by Angus Donald
The Frenchmen stood and took their punishment. Bodies crushed, bones cracked, limbs ripped off by the flying balls. With every belch of the two English guns, blood sprayed in the French battalions and men were tumbled away. The lines began to waver; the sergeants shouting to restore order found their task ever more difficult. Another cannon shot would carve a bloody furrow through the mass of white-clad men, and another, and yet another. In short order, the crisp precision of the blocks of infantry turned into chaos.
The French were becoming a rabble.
‘Advance the sponge,’ said Holcroft for the seventh or eighth time in the past three quarters of an hour. He was blackened by smoke and was partially deafened by the roar of his Falcon, and the accompanying thunder of the Saker ten yards away. ‘Sponge the piece now . . .’
‘Sir, look yonder,’ said Lieutenant Waters. He was tugging at Holcroft’s sleeve and pointing to the right-hand side of the western-most battalion.
Holcroft looked up from the hot barrel of the Falcon and over in the direction the officer was pointing. He saw a small body of horse emerging from behind the shattered mass of the French battalion. They were an irregular formation – that was clear from the variety of uniform colours and styles – but no less a formidable one for it. They walked their mounts out from behind the block of infantry and began to order themselves in ranks and files with two men out in front of the others, seemingly the officers or leaders. One of them, a middle-aged man in a muddy green coat, seemed vaguely familiar; he was hatless with long iron-grey hair tied at the back and a drawn sword in his right hand. The other, Holcroft was certain, was Major Guillaume du Clos.
‘Thank you, Francis,’ he said. ‘You know what to do, don’t you?’ The younger man nodded. Holcroft looked across at the other gun, which had just been noisily discharged. He yelled: ‘Enoch Jackson – do you hear me, you deaf old rascal? Break out the cases of “partridge”. Prepare to receive cavalry!’
The company of cavalry, some forty horsemen – Holcroft could now count them individually, when he looked up from his frantic work – advanced across the four hundred yards between the French flank battalion and the hillock with a deliberate slowness. They began at a walk, the squadron coming forward in three lines of a dozen or so men and then, at two hundred yards, they came up to a trot. Holcroft finished priming the vent, a delicate job with the powder horn, and looked up, straightening his back. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. And then checked that the Lorenzoni pistol was still in the sash, and that his officers’ small sword was by his side.
He glanced at Enoch Jackson, who was scowling along the barrel of Roaring Meg at the approaching enemy. They were a hundred yards away now and coming on at a stately trot. It was a rather magnificent sight, Holcroft thought: the perfect lines of horsemen bobbing slowly towards them. If they were not intent on slaughtering every one of the dozen English gunners toiling on that hillock, Holcroft might even have rather enjoyed the spectacle.
He searched his feelings for a moment. There was fear there, certainly. Death was no more than seventy yards away. But he was aware also of a calm acceptance of whatever fate God had in store for him. If he was to die, this day, so be it.
The cavalry came up into a canter. Holcroft could feel the ground shaking under the hooves of the horses, a tremor vibrating his own boot soles.
‘Tend the match,’ he said, casually over his shoulder.
The lines of horsemen were no more than fifty yards away – and they were spreading out, putting an extra yard between each rider and the next, coming on in open order, it was called. And finally, at no more than thirty yards distance, they came up to the full gallop. Holcroft could see the individual faces of the men, some scared, some ferocious, some merely concentrating hard on their riding. The grey haired man in the muddy green coat, stood in the saddle, waved his sword and shouted: ‘Charge, my lads. Charge for Ireland and honour. Charge!’
Chapter Nineteen
The same day: 6 p.m.
One more attack, that’s what the Frenchman had said. One more bit of reckless devilry – then he could take his remaining men to the crush around the bridge, push their way to the other side and gallop south for Dublin and safety.
