Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  A horseman came thudding up the steep grassy slope of the hill, a man in a brilliant scarlet coat and broad-brimmed black hat with a scrap of white paper in the hatband, the symbol that all James’s troops had been ordered to wear that day to distinguish them from their similarly clad enemies. The man slid off his sweating horse and, first bowing, he approached the breakfast table. The Duke of Tyrconnell intercepted him. After a murmured conversation, the duke went to the King’s side. Henri edged his horse a little closer to overhear the news.

  ‘Sire, the enemy is on the move,’ said Tyrconnell.

  ‘What, already?’ said the King through a mouthful of cold roast chicken. He took a swallow of wine, dabbed his mouth with a lace napkin and stood.

  ‘See there, sire, the dust on the road to the west. Take my glass.’

  James put the telescope to his eye. From this high vantage point he could see clearly over the countryside for miles. Even Henri, without the aid of a lens, could see large numbers of troops moving on the far side of the river, thousands of men and horses, in formed columns heading westward.

  ‘By God, there are a lot of them. What does it mean, Tyrconnell, do they mean to flank me?’

  ‘It is difficult to say, Highness. But there are several points at which they might cross the river. The bridge at Slane has been destroyed but the water is shallow there, and the Rosnaree ford is only guarded by a single regiment of dragoons, under Sir Neil O’Neill – not even five hundred men.’

  ‘O’Neill won’t hold them. There must be ten or twelve thousand men on the march.’

  Henri pulled out his own glass and examined the columns. Not as many as ten thousand, he thought. But it was impossible to say with any real accuracy.

  ‘They must see that we are arrayed strongly in their front at Oldbridge,’ said the King. ‘They will surely be mauled if they attempt to cross the river there. And my nephew William is a wily bird. He’s not one for the straightforward attack. It is quite possible that they are attempting to cross the water in the west and come around behind us. To cut us off from Dublin.’

  ‘It could just be a feint, sire,’ said Tyrconnell.

  Henri edged closer to the King and gave a discreet cough.

  ‘Yes, Comte d’Erloncourt. You wish to say something?’

  Henri bowed to the King. ‘Sire, my informants have suggested to me that the Prince of Orange seeks to attack you on more than one front. His most trusted generals have been urging a major flanking movement in council. Even a strategy of encirclement.’ Once it was spoken, Henri almost believed his lie.

  ‘Hear that, Tyrconnell? He’s trying to flank me. The Comte d’Erloncourt’s spies confirm it. William’s trying to sneak round and get behind me.’

  ‘I am not so certain, sire,’ said the veteran Irish general. Tyrconnell shot Henri a malevolent glance. ‘He could be merely trying to draw your men away from the centre at Oldbridge. To weaken us there before he attacks . . .’

  ‘If I might suggest something, sire . . .’ Henri shivered. He had always savoured the thrill of his influence. The power of his words to affect events.

  ‘Speak up, d’Erloncourt. Let’s hear your counsel.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Tyrconnell nastily. ‘Do offer us more of your insight.’

  ‘I think it might be wise to send the French Brigade to the west, sire. If the enemy is trying to flank you, or to come around behind your lines, as he clearly seems to be doing, General Lauzan and his men can stop them. And, if this truly is where the full weight of the enemy punch will land, if necessary, the French Brigade can hold up the enemy there, contain him till you come to our aid.’

  ‘Sire, if we were to strip the meagre defences in front of Oldbridge of the whole French Brigade, I fear we will have great difficulty in repelling . . .’

  The King ignored Tyrconnell. He was looking once again at the column marching west. The cloud of dust on the road was huge and unmistakable.

  ‘Monsieur d’Erloncourt, I believe you are right. Where is Lauzan now?’

  ‘General Lauzan is in his tent at the foot of the hill. I believe, sire, he is at his toilet.’ Henri felt a glow in his belly. He had served his true master well.

  ‘Then you, monsieur, shall give him my orders. The French Brigade is to deploy to the west, and your guns, too, Comte d’Erloncourt, if you please – we must strengthen our left wing. Tell Lauzun that he is to stop them at the river, if he is able to. If not, he must hold our flank securely until I can come up . . .’

