galloper’s loyal service to His Majesty King James. Arms for Captain Hogan to continue his glorious struggle against William, the cheese-muncher-in-chief, and all his English lackeys. Would that be about right, monsieur?’
The silence in the room was as heavy as a death sentence.
‘You’ve come all the way out here to make some kind of a deal. That’s plain. Why else would you travel nearly eighty miles in the rain on terrible roads to this shit-hole of a town to have a drink with the likes of me? You want something from me. Plainly. You’ve come to buy something. But I’d like to know what would you do if I were to take the guns away from you and give you nothing in return? To simply lift them. What would you do if I were to tell my men to hitch up that wagon and ride away into the bogs?’
‘Perhaps we have made a mistake in coming here,’ said Henri. ‘I apologise for having wasted your time. We shall now take our leave of you.’
‘Answer my question and I will answer yours,’ said the raparee.
Henri stood up, pushing back his chair. ‘You could steal from us – that is certainly a possibility. But, if we survived the encounter, I should make it my sole business with all the considerable power at my disposal to hunt you down like a rabid dog and have you flayed alive for your impertinence. You could attempt to kill us now; that is also true. But you would surely die in that exchange – Guillaume would make sure of that. And if by some miracle you did not expire, I have colleagues – very dangerous, very dedicated and clever men – who would investigate the matter thoroughly and they would come for you in due course. Then you would pay the full price.’
Henri leaned forward on the table resting the knuckles of his good hand on the boards and pushing his face towards the lounging raparee. ‘You should also comprehend, Master Whatever-Your-Name-Is, that I am very well beloved by His Majesty King Louis XIV of France and he would never let my murder go unavenged. The Sun King would have you taken up, even here in the damp depths of your land, and brought before him in Versailles in chains. Then his torturers would begin their long, slow work. Now, sir, I believe we shall take our wagon and depart. I do not think there is anything more of value to be said between us.’
‘Esmerelda,’ said Hogan. ‘Her name was Esmerelda and she was no pretty young maid, she was forty if she was a day and ugly as a bucket of warts. But she was a jolly soul and a game old lass, I’ll give her that. She took on young Sarfield after a rollicking supper in the White Horse and wore him down to the nub, then she bedded me too. Game as a champion rooster, that one. We had a magical evening last year in Borrisokane, I can tell you that, monsieur. A grand night. And you can remind Paddy Sarsfield, when you see that fine Irish gentleman, that he still owes me that three shillings and six for the night’s reckoning!’
*
The landlord John Gaffney was roused by one of Hogan’s men, a massively bearded, silent fellow named Gallagher, and he brought over brandy and ale to the table – the Frenchmen refusing to drink any more of his wine. Gallagher departed back out to the rain and the three men seated by the fire now displayed all the signs of being perfectly at ease in each other’s company, almost like old friends, although Guillaume du Clos had a certain alertness to his powerful frame that even three large cups of brandy could not entirely dissolve.
‘There are four dozen new cavalry fusils, what you call in English flintlock carbines, packed in pinewood chests out there under the tarpaulin, Mister Hogan,’ said Henri. ‘As you had correctly guessed. They are a gift from the King of France to you, coming straight from the royal arms manufactory in Saint-Etienne. There are also quantities of powder, shot, ball, flint and wadding and so on, to go with these muskets. There are two dozen pistols – not new, I am afraid, but clean and well cared for, fully serviceable and personally checked over by King James’s quartermaster in Dublin. With ball and powder to match. There are also two dozen swords and a bundle of twenty half-pikes.’
‘The King of France is most generous,’ said Hogan with a mischievous smile, ‘and what does he wish in return for his magnificent largesse?’
‘He wishes you to prosecute the war against the Dutch usurper with all vigour.’
‘With all vigour, eh? Yes, I think I can manage that. I’ve fought Dutchmen before. In ’72 and ’73, with your own brave compatriots, as it happens, in the Low Countries. I imagine you would be too young to remember that war.’
