by Angus Donald
Richards seemed more sorry for himself than Holcroft had ever seen him. He knew his friend was rather poor – but he had never seemed the envious type.
‘William must have brought over a few replacement officers for the Train,’ said Holcroft after a long pause. ‘I heard he had twenty new guns with him. He must have supplied some officers to man them. And the King must know you’re short-handed. Schomberg surely told him of the situation.’
‘The King brought a few men with him. But none of them are any good. A bunch of spoilt and inexperienced children. Filthy rich, titled yahoos too dim even to find a berth in the Guards. God-damn bastards. Beg pardon, Caroline.’
‘Oh, I’m sure God will happily damn all of those bastards for you, Jacob.’
Holcroft picked up his cup of tea and tried a sip of the fragrant brew.
‘So you’re fit, Blood, are you? Ready to return to duty?’
‘Still get the odd headache but I’m basically fine. Looking forward to seeing my Inniskillingers again. Tiffin’s boys. No doubt they’re missing me.’
‘God-damn it, Holcroft. You know why I’m here. Don’t make me beg.’
Holcroft looked steadily at Jacob Richards. He did, for once, understand what the senior Ordnance officer was obliquely referring to.
‘What about General Schomberg?’ he said. ‘He’s the one who sent me packing. He’s the one who kicked me out. What would he say?’
‘Uncle Frederick’s finished. He’s in disgrace. If he were on top of his job the King wouldn’t have come all this way to personally oversee the campaign. The King is perfectly polite to him, treats him with the respect due to his many years of experience. But William is in command. All the decisions are his.’
‘I don’t choose where I serve, Jacob. I follow orders, same as everyone.’
‘But you would come back to the guns, if I could fix it with the King, wouldn’t you? You’d have command of the Train, well, under me. You’d be the Second Engineer again. But you wouldn’t be able to call yourself a brevet major. I’m only a major, so you’d have to be a captain. But that’s the offer.’
Holcroft smiled at his friend.
‘If you can arrange it, Jacob, of course I’ll gladly come back.’
‘And don’t expect Uncle Frederick to offer you an apology!’
‘I won’t expect anything from him at all.’
‘More tea, gentlemen?’ said Caroline, perhaps a little too smugly.
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday, June 29, 1690
Michael ‘Galloping’ Hogan stopped his horse on the top of a ridge, near a crossroads to the west of the village of Tullyallen, and looked down at the north bank of the River Boyne about half a mile away. The ribbon of water that he could make out through the trees was a slow-flowing, peaty brown, and he knew that there was a passable ford somewhere down there, where a man on foot could cross without getting either his musket or cartridge pouch wet.
On the south bank of the river was the hamlet of Oldbridge, a scatter of three or four houses, some with walled gardens, with rising cornfields behind and the small hill of Donore, with its church tower visible on the horizon. It was a peaceful spot, idyllic even – meandering river, water meadows and yellow fields of ripening wheat – but it would not remain so for long. Hogan and his horsemen were advance scouts for the whole Jacobite Army – behind his men were some twenty-five thousand troops, horse, guns and foot, moving south on the road to Dublin. And behind them, no more than a day’s march from the rear guard, came King William’s far more numerous force.
Hogan was tired, exhausted, in fact; he and his men had ridden over this same ground not two weeks before – but heading north that time. James and his army had advanced from Dublin in high spirits pushing up to Ardee and on to Dundalk, but the King had hesitated, sending Lord Galmoy ahead to set up a small ambush at the Moyry Pass to surprise the Williamite advance units.
Then, quite suddenly, James had changed his mind about his strategy. The King became terrified by the notion that he could be outflanked by William’s cavalry forces coming round through County Cavan, past his left-hand side, to cut off the road to Dublin behind them. If that happened, he would have enemy both north and south of him. Surrounded. So James – panicking shamefully – had ordered a swift retreat down the same route, and back they came, all of them. Foot-sore, food running low, nothing achieved.
