Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  Many of James’s officers, to be fair, were also woefully inexperienced – due to a deliberate policy implemented by the Earl of Tyrconnell, as the duke then was, before the expulsion of James from England in 1688. Established Protestant officers, often men with a great deal of military expertise, had been systematically expelled from the Irish regiments – often with no recompense for the offices they had purchased – by Tyrconnell’s government in Dublin. They had been replaced wholesale by Catholic men, almost none of whom had even the smallest amount of training.

  Henri caught Lauzun’s eye from the far side of the table. The veteran soldier-courtier stared back at him, then raised one eyebrow questioningly.

  Henri gave a quick, affirmative duck of his head.

  ‘I believe Colonel d’Erloncourt has something that he wishes to impart to the King,’ Lauzun said, and every eye at the table turned to stare at Henri.

  D’Erloncourt pushed himself off the wall and straightened his spine.

  ‘As you know, sire, I am fortunate to have a few well-placed friends in the north, even among the ranks of the Dutch usurper’s army and, occasionally, I receive confidential information from them concerning affairs in Belfast.’

  He paused, and took a breath, looking at James.

  ‘Spies,’ said Patrick Sarsfield, ‘why not call these people what they are?’

  Henri ignored him. ‘My friends in the north tell me that William of Orange is coming over the sea to Ulster with an army—’

  ‘We already know that,’ interrupted Sarsfield. ‘We’ve known for months that King Billy is on the way, what we don’t know is when . . .’

  ‘What you do not know, and what my friends have just informed me, swearing on their souls to the accuracy of their reports, is that William will be in Belfast within the month. Early June, mid-June at the latest, and preparations are already in hand for his arrival. He will bring with him an additional fifteen thousand first-class troops, both infantry and cavalry, and a powerful new Train of Artillery. I shall circulate the details of the units to all you gentlemen later.’

  ‘Fifteen thousand men? Here in a month?’ James’s pale, thin face sagged. ‘And the Duke of Schomberg already has, what, about thirty-five thousand?’

  ‘Forty,’ said Lauzun. ‘And we cannot muster even thirty thousand men to stand against them, even including my French Brigade. Furthermore, we must find sufficient armed men to garrison all the major towns. So I believe, sire, we must swiftly dispense with your ill-judged notion of an invasion of England.’

  ‘We must have more men – King Louis must be persuaded to send more men!’ James looked beseechingly at Lauzun. ‘And guns. I have almost no artillery, since I was obliged to . . .’ He tailed off. James had been forced to melt down most of his cannon to make copper coins to pay his troops but no one was going to say it out loud. Tyrconnell put his old, lined face in his hands.

  ‘I shall certainly pass on your request to His Majesty,’ said Lauzun with an icy smile. ‘But I doubt very much, sire, that it will be well received.’

  ‘I believe we might be able to recruit more men to your cause, sire,’ said Patrick Sarsfield, ‘if only you were prepared to limit your ambitions.’

  ‘My ambitions?’ said the King.

  ‘Sire, if you were to declare that you sought only to rule Ireland. If you were to make a general proclamation renouncing your claim to the thrones of Scotland and England and saying that you simply wished to rule Ireland – a separate, independent Ireland, free from the shackles of England; an Ireland in which all men, of all faiths, could strive together for the common good. The common people would surely fight more willingly for the chance to be free . . .’

  ‘An outrageous suggestion; pure treason, by God!’ said the Duke of Berwick, the King’s eldest but, unfortunately for him, illegitimate son.

  ‘I am the King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Colonel Sarsfield.’ James was on his feet, his voice raised almost to a shout. ‘I will not dishonour my royal ancestors, nor will I renounce my royal rights, which have been granted to me by Almighty God, in His infinite wisdom. I shall fight for them, I shall fight all of William’s legions to the last breath in my body, and any man who does not wish to stand with me may leave my presence this minute.’

  Sarsfield flushed red. ‘I meant no disrespect, sire,’ he said. ‘I will fight for you and your cause till my heart fails inside me. But it would make it a great deal easier to raise the passions of the common Irish people for the cause if . . .’