‘Ah, is that so? I did not realise that you had military experience.’
‘Then what is it that you think I have been playing at this past year?’
‘I understood, monsieur, that you and your men have been operating mostly in County Tipperary, and in and around the city of Limerick, doing dirty but necessary work, attacking the undefended farms of traitors to King James, burning crops, confiscating goods from travellers, hunting down and hanging our Protestant enemies but . . . it is most excellent news that you have fought with regular troops, in more, shall we say, conventional fields of honour.’
There was a long, prickly pause. ‘I am an Irish patriot, monsieur. I will fight the enemies of my people in any way that I can. And always with the utmost vigour. So, apart from that, what else does the King of France require?’
‘He requires that you consider yourself in my debt for his magnificent generosity. It may be that the time will come when I shall require a service from you. A favour, yes? But apart from that, well . . . no, no, it would not be right for a humble government functionary such as myself to advise such a seasoned campaigner on battlefield strategy, nor on his chosen theatre of operations.’
‘But I have a suspicion that you are going to advise me, aren’t you? Just as you humbly advise the King of France himself in all these warlike matters.’ Hogan’s smile had disappeared. His posture was distinctly tense.
‘I would venture to suggest, that is, His Most Christian Majesty—’
‘Jesus, man, speak plainly. Tell me what you want – and don’t pretend that the orders are coming from anyone else but yourself. Come on, spit it out!’
Henri stared at him for a couple of slow heartbeats. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I wish you – and I have full authority in these matters – to operate on the flanks of the English Army as it pushes south. They’re presently encamped at Dundalk – but it would be far easier to show you. Guillaume, where is that map?’
As Major du Clos spread out a tattered canvas map on the table, Henri said: ‘I don’t suppose, Hogan, you’re familiar with Quintus Fabius Maximus.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ said the Irishman. ‘I know him well.’
‘Truly?’
‘Aye, isn’t he the old, one-armed fella who runs that big ale-house on the Killmallock Road out of Tipperary?’
Henri stared at him. ‘No, that’s not . . . no, he was in fact a Roman general of the third century before the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘Ah no, I was after thinking of Quilty MacSeamus.’
‘Quintus. Fabius. Maximus. They called him Cunctator.’
‘Did they now? Well, that’s not a word I like to use in polite company.’
‘It means The Delayer.’
‘Hmm, but then again old Quilty could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Keep you at the counter for hours. And he was awful slow to
draw a pint.’
‘Do you mock me, Hogan?’
‘Me? No, surely not. Let’s have a look at your little map now.’
All three men leant over the table, their heads coming in conspiratorially close together, as Henri traced the route that the bulk of the English Army, their horse, foot and guns, had taken over the past few weeks. Down from Carrickfergus, through Belfast, Dromore and Newry to Dundalk, which was nestled in the top of a wide bay some twenty miles north of Drogheda on the River Boyne, and a full fifty miles north of the Irish capital Dublin.
‘They have the sea on their left flank, and that side will be guarded from attack by the ships of the Royal Navy. But their right flank, as you can see, is wide open,’ said Henri. ‘It is to the west that they will seek forage for their horses, supplies for the men, wood for their campfires and so on. The reports I have received suggest that they are ill-provisioned and that sickness has already broken out in the crowded English encampment at Dundalk, with little provision for those stricken with disease. So they are likely to pause at Dundalk for some weeks and try to gather their strength and restock their supplies. However, the land roundabouts has been ravaged several times over by passing armies and they will find pickings slim. They must bring the bulk of their food and forage, drink and stores, down their supply lines from the north.
