Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  When the last of the horses had gone, Holcroft stepped out of the ranks and surveyed the field. Those Jacobite horsemen who had not run madly down the hill and on to the English lines were walking their sweat-stained horses slowly back to their position on the enemies’ right flank. They looked utterly spent, exuberant but exhausted. But they had not won much of a victory.

  Holcroft’s three companies of Inniskillingers seemed unharmed and intact, and the Dutch to his right were also unscathed. Behind him, though, Percy Kirke’s veterans had taken a few casualties. A horse – probably shot dead by some marksman in the ranks – had tumbled, dying but with heavy flailing hooves, into the heart of the second company of Kirke’s redcoats and there were now two bloodied men lying unconscious on the turf being tended by their mates. And another sitting man seemed to be cradling a broken arm. But it could have been worse – in fact, Holcroft was pleased by the conduct of the men under his command. Now would come the true test of their mettle.

  Holcroft looked up and to the right to the summit of a small hill where there was a trio of horsemen sitting placidly and watching events. He lifted his hat from his head and waved it at the figure in a fine gold coat and gorgeous brown periwig, and the Brigadier lifted his own hat in response. Holcroft made a sweeping motion of his hat towards the enemy lines; he made the motion twice. There was a short conference on the hilltop and then Wolseley copied Holcroft’s gesture exactly, his hat seeming to wave the troops on into battle.

  ‘Unfix bayonets, Sergeant Hawkins,’ said Holcroft, ‘and make sure every man is loaded. I’m going to have a word with the Dutch and the Lambs.’

  ‘What’s afoot, sir?’ said Hawkins.

  ‘We are going up there, Sergeant. All of us. And we’re going to push those bastards off that ridge.’

  *

  The red line of Jacobites was a hundred and fifty yards away and already the ill-disciplined troops had begun to fire at the advancing enemy. Holcroft’s overwhelming emotion – above the commonplace terror of death or wounding, above the anxiety that he should fail in this task – was of contempt. These Irishmen might wear red coats and wield sword and matchlock but they were not true soldiers. Their sporadic, individual fire was too early and too disorganised to be effective. Some of the bullets flew wide of the three compact Tiffin’s companies as they advanced slowly up the slope, or went high, but most often they fell short, slamming into the turf between the two sides with little kick-spurts of mud. No discipline. What were their officers thinking? Not a single Inniskilling man had been hurt so far. And long may that last. The wall of redcoats was unnerved by the near-silent advance of the enemy: Holcroft had forbidden any cries until the last moment and the only sound came from the rattle of the drums as the boys beat out the pace, and the snap of the big square standards, held by the ensigns, that flapped in the breeze above their heads.

  They were a hundred yards away. To the right of the Inniskillingers, the Dutch guards were advancing slightly slower than Holcroft’s men, and consequently they lagged about twenty paces behind. But Holcroft had no worries about these veterans. They would do their duty, and do it well. Fifty yards behind him, two companies of Kirke’s Lambs were coming up the slope, with a savage battle-eagerness on their faces, a blood-hunger that was somehow more than a little shocking.

  The musket balls were cracking all about them. And one Tiffin’s private, John Watson, gave a shout of surprise and, dropping his flintlock, stumbled to the ground clutching at his bloody thigh.

  ‘Close up, there!’ Hawkins voice was steady, unsurprised by the tragedy.

  The Inniskillingers marched on, close now, seventy yards out. Well within musket range. The rain of shot from the red ranks ahead of them grew heavier. Holcroft felt a ball pass close to his head with a whine like a mosquito. On the far side of the fourth company Corporal Horace Turner was hit. He gave a bubbling cry as half of his evil little face was replaced by a gory mash.

  Only fifty yards from the enemy. The private men beside Holcroft, and behind him, were sneaking glances at his back, silently begging him to halt so that they might fire their weapons and end the torment of the advance. Yet Holcroft was unaware of their distress. The crackling of the enemy musketry was nearly continuous now, a ball thumped into the man next to Holcroft. The private dropped to the ground without a sound.