  ‘Sire, I must counsel against this,’ said Tyrconnell. ‘If the main attack—’

  The King overrode him. ‘And Lauzan will need horsemen, too. Send Lord Galmoy’s men, and General Sarsfield’s regiments, Maxwell’s dragoons too. Make out the orders, Your Grace, this instant, if you please.’

  ‘Sire, the centre will be dangerously weakened . . .’

  ‘The enemy attack will not fall on the centre, Tyrconnell, it is just about to erupt on our open left flank. Look yonder; are you blind? See the enemy on the road – twelve thousand of them, I am sure of it. I can divine my nephew’s mind. Follow my orders, Your Grace, or I will find someone who will.

  ‘Furthermore, I want all tents and baggage packed and ready to go. If we should decide to pull back, it will be in haste. If they succeed in getting round behind us, Tyrconnell, all is lost. If they cut the road to Dublin it would be . . . well, a catastrophe. You must recognise that at least, Your Grace. Now see to it, there’s a good fellow. And without any argument, if you would be so kind . . .’

  *

  Holcroft Blood looked at his watch; it was ten minutes before nine. From his position on a high bank of earth to the west of the sunken road that led down to the ford at Oldbridge, he could see along the ridge at the gleaming array of artillery. The view of neatly aligned guns to his right gave him a jolt of pleasure.

  The Ordnance had been moved into its correct position during the night and the massed guns occupied two hundred yards of high ground on the extreme right of King William’s Army. He had three strong batteries on the ridge, each of four big cannon, twelve- or twenty-four-pounders, and at the near end of the line, closest to Holcroft’s position, a battery of four stubby eight-inch mortars. Each piece was polished and shined to a sparkle by the guns teams and was perfectly in line with the others in the battery. Half a dozen guns, mostly Sakers and twelve-pounders, had been dispatched with Count Meinhardt von Schomberg and his seven thousand men when they began their westward march after daybreak. And the rest of the Train was snug in the artillery park, a hundred yards behind the ridge, ready to be called forward at need, if some of the guns were hit by enemy fire or were damaged in some way. These reserves included two three-pounder Falcons, which Holcroft had ordered to be hitched to their carriages, with teams of horses and drivers standing by.

  The Mortar Battery was captained by Master Gunner Enoch Jackson, who was sitting cross-legged on the earth, his brown bald head bowed low over a box of cut fuses. He appeared either to be examining them closely for defects, or praying to the Almighty that they were cut to the right length to deliver His righteous wrath unto their wicked Jacobite foes.

  Beyond Jackson, Lieutenant Claudius Barden, the Third Engineer of the Train, had command of the No. 1 Battery and the thirty gunners and matrosses who manned its two twenty-four-pounders and pair of twelves. That affable young man had been in tearing high spirits all through the night as the big guns were heaved on to the ridge in near-darkness – and the lack of a good night’s sleep seemed to have had no dampening effect on his energies.

  He saw Holcroft looking over at him and called out: ‘Beautiful day for a battle, sir. God is smiling on us from on high. A sign of victory, sir, for sure!’

  Holcroft wasn’t sure what Barden meant by ‘God is smiling on us’ – did the Almighty have a mouth? Did God smile? Did he think the sun was God? He assumed it was a joke and gave a weak grin of his own in response.

  Holcroft had overall c
ommand of these two batteries this day – No. 1 and the Mortar Battery, with Barden and Jackson under him – and Jacob Richards, who he could see was also looking at his pocket watch two hundred yards away at the far end of the line, had charge of the No. 2 and No. 3 Batteries.

  Holcroft liked Richards, he really did. But he was aware that the man had developed some sort of absurd boyish infatuation for Caroline. They had had an awkward conversation on the march from Dundalk, walking their horses beside the lumbering Train.

