Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  Holcroft fixed his glass on the bridge. The Frenchmen were the only two mounted men on the stone structure, elevated above the mass of foot traffic. Guillaume du Clos was about two horse-lengths ahead of Henri d’Erloncourt, forcing a way through the crush of bodies, making a path for his master to follow. The major was only a yard or two from the south end of the bridge. In a moment, he and Narrey would be over the river and galloping free. And if that happened then . . .

  Holcroft turned angrily; he snapped, ‘God damn it, Hodges. Will you—’

  With a roaring cough, the Falcon fired. A long plume of smoke jetted from the barrel. Holcroft whipped the glass to his eye and watched as the ball soared high and arced towards the bridge. It came in on a slanting trajectory, missed Henri d’Erloncourt by an arm’s length, crashed into the stone wall of the bridge, bounced off and smashed straight into the broad back of Major du Clos. The artilleryman was snatched from the saddle of his horse by the cannon ball as if he had never been there at all. The horse went wild: bucking, kicking. The folk on foot scattered, some leaping over the side of the bridge and into the water below. Through the chaos, Henri d’Erloncourt’s mount trotted over the other side and on to the main road. Once there, digging in his spurs, the Frenchman brought his horse briskly up to the canter and swiftly rode away.

  Chapter Twenty

  Friday, 4 July, 1690: 6 a.m.

  There was definitely a symmetry to it, Henri d’Erloncourt thought to himself. Although he could not say it was a very pleasing pattern. King James had landed at this very spot, on this same damp, slimy and fish-stinking quay in the old port of Kinsale in March of the previous year. Henri remembered the occasion well. The King, splendid in purple embroidered with gold and silver threads, his head magnificently bewigged with flowing chestnut curls, his torso adorned with a green silk sash from shoulder to hip, a gold-handled sword at his waist, his fine silver-buckled shoes fashioned from softest lavender kidskin . . .

  He had made a speech, saying that as monarch of three lands, the Irish nation were the closest to his heart, their courage and devotion was boundless, as was his love for them and their religion. He claimed this day would go down in history as the first in the glorious struggle for the recovery of his kingdoms.

  He was cheered to the rooftops. The whole of Kinsale harbour had echoed with the sound of the local populace huzzah-ing, and calling down God’s blessing on their handsome, glorious and rightful prince. They had turned out in hundreds to catch a glimpse of their champion. They had loved him loudly.

  How different today was, fifteen months later. There were no more than a handful of curious onlookers – and no one was cheering. They knew James had lost his great battle with the Protestants at the River Boyne and was leaving their shores, most likely for ever. Most of them were scowling or even sneering at the man that Henri had heard being called Séamus an Chaca behind his back – which in the Irish language, he had been told, meant James the Shit.

  The King was much thinner today, and drab-looking, too. No purple gold-embroidered coat, no green silk sash – just a plain grey riding cloak over his filthy once-white linen shirt. He had ridden exceedingly fast from the battlefield, embarrassingly fast, arriving that same night at the capital, then pausing only for a few hours at Dublin Castle to give orders that the city was to be surrendered without a fight. He had climbed back into the saddle before dawn and ridden south to Waterford with more unseemly haste, where he had taken a small ship along the coast on the short voyage to Kinsale.

  The reasons he had come here were clearly visible out in the grey waters of the harbour, where the wide River Bandon debouched into the Irish Sea. The sleek black shapes of ten French frigates riding comfortably at anchor, nearly filling the harbour, which James had commandeered to take him and his depleted entourage back to France. He claimed the rapacious ships of the Royal Navy were lying in wait for him in St George’s Channel and only a sizeable French force such as this squadron could return him in safety to the port of Brest.

  James was now conferring with General Lauzun, a few last words before his departure; indeed with the crew of the rowing launch that would soon take him to the frigate Hirondelle standing by, James was surrounded by Frenchmen.

  The man who would be King made no speeches today, not even a brief thank you to the nation that had sacrificed so many of its brave young men in his doomed cause. He simply nodded at the assembled French officers, and the handful of scornful Irish onlookers, and started to climb down the ladder to the launch. The men and women who had come to see the King depart did not tarry either. They began to disperse before James had reached the rowing boat.