  ‘Sir?’ said Hawkins. Forty yards away from the enemy, Holcroft could see the individual features of the redcoats in front of him – this one unshaven, that one with a purple carbuncle on his cheek. His own men were silently willing him to halt. Another type of man would have been able to sense it. Their mute appeal would have been deafening. Holcroft did not. He was oblivious to their unexpressed entreaties.

  Thirty yards. They were far inside the usual range for a musket duel.

  ‘Brevet Major Blood?’ said Hawkins again. ‘Should we not . . .’

  Another pace, another yet. Holcroft could see over the heads of the Jacobite line, the mounted forms of the commanders; the gaudy one in gold with all the lace must be the Duke of Berwick, and beside him, staring directly at Holcroft was . . . it was him. Narrey.

  The man who had murdered his friend Aphra. The man who had killed dozens of innocent men to Holcroft’s certain knowledge. The spy. His true enemy. Narrey was draped in his customary black cloak, with his hat low over his face, but it was definitely him. He looked small, cold and more than a little frightened.

  The Inniskillings were twenty-five yards away from the enemy line. It was hailing musket balls. To their right the Dutch had halted, and Holcroft could hear Captain Jan van Zwyk giving the orders for the men to present their pieces. Holcroft fixed his eyes on Narrey. The Frenchman stared back at him. Musket balls dropped two men in the Inniskilling front rank one after the other. A bullet tugged at the sleeve of Holcroft’s blue coat.

  ‘Halt!’ They were twenty yards away. Holcroft heard the exhalation from two hundred lungs as he gave the order.

  ‘Dress ranks! Close up! Close up!’ Hawkins had the men well in hand.

  Holcroft ignored the shuffling of the men behind him and the sergeant’s cries to level their muskets. His gaze was fixed on Narrey. He pulled the Lorenzoni repeating pistol from the scarlet sash around his waist, half turned to the men. ‘I believe I shall take over now, sergeant,’ he said quietly.

  Then louder: ‘Tiffin’s Regiment! All companies. First rank only. Give fire!’

  Sixty muskets thundered out along the lines and all three Inniskilling companies were shrouded in a thin grey fog.

  ‘First rank, reload. Second rank, two paces forward. Present your pieces. Second rank, fire.’

  Another tightly controlled volley lashed out, punching through the fog and smashing into the company of redcoats a stone’s throw ahead of them. Holcroft could see dozens of enemy soldiers lying still on the ground; others seated, holding in their fatally punctured bellies, yet more bloodied but standing their ground and firing back like men.

  He bawled: ‘Second rank, reload!’

  A fair proportion of the scarlet enemy line were trying to move back, squirming away from his blocks of firing men, edging into the mass behind them.

  On his right, Holcroft could hear the Dutch discharge their pieces, a much greater thunder, even though the Blue Guards were further from the enemy.

  ‘Third rank, forward. Present your pieces. Fire!’ Holcroft shouted.

  He watched calmly as bullets from his men smashed into the enemy, ripping soft flesh, knocking down men, splashing others with gouts of blood. The press of redcoats was thinner now, directly to his front, weakened by his fire. ‘Third rank, reload!’

  There were gaps between the red-coated bodies through which he could see the turf and churned earth behind. An Irishman, standing over the body of his dead comrade, hefted his matchlock and fired at Holcroft, aiming for him personally, and he felt the hot wind of the passing ball by his cheek. He filled his lungs with stingingly cold air . . .

  ‘Tiffin’s R
egiment. First rank, present. Fire!’

  ‘Second rank, present. Fire!’

  ‘Third rank, present. Fire!’

  ‘Inniskillingers,’ shouted Holcroft. ‘Fix bayonets . . .’ A clattering and foul curses as fingers burned on hot barrels. ‘Ready, lads? Now . . . charge!’

  More than a hundred and fifty men in grey leapt forward, every flintlock tipped with nine inches of sharp steel. They screamed as they ran the twenty yards towards the bullet-battered enemy, releasing all the built-up fear in shrill, high, ululating cries. They smashed into the Irish ranks like a herd of bulls hitting a frail garden fence at full speed, bayonets lancing out to slice faces and spear bellies. Holcroft ran with them, pausing only to shoot a sergeant standing before him with a halberd poised to strike. He reloaded the Lorenzoni with a twist of the lever and shot another man coming at him with a sword.

