by Angus Donald
‘The men are all perfectly comfortable,’ Holcroft said, ‘as far as I can tell.’ He was puzzled by the question. ‘Too much comfort is not always good for young soldiers, sir. Makes them soft.’
‘There’s nothing I can do for you?’ said Wolseley. ‘Nothing you need?’
At the far end of the table Lieutenant Watts was drunkenly explaining to the Governor of Inniskilling, a Swedish gentleman named Gustavus Hamilton, a dear friend of William of Orange, why Catholics should never, ever be trusted.
‘I should like – if you can find the funds for me, sir – to set up a small, local intelligence-gathering unit here in Inniskilling,’ said Holcroft.
The Brigadier raised his eyebrows. ‘Spies?’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean, Brevet Major? That doesn’t seem . . . well, very gentleman-like. Are you not satisfied with the weekly intelligence reports from headquarters in Belfast?’
‘That is the problem, sir, they come from Belfast, which takes a day or two, and they only come every week. They tell us the big picture – that James’s main army is standing before Dundalk, blocking General Schomberg’s route south; that the Duke of Berwick is at Athlone, recruiting men and holding the line of the Shannon; that the Duke of Tyrconnell is also raising fresh troops down in Munster. It tells us more-than-a-week-old news about the leaders of our enemies. Yet two days ago, for example, in the village of Cooneen, some fifteen miles west of here, a man named Paul Tincey had his farm burnt and two hundred head of prime cattle stolen. His wife was cruelly violated; his eldest son was lynched for bravely resisting the marauders.’
‘That must have been most distressing. But the nature of war means—’
Holcroft interrupted his superior. ‘Raids like these are happening every week. Raparees are operating out of Cavan and Belturbet – they ride out freely to burn and loot and kill. They range as far east as the outskirts of the Dundalk encampment itself. Then they disappear into thin air. We only hear about these outrages after they have been committed, some days afterwards. And never from the weekly Belfast intelligence report.’
‘So what are you suggesting, Brevet Major Blood?’
‘I am saying, sir, that if we could discover in advance when these raids were taking place, or if we were told about them very soon afterwards, we’d have a chance of hunting down these brigands, or at least of setting traps for them.’
‘I see. You would need horsemen, I suppose.’
‘That would be helpful in the chase, yes. But most of all we need to have intelligence of their movements. If you agree, sir, I should like to keep the operations purely local, say between here and Monaghan – my Inniskillingers know the lands hereabouts intimately – and to pay out small sums for information from farmers, travellers, tinkers . . . A small fund for this purpose would be necessary. I’d like to recruit a few men inside County Cavan, if I can – disaffected followers of James, or Protestants who’ve been ill-used by the Jacobite forces. Or just venal men with a love of money . . .’
‘I collect that you are familiar with this type of activity,’ said Wolseley.
‘Yes, sir, but I should also like to send out wide-ranging scouts – if you could spare me a troop or two from Cunningham’s Dragoons – we need eyes on every hill, men on the old towers and rooftops keeping watch for activity.’
‘It all sounds rather expensive – and requiring a good deal of manpower,’ grumbled Wolseley. ‘But I’ll let you try it. You had better get me some results, Blood, and soon, something I can boast of to Uncle Frederick at the Council.’
‘Perhaps it would be best if you did not mention my name to General Schomberg, sir. He is not enamoured of me. I suggest that Ensign Waters – promoted to lieutenant – be nominally placed in charge. He can report directly to me.’
Two days later, in his spartan quarters in one of the round castle towers, Holcroft briefed the delighted Lieutenant Waters about his new rank and role.
‘You are merely collecting the intelligence, Francis. You are not to move without my permission, do you understand? No matter how promising the material seems, nor how tempting the target, do not order out the troops without my say-so. We are getting some dragoons for our use. Not as many as I’d like but we will make do. But don’t let them go chasing after the enemy at the first sniff of a raid. It is easy to be deceived in this game and the consequences of a mistake can be lethal.’