  The week before, Caroline Chichester had asked permission of the First Engineer to accompany the Train under his protection, and she and a young maid and an ancient serving man armed with a pair of horse pistols had joined the column at Newry. Holcroft had been too busy to see her but he knew that Richards had dined with her on several occasions in the officers’ mess. He had also heard that his senior officer had paid several brief visits to her large and comfortable tent, where he had been entertained by Caroline and her servants. Holcroft had not been entirely paying attention to Richards’ words as they approached Tullyallen, but he was suddenly aware that his friend had been talking in vague terms about Caroline and marriage.

  ‘I’m not a rich man, Blood, I believe you know that. But I do have some prospects, my father is not in the best of health and I can expect a pretty decent inheritance when he is called, two or three hundred a year. So I’m not quite penniless. But I loathe the idea that Caroline might think me a scrub – a God-damned fortune hunter. Her family is really very well situated, as you know, Lord Chichester, Earl of Donegall, has estates across Ireland. But I care for her deeply. And my future is reasonably bright, I think, in the Ordnance. I might make full Colonel one day. Do you think she might, well, consider me as . . .’

  ‘Have you spoken to her about marriage?’ said Holcroft.

  ‘No, no, good Lord, no. We are on friendly terms, of course and I believe she holds a measure of tenderness for me. But I don’t wish to offer myself to her until I’m sure I would not be scorned. I simply could not bear that.’

  ‘I should leave her alone, if I were you. Just forget the whole idea.’

  Richards gave him a strangely virulent glare.

  ‘And why would you say that, Blood, I wonder? Why should I just forget about her? To leave the field clear, perhaps . . .’

  ‘I don’t think officers who are on active campaign, in the midst of a war, should contemplate marriage, domesticity and so on. For one thing, it may distract you from your duty. For another, you might be killed at any time.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me of my duty. She won’t have you, you know. She knows you’re married. She would never stoop to concubinage. Never.’

  The venom in Richards’ words was clearly apparent. Holcroft was not sure how to respond. ‘My marriage is not . . .’ He was about to say ‘entirely happy’ and stopped himself. He did not want to think about Elizabeth just then. He said instead, ‘the issue here. My wife, whom I married in peacetime, is safe in London.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, all the world knows that. And you must also know by now what everyone is saying she gets up to on her own in Town.’

  Holcroft stopped his horse. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Richards flushed. He reined in. ‘I’m sorry. I meant nothing by that remark. It was spoken in anger and I regret it. I apologise, Blood. Forgive me.’

  Holcroft knew exactly what Richards was referring to. He felt a glow of anger towards the man. But for the swift apology he might have formally called Richards out and fought him. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He had found a letter, a dirty little note in truth, from an unknown hand, left on his cot in his tent at Dundalk. The letter had, in most unpleasant and graphic terms, informed him that Mistress Elizabeth Blood was the lover of Jongheer Markus van Dijk, a captain of the Dutch Third Regiment of Guards. It was signed ‘A well-wisher’. Holcroft had torn the note to shreds and refused to believe it. Just a grubby rumour. Some snivelling worm trying to make trouble. But Richards’ mention of the rumour made him feel hot and cold at the same time.

  ‘I’m going to check on the fodder for tonight’s camp,’ he said to the First Engineer. And he turned his horse and rode off down the column.

  *

  It was now almost nine o’clock. On the ridge above the Boyne, Holcroft could hear sounds behind him, many boots scuffing on a stony track. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the sunken road was filling with men in the blue coats and orange turn-backs of the Dutch Guards. Hundreds of soldiers, each with a flintlock musket and a sprig of green tucked into their hatbands. He looked at Richards at the far end of the artillery line and raised his hat. The First Engineer of the Train raised his own hat in return. Neither man smiled.

  Holcroft glanced at the village of Oldbridge, half a mile below and slightly to the east of his position on the far side of the Boyne. He could see a large house with a walled garden, and three smaller stone cottages shaded by ash trees. Beyond were golden cornfields, the wheat ripe and ready for the scythe. The enemy were in their positions behind the low walls of the garden – he could just see their heads – and in the hedgerows, some in shallow scrapes in the earth behind barriers of hawthorn and beech. He could see a squadron of cavalry in a motley of uniforms trotting easily across the fields behind the village. Were it not for the soldiers’ presence, it would have been a placid scene.