  The Inniskillingers ripped into the disintegrating Jacobite army like a mighty wind, screaming and stabbing, shoving, thrusting, stamping, crushing faces and snapping limbs with the butts of their heavy flintlocks. Others had abandoned their muskets, the bayonets stuck fast into the ribs of their victims and pulling out their swords, they were carving lanes of mayhem through the enemy ranks. Lieutenant Watts, frothing madly at the mouth, was laying about him with his small-sword like a berserker of yore. A green-coated Jacobite officer, with a jet-black plume in his broad hat, pistolled Watts through the body, lifting and hurling the lieutenant back two full paces to land in a heap. Holcroft ran forward, raised the Lorenzoni and shot the officer in the lower jaw, scattering blood and teeth.

  He paused for a second, panting, looking over the heads of the few remaining foes before him. The Lambs had come up fast to support the charge, and unfamiliar men were all around him, red coats with green turnbacks, savage blood-spattered faces, hacking with blades, lunging with their bayonets. The Dutch company were assaulting the line, too, forty paces to Holcroft’s right, big blue-clad men, barging into the lines of terrified Jacobite recruits . . .

  And the enemy dissolved under this combined onslaught. They were running away, fleeing as fast as their terrified legs would carry them. Holcroft suddenly had a vision, a stone’s throw in front of him, of the Duke of Berwick on the back of his silver-grey horse, splendid in gold and lace, and beside him Narrey, smaller, and all in night-black, and they were both being led away, other horsemen dragging their bridles, right now breaking into a fast trot.

  ‘Stand and fight me, you bastard!’ Holcroft was screaming impotently – on foot and forty yards from his quarry, the distance growing with every moment that passed. He lifted the Lorenzoni and fired, knowing it was too far to be truly accurate. The bullet struck the hind-quarters of Narrey’s mount, and the horse reared and bucked, and Holcroft, for one glorious moment, believed that the black-swathed rider would be thrown. He ran forward but Narrey mastered his beast, and spurred away, a tight group of horsemen fleeing from the field of battle. Holcroft called stupidly: ‘Stop! Wait! Come back here, you turd.’

  And one enemy horseman miraculously answered his call. A bulky man on a bay horse. He reined in, turned his mount and came galloping back to the shattered enemy lines, covering the ground in a dozen heartbeats. Holcroft recognised Guillaume du Clos’ big, snarling face. He cranked the lever on the Lorenzoni, but the mechanism stuck, the lever refusing to turn. Holcroft tugged at it, wasting valuable seconds. It was locked tight.

  He looked up and Du Clos was almost on him. He dropped the pistol, and reached for his small-sword. He got the blade half out, looked up again and there was Du Clos, looming on the horse, a levelled pistol in his hand, the huge black muzzle pointed directly into his face. The handgun fired; a bloom of orange-red flame and Holcroft only just had time to feel a crushing blow like a mule-kick to his forehead.

  Then all was blackness.

  Part Two

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, May 5, 1690

  Henri, Comte d’Erloncourt trotted down the long corridor in the west wing of Dublin Castle, the three-inch heels of his silver-painted leather shoes clicking loudly on the wooden parquet floor. He had for once abandoned his usual night-black attire and, since he was heading for a semi-public meeting, was dressed in the guise of a Colonel of the Régiment Royal-Bombardiers, his official French uniform of silver-white coat, with red waistcoat, breeches and stockings. He felt somewhat exposed in all his military finery but he bore intelligence of the greatest import, which he felt he must convey to King James without delay and there was no time to arrange a discreet private meeting alone with the monarch.

  As he clip-clopped along, he glanced down at his left arm in its pristine uniform sleeve. It was finally healed, nine months after it had been mangled at Carrickfergus, and now, strangely, he had almost forgotten the terrible pain. He had not, of course, forgotten the man who had mangled it. He’d congratulated Guillaume immediately for shooting down that brute Blood at Cavan but he had not truly been able to savour the death of his enemy then. The breakthrough by the English on the ridge had led to a humiliating withdrawal at speed for all the Jacobite forces – some might have called it a rout – with the Duke of Berwick leading the retreat, and with Narrey and Major du Clos sticking close to him. Had the English troops not stopped their victorious advance to loot the town of Cavan and drink themselves insensible, it could have been a far more serious disaster. As it was, it had to be chalked up as a failure of Jacobite arms – and a sobering one. Henri was more than ever convinced that a head-to-head clash between the forces of James and General Schomberg would end in disaster.