  Henri turned away, too, and began to walk back along the shore towards the centre of Kinsale. He thought briefly about Guillaume du Clos – what would he have made of today’s muted royal departure. Ah, Guillaume. My friend. My lover. My protector. My strong right hand. Cut down by that snake Holcroft Blood. There would be a reckoning – Henri promised the soul of his dead friend – a bloody final reckoning with the Englishman. He vowed that he would not leave this damp and dismal country till he had at least achieved that aim. Holcroft Blood must die screaming in agony, paying the price for his crimes . . . He felt a heavy hand on his sleeve, jumped slightly, and turned to see General Lauzun’s square, brutal face scowling at him.

  ‘Breakfast with me, d’Erloncourt. I’m at the Market House.’

  It was more an order than an invitation.

  They ate smoked herring and coddled eggs with toasted bread and butter in a broad room above the courthouse, which looked over a busy market place – the Irish stallholders setting out their wares for the day’s trade, seemingly indifferent to the ignominious departure of their rightful sovereign – and they drank a surprisingly good chilled white Burgundy wine with the meal.

  ‘King James will not return to these shores,’ said Lauzun, swallowing a mouthful of buttered eggs. ‘He might say that he will, but his war is finished.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Henri. ‘But does Louis le Grand know this?’

  ‘He does. Although, of course, His Majesty will not – cannot – admit this to James. But we must now consider what course of action we are to follow in Ireland. If we are to remain here at all. I must confess, my dear d’Erloncourt, that a part of me wishes I too was on the Hirondelle, heading back to France.’

  Henri said nothing. He finished his glass and poured another for himself and the general. He glanced around the room to see no one was within earshot.

  ‘We shall depart soon enough, my dear Lauzun,’ he said quietly. ‘You and I and the French Brigade will take a ship and make it safely back to France in due course. But I have a little more work to do before we leave these shores.’

  He took a sip of the Burgundy. It was truly excellent. ‘My mission, general, has not altered with the departure of James Stuart,’ he said. ‘Indeed the departure of the would-be King, while unfortunate for his cause, may not be quite so disastrous for ours, I mean, for the cause of His Majesty King Louis.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My mission was not primarily to put James Stuart on the thrones of the Three Kingdoms. I sought – and still seek – only to advance the interests of La Belle France and of the Sun King himself – as I believe you do too, monsieur.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lauzun.

  ‘Furthermore, I believe that the interests of France are best served by the war in Ireland continuing for as long as possible. I would even say that the catastrophic defeat at the Boyne may well be a blessing in disguise for us.’

  Lauzun frowned at him.

  ‘If James had triumphed in the battle, if let us imagine for a moment he had trounced William at the Boyne and sent him reeling back across the Irish Sea to England – what would he have done next? I suggest to you, sir, that if he managed to evict William and his army from this land, he might well be content to end the war there and then. Make peace; sign a treaty with William. There are many among his clo
sest advisers – General Sarsfield for one, perhaps the Duke of Tyrconnell, too – who might urge him to settle for merely being King of Ireland. He knew in his heart, I think, that he could not rule in England, with most of her nobility, both Houses of Parliament, the Protestant clergy, the squires in the counties, even the common people themselves set against him.’

  ‘You are claiming that defeat for James is somehow a victory for us?’

  ‘A victory for James might have ended the war, my dear general. And then William would be able to concentrate his military power in his homeland, the Netherlands, and bring the troops to bear in the war in the Low Countries. He would bring his considerable might down on the armies of France, which, under the Duc de Luxembourg, are presently engaged against him there. A victory for James here might have been disastrous for us.’

  Lauzun took a forkful of smoked fish. He chewed it slowly, then said: ‘The Irish Army is largely intact. The Brigade took a pounding at the bridge of Duleek but enough of the men got away to fight again. We could concentrate all our forces, rebuild our battalions and make a lightning march on Dublin . . .’

  ‘No, general, no – if you will forgive me. But that might lead to either a definitive victory or a resounding defeat. I wish for neither. Both would be disastrous for us. I hope for the war in Ireland to continue for years, for decades even, bubbling along like a vast stewpot of hatred and violence, with Catholic killing Protestant and vice versa, and never an end to the bloodshed in sight.’

  Lauzun stared at him. ‘Perpetual war? Is that even possible?’