‘General Sarsfield is in the far west at Sligo and the Duke of Berwick, King James’s eldest son, is down at Athlone recruiting a force of infantry from the south. But we – I and the commanding officers of King James’s main army, which is at present blocking the route south – should like you and your horsemen to base yourself in this area . . .’ Henri stabbed the map with his finger. ‘Around Cavan. And we should like you to behave like the Roman General Fabius, the gentleman I mentioned before, to harass the enemy supply lines, cut them if you can, and deny the English food, ammunition and medicines for the sick. We would like you to particularly target forage parties as they come out of the fortified camp at Dundalk. Here—’ He pointed again. ‘And to hit the messengers and scouts and any stragglers from the marching columns. Along here. Kill them. No prisoners are to be taken. You are to be the invisible menace on their flank, and behind their lines, you are to sow fear and death – but do not try to engage them in a pitched battle. That was Fabius’s strategy – to avoid full pitched battles but to bleed the enemy dry with raids and small skirmishes. They will certainly send out cavalry to chase you, and you must run from them. Do not stand and face them. I think you understand this kind of warfare: you strike without warning, come out of nowhere to kill and steal, then disappear back into the countryside. Yes?’
‘I’m familiar with this line of work, sure,’ said Hogan.
‘We would also be most pleased if you chose to raid further up and deeper into Ulster because they will then have to dispatch much-needed troops to defend their supply depots and transport lines from your, um, depredations.’
‘I think that could be managed,’ said Hogan.
‘And we would like you to recruit more men. There is a small iron-bound chest filled with louis d’or on the wagon, equivalent to one hundred pounds. You’ll use that to pay a bounty to any who join up to serve with your company.’
‘I’ll use it any way I choose, once you’ve paid it to me!’ Hogan chuckled. ‘I could blow the lot on brandy for the boys and shiny baubles for Esmerelda.’
Henri frowned. ‘As you wish,’ he said and gave a little Gallic shrug. ‘But if we – I do beg your pardon – if I am fully satisfied with your actions over the next three or four months, there will be another meeting and another wagon loaded with fresh arms and money. On the other hand, if I’m not satisfied . . .’
‘Flayed alive, is it?’ Hogan chuckled. ‘King Louis’ lazy torturers?’
‘I should like to do business with you, Mister Hogan. I believe we might aid each other. But I require you to take this compact between us seriously.’
‘Aye, you’re right. Serious, it is. It is a good deal for me and the lads. I accept. Here’s my hand on it.’ Hogan hawked mightily and spat a huge gobbet into the grubby palm of his right hand and held it out for Henri to shake.
The Frenchman looked at the offered hand as if it were a fresh, steaming turd. ‘Your word of honour will be sufficient, I believe,’ he said icily.
Hogan shrugged and wiped his hand dry on his breeches. ‘We have a deal then, my friend. The boys and I’ll be off for County Cavan in the morning.’
‘One more thing,’ said Henri. ‘There is a man, an Ordnance officer who I believe is now quartered among the English troops based at Inniskilling. He is an evil man, a traitor, and very dangerous, too, and I would be willing to pay a bounty for his head of, say, thirty pounds in gold. No, fifty pounds. But you must bring me his head as proof.’
‘You’ll pay fifty pounds in gold for this officer’s nob? You really must hate the bastard. What did he do – steal your favourite horse? Bugger your wife?’
‘I do not possess a wife, Mister Hogan.’
‘Just my little joke. I can tell you’re not the marrying kind. But in all seriousness: what’s the name of this poor fella whose head you want so badly?’
‘His name is Blood. Captain Holcroft Blood.’
Chapter Eight
Thursday, November 10, 1689
Holcroft Blood watched the men of the fourth company of Tiffin’s Regiment of Foot as they approached him across the parade ground. They were marching in unison, each man’s step almost a perfect mirror of the next; their new flintlock muskets were shouldered at the same angle, their grey coats, grey breeches and stockings spotless, the metalwork, buttons, buckles and sword hilts polished to a fine gleam; the bright orange turn-backs on their wide sleeves and the orange garters and bows on their black shoes giving them a festive gaiety at odds with their otherwise sombre martial splendour.