  ‘Enough, General Sarsfield! Either go from my presence or remain silent.’ James’s usually pale face was glowing with a righteous anger. ‘We shall fight them, this is my command. We shall smite the enemy with the help of Almighty God Himself. You will prepare my army, all of you, now, to march. To the North!’

  *

  ‘A word in your ear, Colonel d’Erloncourt, if you please,’ said Lauzun, as the council of war broke up, and the great men of James’s court began to leave the chamber in their monarch’s wake. ‘This new intelligence, you stand by it?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘It comes from your agent, Agricola, is that the correct code name?’

  Henri nodded. The last member of the council had left the room and they were now alone.

  ‘What else did this person tell you?’

  ‘That William is said to be in a great hurry. He will drive to capture Dublin immediately, coming south via Newry and the Moyry Pass to retake Dundalk.’

  ‘Indeed. And he will no doubt succeed. And if he then goes on to take the city of Dublin, the war will be as good as lost.’

  Lauzun leaned in and spoke in a whisper. ‘I must inform you, then, my friend, that Louis le Grand shall not be sending any additional troops to aid King James in his military endeavours. You may take that as Gospel. Furthermore, His Majesty has instructed me that I should not hazard the French Brigade unnecessarily in a pitched battle against the English. Who is that Ancient Roman gentleman you are always speaking of? Fabius, yes? The one who was always running away. We must emulate him. Yes? I wish you to keep General Fabius’s strategy in mind over the next few weeks. You are not to risk the lives of Frenchmen in a foolish unwinnable battle. You understand me, d’Erloncourt?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Clearly. Should we not then withdraw the whole Brigade, perhaps south to Cork, in preparation for a swift and safe departure?’

  ‘No. Not yet. One day we will be forced to withdraw. And we must keep our whole Brigade intact for that day. And if this panicky English mountebank who calls himself King of England, Scotland and Ireland insists on confronting the Prince of Orange’s superior forces head on like an angry mule, we must at least be seen to support him. His Majesty has always been very clear on that point. But I will not have our brave men slaughtered to satisfy James’s pride.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday, June 17, 1690

  Holcroft Blood sat in a wicker chair in a sun-filled corner of the lush grounds of Belfast Castle reading a letter from his old friend Jack Churchill.

  The Earl of Marlborough, as Jack was styled, having distinguished himself in the Low Countries, had been made commander of all troops in England and appointed a member of the Council of Nine to advise Queen Mary on military matters while William was on campaign in Ireland.

  I fear, though, that Her Majesty does not trust or esteem me, neither does she seem to care for Sarah overmuch. It seems that she is resolved to exclude me from her private councils when William is abroad, and while I’m determined to win her favour, the lady is so far immune to my blandishments.

  Holcroft could well understand why neither William nor Mary should trust Jack – he had, after all, betrayed his former monarch, James, in the cruellest manner when he switched his allegiance overnight to the House of Orange. If he had betrayed one generous master – and James had been very good to him all his life, raising him up from genteel poverty to great estate – why should he prove loyal to another who was, s
o far, a good deal less open-handed? There was also the matter of Sarah’s close relationship with Princess Anne – who, as the younger daughter of James, was next in line to the throne after Queen Mary, and who indeed had a greater claim to the throne than William. Holcroft had heard a rumour at a dinner in Belfast that the joint monarchs greatly feared that Princess Anne might form a powerful rival political faction with the Countess of Marlborough while William was engaged across the seas in the Irish war.

  The Prince of Orange – and the rightful King of England, Scotland and Ireland, to Holcroft’s mind – had arrived at Carrickfergus three days before and the General Schomberg had met him and escorted him to Sir William Franklin’s house, his temporary palace, a few hundred yards from Belfast Castle. Crowds of people gathered to watch his coach arrive but at first they merely gawped silently, never having seen a king before, until the redcoats of the Foot Guard urged them to cheer. That night, huge bonfires were lit all over Belfast, and the King’s arrival was celebrated with flowing jugs of ale and nips of strong Dutch gin – fashionable in England and Ireland since the arrival of so many of King William’s countrymen and popular because of its high potency and low price.