The new plan was to defend the main route to Dublin here, at the River Boyne. ‘The King sees the Boyne as Dublin’s walls,’ the Duke of Tyrconnell had told Hogan, when he issued his scouting orders. God help us if that is true, Hogan thought. Nevertheless, he had been ordered to make a thorough reconnaissance of the area and find suitable places for the Army dispositions.
But then again . . . there were worse battle grounds to fight on, Hogan supposed. The river was a barrier of sorts that could be defended, and the enemy could only cross it here at Oldbridge, or at the well-defended stone bridge downstream by Drogheda Castle, or by a wooden one upstream at the little hamlet of Slane, a few miles to the west. With the right placement of the troops and a little grit and determination, the English could be stopped here and fought to a standstill, if James handled his troops correctly.
However, to Hogan’s mind, it was extremely risky to stand and oppose the foe at all. The defeat at Cavan had shown what poor troops the bulk of Irish regiments were, many of the men painfully inexperienced, no more than rustics in red coats – not that Hogan could really criticise them for running. He and his surviving men had run with the rest when the line of the ridge was broken. And he had not stopped galloping for a good ten Irish miles.
More worrying was the great disparity in the size of the two forces. William’s army was now estimated to contain more than thirty-six thousand men. All of the swarming bastards well fed, well armed and well disciplined. The Irish Army – admittedly a little better armed since the French had finally delivered a supply of new weapons – was considerably smaller, perhaps only twenty-five thousand men. Strategically, Hogan knew that the Frenchman Narrey was right – raids, hit and run, strike their lines of communication, attack where they least expected it and run for the hills; that was the way to win this war. To drag it out until it became a running sore in William’s side. Then maybe the Dutchman would go home and leave Ireland to be run by the Irish.
But what did Hogan know? He was only a lowly cavalry captain, newly commissioned as a troop commander into Tyrconnell’s Regiment of Horse. Patrick bloody Sarsfield was behind the new commission, of course. Hogan had had no say in the matter: ‘We badly need light horsemen, Mick,’ Sarsfield had said to him when he finally returned to Dublin, ‘and you and your rogues are some of the best. It won’t be for ever. But Ireland needs you. God knows, you’ve had your fun up in County Cavan. Time to join the colours. Time to come in from the cold. James is calling. You wouldn’t want to be letting our rightful King down, would you?’
In among Sarsfield’s sweet patriotic words was an unspoken threat. ‘Join the regular cavalry, Hogan, or be deemed outlaw, an enemy to all men.’
So here he was on the north bank of the Boyne, looking for camping grounds for the whole bloody Army.
The River Boyne ran across the valley, three miles east to the walled town of Drogheda and the Irish Sea. The river to the east of Oldbridge broadened and deepened and was divided by two small islands – Grove Island and Yellow Island, he remembered them being called last time he had passed by this way. Looking south, to his right-hand side, the Boyne curved round in a bow and then headed off south-west. Ahead of him, across the brown river, the Hill of Donore rose a mile or so away. It would make a fine command post, Hogan thought; the King could sit up there in comfort and splendour and watch his loyal men below doing his dirty bloody work. No, this wasn’t the worst spot for a battle, by any means – that is if they were absolutely compelled to fight one.
Hogan spurred his horse and set it scrambling down a steep sunken road that led to the ford. Once
in its tunnel-like embrace he could see nothing of the surrounding countryside. And no one would be able to see troops moving on this track, he noted. A quarter of an hour later, at the bottom of the hill, he reined in on the flattish ground beside the reed-covered banks of the river.
He could see the flat stones and shallow patches of the ford, a foot or so deep, near the end of the sunken road, and the track on the other side leading out of the wet towards Oldbridge. Easy crossing. This was the spot to defend.
Hogan heard the neighing of a horse and looked up, expecting to see one of his own men who had followed him down. He saw two men in unfamiliar whitish-grey uniforms. His hand reached to his pistol on the horse’s withers – and stopped. To his surprise, he recognised the French shit-weasel Narrey and his gorilla of a bodyguard, walking their horses towards him along the grassy bank. How the Devil did they get here? I am the tip of the spear.