Not bad, Holcroft thought, not bad at all, considering a couple of months ago they were barely trained militia, not much more than an armed rabble.
Tiffin’s Foot had been recruited that summer by Colonel Zachariah Tiffin from the vigorous Protestant young men of Inniskilling, a town perched on an island between two loughs roughly in the middle of the long, curving Erne Valley. The Erne River stretched in a gentle eighty-mile sweep from its rising point a little south of Cavan all the way west and north to the sea in Donegal and formed the approximate frontier between the two warring sides in Ireland in the autumn of 1689. The men of Tiffin’s Foot – who were billeted in companies along the river’s length – were charged with defending the unmarked frontier and stemming the incursions of raparees who rode up from Leitrim and Cavan to burn crops, murder Protestant civilians and make off with their livestock.
Sergeant Hawkins, a burly, red-faced man, who carried a halberd to denote his rank, bawled: ‘Eyes right!’ and the sixty-two men of the fourth company snapped their head to the side to stare blankly at Captain Blood as they passed. From the back of his charger Nut, Holcroft examined them minutely. Joe Cully was stepping an instant behind his neighbour, he noticed, but it was still a vast improvement from that bear-like simpleton’s first attempts at close order drill.
Jesus, that had been truly shambolic . . .
*
Holcroft’s first few weeks in command of the fourth company of Tiffin’s had not been promising. His new colonel was now based in Ballyshannon in Donegal, where the river Erne flowed into the Atlantic. Colonel Zachariah Tiffin had made himself de facto governor of that pretty seaside town, far from the main army command structures and, if the rumours were true, he was entirely occupied with enriching himself at the expense of the local Catholic population with no thought for his many and various military responsibilities.
A harassed Lieutenant-Colonel Harry Fenton, Tiffin’s second-in-command – the man who actually ran the regiment – had greeted Holcroft at Inniskilling Castle and shown him his quarters and introduced him to the fourth company’s other commanders: Lieutenant John Watts, a far
-gone roué by the look of his blotched face and bloodshot eyes; Ensign Francis Waters, a weed-thin, nervous youth from a wealthy local family; and Sergeant Jeremiah Hawkins the senior NCO, who was a solid, tough, entirely more impressive character. However, after that brief introduction Holcroft had been left to his own devices. All three of these company men were cool towards the newcomer, polite but unwilling to be friendly, although Holcroft did not register it. They had all heard of his disgrace in Carrickfergus and felt a bad officer was being foisted upon them.
If the officers were merely cool, Holcroft was greeted by outright hostility by most of the private soldiers, the Inniskillinger recruits over whom he had been set in authority, and who felt he was an interloper, a foreigner, and a suspiciously odd one at that.
However, he was blissfully unaware of this general ill feeling, at least for the first couple of weeks after he joined Tiffin’s, as he was utterly sunk in on himself, brooding on the death of Aphra, the escape of that bastard Narrey and his own abrupt departure from the Royal Train of Artillery.
The disgrace of having to tell his friends and colleagues in the Ordnance that he had been dismissed from their ranks still burned within him. He felt the shame most keenly when he admitted to them that he was now reduced to serving as a lowly infantry officer in a local militia unit.
He had dropped in on Jacob Richards in the hospital in Belfast Castle on the morning of his exodus, ostensibly to thank his friend for his intercession with General Schomberg, but in his secret heart in the hope that he might encounter Caroline and mend their friendship. He had spent an awkward ten minutes with Richards, during which they discussed little more than the weather – autumn was almost upon them and the almost perpetual rains had begun – then they wished each other well and Holcroft took his leave.
He had glimpsed Caroline once in the back of the ward, and thought that she had seen him too, but she never approached Richards’ bed while he was there. When he ‘accidentally’ took a wrong turn on leaving the castle and found himself in the cavernous kitchen, he thought he caught another sighting of her walking through a doorway into a pantry carrying a wide tray of bread.