Hogan could see why they wanted him to do it. The cannon on the grassy hillock were playing merry Hell with the infantry battalions of the rearguard. The two pieces were manned by magicians – or so it seemed to Hogan, who had little experience of field artillery – and they were killing the Frenchmen with a steady, methodical, machine-like horror. Hogan did not know how the men in the battered, bloody French formations could stand it. Perhaps a quarter of them in the nearest battalion must be dead or wounded, and yet they did not move – well, not all that much. There was a certain amount of swaying, and cringing away from the first line and the regular smash of those cannon balls. The sergeants were hauling away the dead and wounded and the others shuffled into their comrades’ former positions; so yes, there was a little movement. But they had not run away. And that was a marvel to Michael ‘Galloping’ Hogan.
To stand tall and stare as enemy cannon pumped ball after lethal ball into their ranks: that took courage; it took discipline. It was partly respect for the infantry’s steadiness that had made him agree to make this one last charge – that, and the identity of the man who commanded the English battery.
‘He is right there!’ the Comte d’Erloncourt had said loudly, pointing. ‘The man I told you about in Longford, at the Bull. Captain Holcroft Blood. The tall man on the right with the blue coat and red sash. Go, sir, and kill him. Major du Clos will ride along with you, to offer his strong right arm in aid. And the price has gone up, sir. I will pay you a hundred pounds in gold for his head. Do you hear me, Mister Hogan? One hundred pounds in louis d’or! How does that sound?’
Hogan had heard him. It sounded good. Worth the hazard, he thought, to himself and to his men. They would doubtless fire a dangerous cannon ball or two at him as he attacked. But he could see only a dozen enemy on the hillock, barely armed except with their big cannon, a sword or two, maybe a pistol between the lot of them. Beyond them was long grass and scrubby bush, a munitions wagon and all the draught horses tethered at their lines. The danger was minimal. And if Hogan’s men went in fast, in open order, the risk would be acceptable. One or two of his men would not outlive the day – but this was war. And he would compensate the widows or sweethearts of the fallen well from the great hoard of golden French coins that would shortly be in his possession.
The enemy were thirty yards away now, and Hogan rose in his stirrups and shouted: ‘Charge, my lads. Charge for Ireland and honour. Charge!’
The gun on the right, the smaller one, roared and a blast of ‘partridge’ – a thin metal canister packed with several hundred musket balls – exploded outwards in a vast cone of flame and fury. Hogan felt the hot wind of it on his cheek. He snatched a look round and was astounded to see that a massive hole had been punched into the centre of his galloping men. Three horses were down, kicking on the turf and four men too, bleeding, and sprawled like babies.
Ten yards to go and the second cannon fired. Another huge blast of noise and almost the whole remaining front line of Hogan’s company were wiped from the Earth – five, six men snatched away in an instant. Like magic.
But the rest of Hogan’s men were within spitting distance of the gunners and their now empty cannon. The tall officer in the blue coat stared coldly at Hogan, as if he was some guttersnipe who had gatecrashed a society ball. He pointed his peculiar pistol at the raparee captain, aimed and pulled the trigger.
At the last moment, Hogan hunched down behind his horse’s head and the bullet slapped into the white blaze on the old mare’s forehead, killing her instantly. Her legs faltered on the slope of the hillock, she collapsed in a heap and Hogan was hurled head over heels, up in the air, up, up, and came crashing down a yard or two on the far side of the Falcon. He lay there like an upturned beetle, all the living brea
th knocked out of him, unable to move.
The tall officer seemed to have forgotten him as he pistolled a charging raparee through the chest – Liam Fitzwilliam, a good man, if a little fond of the drink – and when the rider, mortally wounded but still in the saddle, slashed at him with his sabre, the officer shot the top of poor Liam’s head clean off.
The company was all about the hillock now, shooting down gunners, swiping at those who tried to hide under the guns. Hogan saw Major du Clos skewer an old man, bald as an egg, with his sword. He leant down from the back of his horse and punched the blade through the old fella’s ribs. The man Blood stood tall, indifferent to the horses and screaming men that flashed by on either side, felling Hogan’s comrades with cool and carefully aimed shots of that strange pistol of his, which never seemed to need reloading.
And then, a wall of grey rose up on one side of him. God’s blood – English soldiers, formed infantry. Where the Hell had they come from?