  Holcroft took no part in the revelries. He was still officially on the sick list, with no military duties and neither was he of a gregarious nature. In truth, he hated parties – and particularly parties at which he knew not a soul. While Belfast caroused, Holcroft remained in the castle reading and writing letters.

  His eye slid over the passages in Jack’s friendly missive about Sarah and the children’s wellbeing and about the house they hoped to build when they had the time, but stopped when he came to a passage about his own wife Elizabeth.

  Jack wrote:

  Sarah has twice encountered your lady wife at social events this spring, once at the Cockpit, when she attended a grand masked ball held by Princess Anne, and once at the races in Newmarket. Both times Elizabeth appeared to be glowing with health and happiness and was escorted by a dashing Dutch officer, Jongheer Markus van Dijk, who has been wounded in the wars and is now recuperating in England. He seems an honourable gentleman, and very rich, and I never pay much heed to idle gossip, and neither should you. I called on Elizabeth herself at Mincing Lane last month and she sends you her dearest love, and all her hopes and prayers for a swift recovery . . .

  Holcroft frowned. He read the passage about Elizabeth’s Dutch friend over again: ‘He seems an honourable gentleman, and very rich, and I never pay much heed to idle gossip, and neither should you.’

  The sentence made no sense to Holcroft. What should the man’s honour and wealth have to do with idle gossip? He thought that Jack must be making some sort of joke or clever witticism and moved on with the rest of the letter, which paradoxically seemed to be filled with nothing but gossip of the political kind, who was in favour at court, who was scheming for more power . . .

  He was reading Jack’s warm sign-off, when a shadow fell over the paper. He looked up and there was Caroline Chichester holding out a broad straw sun hat. ‘You must keep the sun from your head, Holcroft. It is warm today, uncommonly so, and your wound might become inflamed by the rays.’

  The battle of Cavan had been a victory of sorts, although it had not altered the course of the war to any significant degree, but Holcroft’s own personal mission – to kill Narrey and Major du Clos – must be considered an abject failure. Narrey still lived, as far as he knew, and Holcroft had been rendered hors de combat for months. Holcroft took the hat offered by Caroline and placed it on his close-cropped head. The bullet from Du Clos’ pistol had struck the left side of his forehead and cut a deep groove along the side of his head just above the ear. It had not, by God’s mercy, entered the skull. He had been immediately knocked unconscious and had remained so for four days during which time, he learnt afterwards, he had been transported by bullock cart to Belfast Castle and placed in the care of the Army medical staff there. After such a long period of unconsciousness, the doctors feared that he would never awaken, or that his mind might be irreparably damaged in some way. They had shaved his head, cleaned and bandaged the wound and left him to rest in the ward overseen by Caroline Chichester.

  It had not been an easy healing process. After an initial period of some weeks when all had looked well, and he had seemed to be on the road to good health, the wound had become infected, angry-red and filled with corruption. This backward step was accompanied by blinding headaches lasting days and of an intensity Holcroft had never experienced before.

  The pain in his head had at times become so bad that Holcroft had screamed out loud and the strongest medicines, even a powerful tincture of opium dissolved in brandy, failed to quell the agony. Gradually, over the weeks and months, the wound healed properly and the headaches lessened, became rarer and finally ceased. But Holcroft had continued to shave his head around the long pink scar on his temple and, at Caroline’s gentle urging, had gone so far as to buy an expensive real-hair wig from a Belfast perruquier.

  His health was now much improved and, but for a shortness of breath due to months of sluggish inactivity, he was almost back to his normal fighting trim.

  His relationship with Caroline had also improved significantly since the awkward meeting in the pantry at Belfast Castle. He had written to her several times while he was in Inniskilling and she had even replied a few times, without much warmth but with enough interest in his life and military doings to keep him writing back. When he was first admitted to the ward, still groggy from his long period of unconsciousness, he had been more or less oblivious to her ministrations, but her tender care of him, the way she held his hand, looked into his face and spoke soothingly to him during the worst of the crushing headaches had awakened emotions of deep gratitude, turning slowly to something more profound, which were as powerful and uncontrollable as the pains in his head.