  He was briefly stopped by a pair of raggedy sergeants armed with rusty halberds by the grand wooden doors of the council chamber but, on giving his name and rank, they pushed open the portal and allowed him to enter. The room was long and narrow and brightly lit by three pairs of chandeliers hanging from the gold and sky blue painted ceiling, and half a dozen men, all dressed in equal if not greater splendour to the French Bombardier colonel, were seated at a table covered in a snowy cloth and bearing in a line along the centre a dozen crystal glasses and three decanters of ruby wine. James, at the far end, looked up as he entered but said nothing, turning back attentively to the elderly man in a black wig, who was speaking from his place halfway down the left side.

  ‘. . . I believe it is the course of action with the best chance of success, sire,’ said the Duke of Tyrconnell, ‘a full-scale invasion of England would not only wrong-foot the usurper, take him entirely by surprise, but also ensure that he cannot cross to Ireland in strength and attack your forces here. The people of England still love you, sire. I have heard from many lips, from many men of the most distinguished lineages, the noblest families, that they would rise in their thousands in support of your righteous cause and flock to your royal banner.’

  ‘Do you truly believe so, sir? I should dearly love to see White Hall again in the springtime. And there are many loyalists in Scotland who would join me, I am sure of it, Viscount Dundee swears it is so, and as their rightful King . . .’

  ‘And how would you get over the water?’ A harsh, foreign-accented voice interrupted the King, and there were some audible noises of indrawn breath at the temerity of this man in speaking over royalty. ‘How would you transport your army, sire, across the Irish Sea – a sea which the Royal Navy presently controls. Your troop ships would be sunk before they cleared Dublin Bay.’

  ‘I had rather hoped, General Lauzun, that your master, Le Roi Soleil, might be persuaded – perhaps even by you, monsieur – to send his fleet to guard us in that dangerous crossing,’ said the King. He glared at the squat, muscular, square-headed general, the commander of the French forces in Ireland. ‘Or perhaps his enthusiasm for my cause has waned. We await the stores of food and weapons he has promised. And if he truly wishes to see me regain the Three Kingdoms, as he told me to my face little more than a year ago, he must send more men.’

  ‘The food and weapons will come but, alas, not the grand
fleet. You know as well as I, sire, that King Louis has more than enough to contend with fighting the Dutch in the North Sea. A fast ship may slip past the Royal Navy’s patrols on a dark night, sire, and has indeed done so on many an occasion. But the grand fleet would be obliged to battle the English ship to ship – and how might that end? Besides, sire, my royal master has already sent you men. I brought six thousand of the finest French troops with me when I arrived two months ago.’

  ‘And six thousand fine Irishmen were sent to France in exchange,’ said a new voice. General Patrick Sarsfield, a handsome energetic officer in a startling grass-green coat, seemed blithely contemptuous of the Frenchman’s words.

  The Comte d’Erloncourt, his arms folded behind his back, stood by the dark wood panelled wall, ignored by the great men at the table, and watched the verbal jousting in front of him with interest. It was true that Louis had sent James more troops but his powerful War Minister, the Marquis de Louvois – urged to do so in a secret letter from Henri d’Erloncourt – had insisted that to continue their operations in the Low Country against the Dutch and their allies, the shortfall in manpower must be made up by Irishmen.

  However, James certainly had the better of the deal. The Irish troops shipped over to France, like almost all of his army, were barely trained, undisciplined, often seriously malnourished and lacked proper arms and equipment. Many in the Irish Army had not been paid for months. For James’s coffers were bare – trade had died completely with the departure of the Protestant merchants, and agriculture had almost ceased as the young men who normally worked the land were recruited into the ranks.

  A great many of King James’s soldiers lived by theft and pillage of their own countrymen. Their officers did not – or could not – restrain them, or control or discipline them, and these gentlemen were faced with a stark choice of either condoning the outrages against their own people or paying their men out of their own pockets.