‘Captain Hogan – well met!’ called out Henri. ‘Good afternoon, sir!’
‘Good afternoon to you, monsieur. It’s a grand day for a ride, is it not?’
It was indeed a fine, cloudless day, with a soft breeze that kept the heat at bay. ‘So this is where His Majesty wishes to fight, is it?’ Henri said casually.
‘He means to defend the line of the river – as well you know, monsieur.’
Henri d’Erloncourt smiled warmly at Hogan. His companion Major du Clos stared blankly at the Irishman. Their horses were only yards apart. Hogan could see a vivid splash of fresh blood on the major’s grey sleeve. There was more blood spattered on his thigh. ‘Are you wounded, monsieur?’ Hogan said to the burly artilleryman, indicating the blood with a flick of his index finger. ‘Should you like me to summon aid? Perhaps fetch a doctor?’
Major du Clos said nothing. He stared all the harder at Hogan.
‘The blood is not his,’ said Henri. He gave a careless laugh. ‘We have been conducting the interrogations of some deserters in Drogheda Castle.’
Hogan thought about this for a moment. Whatever atrocities the unsavoury pair had been up to, he truly did not wish to know about it.
‘And how do you consider our chances of victory, Captain Hogan?’
For one insane moment, Hogan considered pulling his pistol from its holster and shooting down Major du Clos. With him gone, the skinny fop would be easy meat for his sword. There was no one else here. He might be observed by one of his men on the hillside, but none of them would peach. Hogan was not by nature a murderous man. But every instinct was telling him that these men were evil. It wasn’t a question of why he should kill them. It was a question of why not. The world would surely be a better place without them.
‘I would put our chances at fair,’ he said. ‘It depends on whether King James holds his nerve on the day. We can stop them if we’re well directed.’
Henri nodded slowly as if he were listening to the wisdom of a great sage. ‘Tell me, Captain Hogan, do you remember our first meeting at the Bull Inn?’
‘Vividly.’
‘Do you remember that I gave you weapons and a large sum of money?’
‘Jesus, man, it was only nine months ago, of course I remember.’
‘And you asked what I – or rather King Louis – wanted in return?’
Hogan said nothing. He was in no mood to play silly games.
‘We spoke of you vigorously prosecuting the war against the English – which you have done admirably. I congratulate you, sir, on your labours!’
Hogan remained silent, watching the two Frenchmen. Now would be the time to do it, he thought. Lunge for the pistol and drop the big one. While this arse-worm is enjoying the sound of his own voice so much it’s almost onanism.
‘I spoke then of a service that I might ask of you. A favour. Remember?’
It was too late now. The little man had reminded him that Hogan was in the Frenchman’s debt. And Hogan always paid his debts, one way or another.
‘What is it that you want from me,’ he said.
‘I am not so optimistic as you, sir, about our chances of victory.’
Hogan shrugged.
‘I believe that we shall not be “well directed”, as you put it, on the day of battle. Furthermore I predict we shall be soundly beaten by the superior English troops and it shall be as a result of King James’s usual folly and incompetence.’
The Frenchman seemed not to care that he was speaking treason.
‘The battle will surely be lost, Captain Hogan, and the Irish Army will retreat in disarray – and it is at that moment that I shall require you to fulfil your commitment to me. When the signal is given for a general disengagement and the drums beat for retreat, then shall I require your favour to be repaid.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘When the day is lost, I desire you to seek me out on the battlefield – I shall be with the sole French gun battery, our position should by then be obvious. And you and your men shall escort me and my artillery to safety.’
‘I may be dead by then. That is, if we’ve lost the battle.’
Henri gave a little snigger. ‘Oh, I think you are a survivor, Captain Hogan. I’m certain you will live through the day. But in case you do succumb I should like you to instruct your second in command – it’s that great bearded lout Gallagher, is it not? – to fulfil your commitment in place of you.’