  He had not, of course, spoken of his growing feelings to her. Neither was he sure that they were reciprocated. She told him that she had forgiven him for the fiery destruction of Joymount House – war was war, after all, she had said. And she seemed pleased to spend time with him, over and above her duties as his nurse. She brought him small edible treats and drinks, and read to him from the Bible and from improving works of literature – John Bunyan was a favourite author. She also gave a great deal of thought to his physical comfort. Yet she never spoke of love or tenderness or of anything in that vein and she never touched him except in a manner that was brisk and coolly medical.

  However, for Holcroft, she was the very centre of his existence: his first thought when he woke in the morning, and his last at night. Caroline pushed other important considerations out of his mind: the Army, his Inniskillinger comrades, several of whom had made the trek to visit him in Belfast – Lieutenant Waters had called on him three times – and the continued existence of Narrey. His violent hatred of the French spy now seemed a pale and distant thing. He remembered the dimensions of his enmity well, like a house he had occupied for a long time, but could not now remember being comfortable in. He had discussed the dimming of his antipathy to Narrey with Caroline, as they discussed many things close to his heart, and she’d joked that the bullet must have knocked the hate clean out of his head. Although it was clearly impossible, absurd even, sometimes Holcroft believed it must be true. They had also spoken at length of his love for the Ordnance, and the hurt he had felt at his dismissal from its ranks by General Schomberg. Although he understood Schomberg’s actions, it had felt like a gross betrayal, as if his own family had rejected him.

  ‘Are you feeling strong enough for a visitor today, Holcroft?’ said Caroline, leaning in and adjusting the position of the straw hat so that its shade covered his face from the slanting rays of the afternoon sun.

  ‘Depends who it is,’ said Holcroft. He was feeling lazy and sleepy in his comfortable chair and did not relish another visit from Francis Waters who would surely have some intelligence puzzle for him to unravel. Something that would requ
ire his brain to work.

  ‘It’s a friend of both of ours – it’s Jacob Richards.’

  It took Holcroft a moment to remember who Richards was. Perhaps Du Clos’ bullet had knocked more than just hatred out of his head. Then he had it: Major Jacob Richards, First Engineer of the Royal Train of Artillery. Of course. His friend. How could he have forgotten his friend and his many kindnesses?

  ‘I should be delighted to see Major Richards,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we might, all three of us, have a dish of tea together,’ said Caroline. ‘I believe Jacob has something important he wishes to ask you.’

  *

  Richards looked thinner and more exhausted than usual. He seemed worn down by the war and his great burdens of responsibility in the Ordnance.

  ‘Blood,’ he said, as he came over and firmly shook Holcroft’s hand.

  ‘Richards,’ came the ritual reply.

  Caroline busied herself with a silver teapot and cups and the men sat in silence for a few minutes both watching a beautiful woman at her business.

  Holcroft said; ‘So how is the Train, everything running smoothly?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Richards. ‘You heard that Obadiah Field died?’

  Holcroft had not.

  ‘He took sick in camp at Dundalk, like thousands of our men, and perished soon after. The bloody flux. Bad food. Bad lodgings. Bad logistics.’

  ‘Poor fellow. I am very sorry to hear that. I liked him.’

  ‘I’m the poor fellow – not him. He’s with Jesus now. Sergeant Jones died, too. And Lieutenant Hunt went home to England – his father passed away and he inherited the estate. I’m running the Train with half the complement of officers.’

  ‘Sugar?’ said Caroline, and Richards declined, accepting a brimming cup.

  ‘Talking of inheritances,’ Richards continued, ‘Barden has come into some money. A rich uncle died, or something. He’s bought himself a fancy sword with an engraved gold handle, and some fine horses too. And all the extra cash in his purse has made him lazier than ever. I have to chase him every day!’