  ‘Very well then, Enoch,’ he said to the bald master gunner, who was standing by the nearest mortar and looking expectantly at him. ‘Let us begin to reduce—’ His words were cut off by the roar of cannon in the No. 3 Battery.

  And battle was joined.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The same day: 10 a.m.

  The horse fidgeted beneath Hogan at the sound of the cannon. The old bay mare had been in many a scrap and mêlée but she was not used, on a noisy and frightening battlefield, to the forced immobility demanded by strict regimental discipline. With each thunderous crack and boom of the English guns she gave a little twitch, and occasionally she took a few dancing side-steps. Hogan checked her, soothed her, stroking her withers with his hand and murmuring soft endearments to let her hear his familiar voice in her constantly flicking ears.

  Fortunately, the Duke of Tyrconnell’s Regiment of Horse, to which Hogan’s company was now informally attached, was formed up on the lower slopes of the Hill of Donore a good half a mile behind Oldbridge, where the majority of the enemy Ordnance was falling. For nearly an hour, the tiny hamlet by the river had endured a pounding from the big guns on the ridge above the Boyne and a fog of dust and smoke clouded the air. It was clear to Hogan what the enemy had in mind. They were softening up the defences in Oldbridge – knocking the houses into rubble, destroying the flint walls of the big garden, tearing through the hedges and woodland copses and battering the terrified men who crouched there – in preparation for a massed infantry assault.

  What Hogan did not understand, and what nobody could explain to him, was why almost two thirds of the Irish Army had departed earlier that morning and was now marching west. This is where the attack would fall – here: why were they sending the troops away? Looking over his left shoulder, he could see the last units of the French Brigade, a little train of six cannon, accompanied by thirty mounted artillerymen, marching south-west, along the line of the river.

  Looking to his front, he could count only six battalions of infantry between himself and the Boyne. Perhaps three thousand men. However, the Irish were much stronger in the mounted arm, which was a blessing. Apart from Tyrconnell’s Regiment lined up beside his own irregular company there were the horse regiments of Colonel Sutherland and Colonel Parker, two squadrons of King James’s Life Guards and one troop of horse grenadiers, and behind him and slightly to his right there were a couple of full-strength regiments of dragoons.

  However, horse alone could not win a full pitched battle and now that the guns of the French Brigade, commanded by that sly bastard Henri d’Erloncourt, were gone
west, there was no artillery left to answer the battering being laid down by the English on the ridge. As he soothed the fidgeting bay, he did the number calculations in his head: he reckoned at best they might have eight or nine thousand Irishmen between Oldbridge and the Hill of Donore. Far too few to face the might of William’s army. How many did the Dutchman have: twenty thousand? Thirty? Whatever the exact number it was still terrible odds.

  He thought about what d’Erloncourt had said about his expectation that James would mishandle the battle and feared that it would come horribly true. He silently vowed to himself that if the King did order a retreat, ‘Galloping’ Hogan and his men would not be slow in obeying. He was no coward, he’d proved that many a time, but he and his men were raiders not redcoats. They were light horse whose job was to harry a fleeing foe, scout out ahead, relay messages. They were not infantry whose role was to stand and die.

  When the trumpet sounded for the retreat – if it did – he and his fifty men would abandon the Duke of Tyrconnell – to the Devil with that pompous old arse – and seek out the Frenchman and get him safely away from the battle.

  If things completely went to Hell and Damnation, Henri d’Erloncourt could at least get him and his men aboard a boat to France, down south in the ports of Cork or Kinsale. If this war was lost in one mad, reckless, badly managed battle, Hogan did not intend to stick around and answer difficult questions from William’s officers about all the farms he had burned in Ulster during the past year. Not that he believed he had anything to reproach himself with – he had never lain with an unwilling woman; he’d never killed a man unless it was necessary. But he was tarred with the raparee brush – and some of his fellow raiders had not been as circumspect as he. He could not afford to fall into English hands. That would be asking for a noose. If it came to it, he and his men would run from the field. Mick Hogan was a patriot – not an idiot.