‘And if I refuse to do your bidding – no wait, I remember it now, it is your fearsome French torturers and all that flaying alive business and whatnot, yes?’
Hogan was laughing now, right in the Frenchman’s face.
‘No, that would not be appropriate – but I shall tell the world that you are a man without honour – a faithless liar, whose sacred word means nothing.’
Hogan stopped laughing. He glared at Henri, the fingers of his right hand flexing open and closed near the butt of his holstered horse pistol.
‘You will come and find me on the battlefield, when the drums beat the retreat. You will come then and pay your debt to me in full. Are we agreed?’
Hogan nodded.
‘Excellent! Now I have one more thing to tell you. It is a message from the Governor of Drogheda. He says that there is a wooden bridge over the River Boyne about six miles west of here, at the village of Slane. It might be wise to burn it, he says, to deny its use to the enemy. I could not say whether this is the right course or not. I am merely passing on his advice. Good day, Captain!’
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, June 30, 1690
In the ancient great hall of Mellifont Abbey, Holcroft Blood sat on the bench by the wall and observed the milling throng of two score senior officers of William’s army. The King himself was seated at the far end of the hall by the fire, a slight figure, in the over-large chair, his face drawn with pain and the pure white bandage on his left shoulder catching the flickering light of the fire.
William had been struck by a cannon ball that morning while reconnoitring the north riverbank of the Boyne with his aides and some of his Blue Guards. Holcroft had been told that the King, in order to show his insouciance and because it had been a warm sunny day, had sat down on the grass by the water’s edge for a picnic with his aides. If that was true, it was madness, even though he was out of effective musket range from the enemy. For the Irish, seeing him, had swiftly brought up two cannon – most likely three-pounder Falcons, which being light were the easiest to move in a hurry – and opened fire on William and his party at their al fresco meal. One staff officer and several horses had been killed and a cannon ball had bounced off the ground and grazed the King’s shoulder. The doom-laden rumours had spread through the army like lightning: The King is dead! William is slain by the enemy! All is lost!
William, after having the painful but, fortunately, non-lethal wound cleaned and dressed by his surgeon – he had lost a good deal of skin and a slice of shoulder flesh but mercifully nothing was broken – was forced to ride through the camp, with the Duke of Schomberg at his side, in great discomfort, but bravely sh
owing his face to the troops to quell the rumours of his demise. Holcroft, who had arrived with the guns from Dundalk after nightfall, had missed the panic – for which he was grateful. But, immediately after he had given his orders to Barden for the dispositions of the cannon on top of the ridge, on the extreme right wing of the army, he had been summoned to this council of war with Richards as the two senior Ordnance officers.
It was clear that William meant to fight the next day. His army was assembled here on the north bank of the Boyne, and James’s full force was ensconced on the other side of the river, waiting for them to try to cross. This was the reason William had come to Ireland. A full-pitched battle. A trial of strength between the two sides – and let God Almighty, who made kings and broke them, choose who should triumph on the day of reckoning.
The King stood, shrugging off the helping hand of the Duke of Schomberg, and said, ‘Gentlemen! If you please . . .’ and the room fell silent.
‘Tomorrow is the day, gentlemen, tomorrow we shall face the enemy. And tomorrow we shall be victorious against him.’
There was a general murmur of agreement, a few men even huzzah-ed.
As William cordially invited all his generals to give him their advice on strategy, Holcroft looked around at the faces of those commanders – the Duke of Schomberg, standing beside his royal master; his eldest son Meinhardt, Count Schomberg, who had his own division; there was the Count of Solms, William’s most trusted warlord and commander of his elite Blue Guards, and on the far side of the fire the Duke of Württemberg-Neuenstadt, who commanded the left wing – all of them beefy, tough Germanic professional soldiers, but not one true Englishman among them. Not for the first time, Holcroft pondered what had happened to bring his nation to the point where there were more of his countrymen in positions of high command on the far side of the Boyne than gathered in the fire-lit darkness in this crumbling old abbey for a council of war.