A fat little sergeant shouted a command, and a volley lanced out, thirty jets of smoke, and half a dozen saddles were emptied. And there were more on the other side, now. More of these damned grey-clad infantry, lined up, muskets levelled. Must have been hidden, crouching down in the long grass, or lying flat till the attack came in. Sneaky bastards. They were the same ones he had fought – fought? – been massacred by in that God-damned winter ambush. Inniskillingers. He was sure of it. Same officer, same first-class troops. Another crashing volley, and his poor men were decimated yet again. Hogan forced himself up on an elbow. His body throbbed. He levered himself to his feet.
He picked up his cutlass from the turf a yard away.
Another volley crashed out. More of his men were swept screaming from their saddles. A severed hand thumped to the ground near his boot. The fingers twitched once and were still. The tall officer pistolled a wounded raparee who was limping bloody-faced from the hillock. Shot him through the back.
Hogan screamed a war cry. He raised his sword, determined to make the Englishman pay for his foul murder. Blood turned. Faster than thought, he pointed the pistol, pulled the trigger – and nothing. Perhaps the damn machine was finally empty. Hogan struck at the man’s head, a hard overhand blow that would have split his skull had it landed. Blood blocked it with an upward sweep of his empty pistol. The clang of steel on steel, as the octagonal barrel met Hogan’s plunging cutlass blade, sent a shock all the way up his right arm.
Hogan swung again, slashing for the head once more. The man ducked under the blow, struggling to pull his own small-sword out of the scabbard.
‘I’ll have your fucking head, laddie,’ Hogan snarled. ‘The most expensive nob in all of God’s green Ireland. I’ll claim my prize yet, ye English bastard.’
He hacked with the cutlass, but the Englishman easily blocked with his blade. Blood lunged swiftly, and nearly spiked Hogan’s forward leg. The Irishman retracted his front foot just in time. They exchanged two more passes, the steel clashed, sparks flew, Hogan felt the sweat start all over his body – the Englishman could fence, he had to give the bastard that. And with every grunt and swipe of the heavy blade, Hogan knew his time was running out. The grey-clad Inniskillinger infantry were reloading their flintlocks – in a few seconds one of them – Hell, maybe all of ’em – would shoot him down like a rabid dog.
His own men, mauled and shocked, were in full retreat, some still a-horse, most not, though, just running across the body-strewn meadow. He was almost the last man on that blood-smeared hillock who did not own Dutch Billy as rightful King of Ireland. The Englishman stabbed at his body, a lightning fast lunge that nearly skewered him. At the last moment he got his cutlass down and across, pushing the small-sword wide of his waist. Hogan saw a loose mount nearby, yards from the larger of the two cannon, a grey gelding with the reins trailing, and knew he must take his chance. Or he would never leave this field.
He screamed and hurled himself at Blood, his sword slicing and hacking the air near his face; the big man turned and slipped under the assault, and Hogan, driven on by his own momentum, allowed himself to plunge past the man and down the hillock at a full run, his left arm reaching for the reins of the horse just beyond. In two seconds he was in the saddle and spurring like a highwayman. A volley of musket shots behind him. He felt the urgent pluck of a bullet at his sleeve. But he was thirty yards away, forty, galloping for his life.
*
Holcroft leant forward with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. That last bastard – the long-haired man with the heavy cutlass – had nearly had him. He lifted his eyes and saw that the man was already halfway back to the French lines on the grey and riding like a centaur. That had been close – Lieutenant Waters had been slow to bring up his company from the long grass. The cavalry had been all over them when the musket volleys began. Perhaps he had been waiting till the enemy were fully committed. Whatever the reason – he’d joined the fight too late. But there was no use in recriminations. Holcroft was alive – and unwounded. And the enemy had been driven off. He decided to say nothing to young Francis Waters but some vague words of congratulation.
A movement on the far left caught his eye. It was Wolseley and his cavalry force advancing diagonally across the field against the cannon-shattered battalions by the bridge. Holcroft watched in admiration as the perfect lines of red-coated horsemen came on, swords drawn and glittering in the sunlight.