‘Yes, sir. Might I make a suggestion, sir? My family has a number of properties, cottages mostly, and smallholdings, scattered around the eastern shores of Upper Lough Erne. It might be an idea for me to go and visit the families who live there – I know many have been robbed – and offer a bounty for reporting any enemy movement. I’m sure they would be eager for a taste of revenge, and a little silver would also not be entirely unwelcome . . .’
Holcroft knew then he had chosen the right man. He decided to trust the young officer with something he had previously thought to keep to himself.
‘There is one more thing, Francis. I want you to listen out for one name in particular. Are you paying attention? If you hear anything about this man at all you are to tell me immediately. Even if it is in the middle of the night, come and wake me. If I am away in Belfast or Ballyshannon or wherever I am, send a fast galloper straight away to find me. This is of paramount importance.’
‘Indeed? And what is the name, sir?’
‘The name is d’Erloncourt. Henri, Comte d’Erloncourt. He is a French officer somewhat loosely attached to James’s headquarters in Dublin.’
Chapter Nine
Monday, January 6, 1690
Informers. There could be no other explanation. Bloody-handed, Hell-bound, God-damned informers. There would be a reckoning one day, oh yes. Revenge would be taken in full measure. Michael Hogan was so tired that he could barely sit on his walking horse. His right shoulder was a mass of fiery pain where the pistol ball had creased him, passing – mercifully – clean through the skin and half an inch of meat at the top of his arm, showing lots of gore but with God’s grace not too serious. It would heal in a few weeks. In the meantime it was damned painful. He had tucked his thumb into his belt as he rode to take the weight off the wound.
Around him his shattered and dejected men plodded along the road, eyes down, many of them as bloodied as he and roughly bandaged, all of them utterly spent. They were passing through the hamlet of Drumalee Cross, a mile outside Cavan and all the comforts of home, past Jim Mulligan’s alehouse, where Hogan had spent many a warm and joyful evening over the past few months. No one in his band raised their eyes to look at the mossy thatch of the inn, no one in the last light of that terrible day suggested stopping for a reviving pint or two. Every man wanted only to return home, to get off his horse, wash and strap up his wounds, eat a little hot soup and sleep for about a week.
The raid had started promisingly. They had made camp last night in a burnt-out barn a few miles east of Newtownbutler, discreet fires had been lit, and a tender young goat roasted, the ale jug had gone round and round, there had even been soft singing before they curled up in ancient straw or drifts of leaves or wrapped their own heavy cloaks and slept the sleep of the just.
In the first light of frosty dawn, they had come down on the farmhouse a little outside Magheraveely, sweeping down the hillside, light as a herd of running fallow deer, sixty-two men all a-horse and armed as well as guardsmen, surrounding the big old house and surprising a farmhand at his early morning chores – chopping the day’s firewood – and the tenant farmer feeding a bucket of slops to his pigs. Neither man had offered any resistance, although the old ’un had glanced once at the ancient double-barrelled fowling piece that was propped up against the wood pile. Hogan had smiled genially at him over a levelled horse pistol, inviting him to touch the gun if he dared, and the old fella had just shrugged and sat down there and then in the dust in surrender.
They had taken several dozen hams and cheeses, a few sacks of fine-milled flour, a barrel of apples, one of pears; a
trio of piglets had their throats slit and were slung leaking in the back of the dog-cart they always brought along for the plunder. Paddy Gallagher, Hogan’s troll-bearded lieutenant, had searched the big house thoroughly – making a hellish mess as usual, breaking pots in the kitchen, emptying chests in the bedrooms like a whirlwind – and found himself a small box of copper coins and an old blue enamel brooch with silver chasing. They rounded up fifty sheep and a big truculent ram from the surrounding fields and set them bleating on the road towards home.
Nobody had been killed or hurt, there had been no women folk to tempt the boys into sinful ways, and they had not left the place in roaring flames, as they were sometimes obliged to do. They even left the old fella and his working man a worn-out sow and a half-sack of beans so they wouldn’t starve to death.
It had been a grand day’s work. Neat, quick, lucrative.