They came up to the trot, their dressing immaculate. Two regiments of five hundred horsemen, each regiment advancing in three lines. At a hundred yards out they came up to the canter – and Holcroft could see the nearest French battalion already crumbling as if under some invisible pressure. The men in the front ranks were trying to squirm back into the mass of their fellows; the men at the back were dropping muskets, shedding packs and streaming away towards the Nanny. Forty yards out, the lead regiment moved up into the gallop – five hundred swords raised, pointed ahead of their mounts’ heads like steel lances.
They struck. The first wave of horsemen crashed into the battalion and drove deep into its moving heart. The English cavalry were now riding in the centre of the mass of Frenchmen, slashing with their sabres, hacking down the footmen, droplets of blood flying from their long, curved blades. The second wave followed after them, and then the third came crashing in on their heels – a few muskets were fired off by the terrified foot men. A feeble token defence from a broken and doomed formation. Mostly they ran for their lives.
The battalion became a mob. A mass of panicked individuals streaming south towards the riverbanks. And the horsemen came after them, riding them down, overtaking and hacking backwards at their faces as they passed. Others shot down the running Frenchmen with their carbines or pistols. It was carnage, a horrible blood-soaked shambolic massacre of a helpless foe.
Holcroft tore his eyes way from the destruction of the French. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his telescope. Ignoring the one-sided cavalry action on the banks of the Nanny, he focused on the bridge, north of the town of Duleek. Strangely the crush seemed to have lessened – perhaps with the collapse of the French rearguard, many of the folk trying to cross had decided, in desperation, to chance swimming over the Nanny instead.
But they were there. A few yards from the north entrance to the stone bridge, hemmed in on all sides by a pack of men and horses. Henri, Comte d’Erloncourt and his henchman Major Guillaume du Clos. Just five hundred yards from where Holcroft was standing. Here was his chance – here it was.
‘Enoch!’ he shouted across to the Saker. He could see Jackson slumped in exhaustion over the barrel of Roaring Meg, almost seeming to cuddle the old bronze cannon. ‘Wake up, man; it’s no time for a nap. We’re all bone tired.’
Enoch Jackson did not move. And Holcroft felt a cold hand close around his heart. ‘He’s dead, sir, I’m afraid,’ said a voice from behind him.
Holcroft turned and saw Lieutenant Waters standing looking forlorn. ‘All of Roaring Meg’s gunners are dead, sir. They died t
rying to protect her.’
Holcroft stared at him. He could feel the grief slowly welling up inside his chest, sour and hot – but this was not the time for the luxury of tears.
‘Help me, Francis. Help me now. My enemy – the Frenchman I told you about is on the bridge. He will cross very soon.’
Holcroft turned to two unhurt men standing dumbly beside the Falcon. ‘Hodges, Jones, get this gun sponged and reloaded. Now, on the double. Francis, bring up two or three balls from the munitions wagon. Three-pound balls. Bonner, go with him. Quick now. Quick as you can.’
Holcroft turned and examined the bridge with his glass. Five hundred yards, maybe a shade more. Enoch would know. He gave a little gasp of grief. Pushed down hard on his heart. Concentrate. So . . . five hundred and ten yards.
The Falcon was slowly being reloaded. The men awkward and clumsy. The bloody battle for the hillock seemed to have made them unusually stupid.
He looked again – and saw that the two Frenchmen were pushing their way on to the bridge. He had no time, no time at all.
‘Hurry, for God’s sake, hurry.’
Francis Waters came lumbering up with a three-pound cannon ball. John Hodges was ramming a charge of powder into the Falcon’s barrel.
Holcroft crouched behind the gun, he sighted along the barrel. ‘A shade to the left, I think. Bonner, pass me the handspike.’
A little more elevation was needed, too. Holcroft seized a quoin from the rack, a wedge-shaped piece of wood; he examined it, tossed it angrily aside and selected another, smaller one. He tapped it into the gap between the gun carriage and the barrel of the Falcon with a wooden mallet, tapped it in a little further, raising the angle of the gun a fraction. Yes, that should do it. God, why did you take Enoch from me? Why? I need him now more than ever.
Finally it was ready. Holcroft looked one last time down the barrel.
He stepped back, put the telescope to his eye. ‘Hodges – you’ve got the match? Good. You do it. Stand back, everyone. Have a care. Fire at will, man.’