By mid-morning, they were merrily trotting back south towards Cavan, with Hogan already calculating the price the quartermaster’s agent, a Dublin man and a notorious cheat, would pay for the herd. The fighting men of King James’s army were ever hungry, especially now, in the depths of winter, and Hogan meant to drive a hard bargain for the captured sheep. The boys were singing again as they rode along – there would be meat and drink aplenty tonight, and money jingling in their pockets, and the pretty girls of Cavan could no doubt be easily awed horizontal by tales of their derring-do.
They had kept well east of Newtownbutler and were heading south on the main road north of Wattle Bridge, passing through a small patch of woodland, riding easy, keeping the sheep moving along, stopping the animals from straying up the banks and into the thick wood. Hogan was suddenly aware that the trees were full of men, grey-coated men with flashes of orange at their turned-back sleeves and long muskets. Inniskillingers. Hundreds of the bastards. A tall officer with a blue coat and red sash around his waist was standing out in front. His back was turned; he seemed to be ignoring Hogan’s band entirely. He simply called out: ‘First rank only . . . fire!’ and all Hell was unleashed.
Hogan’s men were caught by surprise. The initial volley, the thunderous simultaneous crash of nearly a hundred flintlocks, punched out from the tree line, the individual puffs of grey smoke forming a thick fog bank that hid the upper half of the attackers from view. The bullets whistled, hummed and smacked into soft flesh, horse and human. Half a dozen saddles were emptied, men screamed, horses bucked, the sheep fled bawling into the trees on the far side of the road. Chaos.
Hogan had his pistol out and cocked, he aimed into the smoke bank and pulled the trigger, the piece cracked, the passage of the ball twitching the curtain of grey. Hogan shouted, ‘Charge, lads, charge! They won’t stand!’ Dropping his pistol he hauled out his brass-handled cutlass and, struggling to control his panicked mount, he tried to urge the crabbing horse into the trees.
The smoke bank was clearing, and Hogan could see the line of men busy with scouring sticks and white paper cartridges, biting bullets free, pouring the black powder into the barrels, recharging their flintlocks with terrifying speed and efficiency. And behind the reloading infantry, more men in grey – scores of them – coming forward and forming up on the bank of the road in front of the others in a fresh line, a mere dozen yards from him. The tall officer was shouting commands and the new line of men were levelling their unfired muskets. Hogan was aware that his own fellows were milling crazily in the road, some still dazed and bewildered by the first thunderous volley, some fruitlessly trying to round up the last of the sheep, others helping wounded men, staring at their own blood-oozing bodies in amazement; some, however, had swords or their new carbines out and were glaring at the infantry, ready to fight; yet others were galloping away – God-damned cowards.
‘Charge them, lads!’ shouted Hogan. ‘We must get up there at ’em . . .’
A second volley crashed, drowning out Hogan’s words. Half-deafened by the noise, Hogan gripped his horse tight between his thighs and forced it to mount the bank on the side of the road, spurring unmercifully, raking the beast’s sides bloody, forcing it towards the trees and plunging into the fog of smoke. A twitch of wind revealed the officer in the blue coat, standing at the end of the line of his damned Inniskillingers, shouting at them to reload. He seemed oblivious to the devastation his two volleys had wrought in the road.
Kill the officer and the bastards would be leaderless. Hogan shouted a wild, incoherent challenge. The man heard it and turned fast. He made out the raparee on his horse, two dozen yards away, barrelling straight for him through the smoke, leaning forward along the animal’s neck. The officer coolly reached into his red sash and pulled out a long pistol. He cocked it, pointed it at Hogan and fired. The Irishman, hunching instinctively as the gun was aimed at him, felt the bullet rip the pheasant-feather tricorn from his head. He grinned. Got you, my bonny boy! He lifted the cutlass, his horse yards from the man.
Hogan expected the officer to run, or duck away – he was on foot, being charged by a snarling enemy on a big horse, an empty pistol in his hand. But the tall officer did not, he looked down at the weapon, seemed to crank a long lever on the side. Then lifted the odd-looking pistol again, aimed, fired – and shot Hogan straight through the right arm, high up by the shoulder.
The raparee captain felt the punch of the bullet but was more surprised than shocked by the unexpected wound. Was it a double-barrelled pistol? It hadn’t looked like one. His horse veered away at the smoke and bang of the pistol exploding by its nose, and the beast raced madly past the tall officer, with Hogan unable to lift his sword arm to strike.
He was through the two lines of infantry and in the trees, with nothing before him but a few sergeants, big men with pole-arms staring at him. One red-faced brute slashed at him with his shiny halberd, but the nimble horse avoided the sweep of the axehead with no help from Hogan. He let the beast run on and heard behind him the sound of a third volley crashing out on the helpless riders in the road.
By God, these Inniskillinger bastards are good, he thought. Three disciplined musket volleys in less than half a minute.
He wondered how many of his own men had lived through them.
*
Two miles down the road, by the black waters of a small lough, Hogan gathered the men who had survived the ambush. A bare handful of riders, he counted eighteen men, though he knew there would be more dispersed across the green countryside who would join them if they could as they made their way south. The plunder wagon was gone, the sheep were scattered to Hell and back. Hogan’s shoulder was one huge fiery ache. But two of his poor men were dying in the saddle, both shot in the belly, and spilling blood freely, men too stubborn to dismount and expire in greater comfort on the soft green turf.
That was when the Inniskillinger dragoons attacked. Only a single troop of about forty-five men, in grey coats and orange turnbacks just like the bastard infantry but with white cross belts and carbines in holsters at their horses’ withers, galloping towards them down a muddy lane by the side of the lough. At their full strength, Hogan’s company would have engaged them in a trice – and would have driven them off with ease. Dragoons were not cavalry, indeed they were looked down upon by real horse warriors. They were mounted infantry, paid less than cavalry, less well armed, too; they used their horses merely to move swiftly from one place to another. They dismounted in battle and formed up in lines like the foot-slogging infantry they truly were. In happier circumstances, Hogan’s band of sixty seasoned raparees would have torn them to bloody shreds. But today they ran like frightened chickens.
Hogan put back his spurs and the tired horse took off like a rocket down the road. The dragoons were on fresh mounts, and only fifty yards behind them, their excited cries audible over the clattering of their hooves. As he galloped, Hogan craned over his poor throbbing shoulder to watch them gaining yard by yard on his band of panicked men. He realised then that, like the two lines of infantry in the wood, these dragoons had been waiting for him.
; The Inniskillinger footmen could not hope to catch his riders, so they had set up a powerful static ambush in the trees – must have been three companies of musket men at least – and once they had mauled his band with their volleys, sending them skedaddling off down the road, the dragoons were waiting by the lough to finish them off. It was as neat a trap as Hogan had seen in a while. Clearly a fine military mind was at work here.
He briefly wondered about the tall officer in the blue coat and red sash, the man who had shot him with the pistol that did not seem to need reloading. Could this be the dangerous man the Frenchman had told him about? Could this be Holcroft Blood himself – fifty pounds of fine French gold on two long legs?
Michael Hogan had no time to ponder the identity of the enemy officer. The dragoons were gaining on them. Only thirty yards behind now. Hogan felt his own horse begin to falter, its dark neck was creamy with sweat. He’s been riding all day and the beast was nearly done. He heard a crack behind him and a high cry of pain. Seamus Kielty, the last man in the band, his poor horse already bleeding from a musket ball in its flank taken at the ambush, had been pistolled square in the back by the leading dragoon. As Hogan glanced over his bloody shoulder, the young man arched his back in agony, threw up his hands and slid off his saddle, disappearing under the churning hooves of his gleefully hallooing pursuers. They were approaching another thick wood – part of the lands of Castle Saunderson, which had been burnt to the ground the previous summer. There had been great slaughter of King James’s fleeing men here, Hogan recalled, after the disaster of Newtownbutler. They had faced these same God-damned Inniskillingers then, too. But, just maybe, just possibly, the wood might be a refuge. If they could get into it quickly enough. Hogan bawled to his men to leave the road and head right into the shelter of trees, yelling, waving his good arm, pointing urgently, all at a breakneck thundering pace.