  ‘We must emulate the great Roman general Quintus Fabius Maximus.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you may have mentioned him once or twice . . . So your new strategy would be hit-and-run, avoidance of battle at all costs, attacking the enemy lines of communication, swift bandit raids and so on. Is that it?’

  ‘That has always been my strategy. King James had other ideas. We must keep the English troops here in Ireland – and the Dutch and the Danes and the Germans, too – for as long as possible. More troops here mean fewer troops available to fight against our forces in the Low Countries. Do you follow me?’

  ‘The Duke of Tyrconnell and the bulk of the Irish Army has pulled back west behind the line of the River Shannon. My Brigade is with them. Tyrconnell holds the city of Limerick. He’s determined to defend it to the last.’

  ‘Let him – aid him, even, if you feel so inclined. But I say this: although the Irish Army may have retreated to the west, the war must continue throughout the whole of Ireland. I shall be mobilising all of my resources to gather information about the movements of William’s troops all across the land. My spies will watch them constantly, they will pass along the information to our irregular forces – seemingly harmless men and women who hide among the civilian population – then we shall strike them hard when they least expect it.’

  Lauzun took a sip of wine and raised an eyebrow at his companion.

  ‘We must quit these shores – you and I and the Brigade – in a short while, mon général. But, with a little work, a little gold and a little persuasion before we go, we can ensure that the fighting here continues for years, for decades.’

  Lauzun nodded and smiled grimly. ‘I must admit it, d’Erloncourt, I am impressed with you. You have given me fresh purpose, sir.’ He raised his glass. ‘I give you a toast, monsieur, to war without end in Ireland. To perpetual war!’

  Henri raised his own glass: ‘Perpetual war!’

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Saturday, July 19, 1690

  Holcroft tapped the excess ink from his quill and wrote . . .

  Whale and Crow Inn,

  Dame Street, Dublin

  Saturday, July 19th, 1690

  Madam,

  Of all the qualities that I admire in a woman, and particularly in a wife, one of the foremost is discretion. However, it has come to my attention that this most admirable quality appears to be distressingly lacking in your character, since I have heard from numerous reliable sources of your disgraceful . . .

  Holcroft paused to recharge his pen and tried to think of the correct word to use. Infidelity? Betrayal? Treachery? None of them seemed to hit the right note. He looked around the small, wood-panelled upper room that he had taken at the Whale and Crow for inspiration, at the small peat fire smouldering in the grate. This fine new Dublin establishment, conveniently close to the Castle, was warm and comfortable, the large four-poster bed soft, and Holcroft – for an extra fee – had arranged to be the only occupant, yet he could find no rest in its comfort since the episode at the Ordnance mess two days previously when he had seen the reflection of Claudius Barden in a mirror making the sign of the horns behind his back and laughing with one of the Gentlemen of the Ordnance.

  He had rounded on Barden, meaning to call him out, to fight him, for the insult – the sign of the horns, the index finger and little finger of the right hand extended with the two middle ones curled into the palm – was an age-old sign that he was a cuckold. Barden, it seemed clear to Holcroft, was mocking him by suggesting that his wife Elizabeth had been unfaithful to him.

  When confronted with his actions, Barden had pretended that he meant no insult – he had even apologised for any offence he might have caused. It was a silly misunderstanding; he said he was recounting to the other officer the events of the siege of Carrickfergus, when the Irish garrison had filled the breach in the town walls with a herd of slaughtered cattle, hence the hand sign to indicate the lead bullock, which had happily galloped away unscathed.

  Holcroft had been forced to let it pass – Jacob Richards, the First Engineer and Comptroller of the Train, had been firm that he must accept Barden’s explanation and his apology. He had already killed one Ordnance officer in a duel the year before – he would not be forgiven if he dispatched another.

  However, Holcroft could not shake off the feeling that everyone in the mess was secretly laughing at him: a most unpleasant sensation. By protesting at Barden’s humiliating hand-sign, he had revealed to those who did not already know it – and there were few of those, he suspected – that his Elizabeth had been conducting a very public affair with a handsome young Dutch officer named Markus van Dijk who was stationed in White Hall at Queen Mary’s court.

  Holcroft had previously turned a blind eye to numerous reports of the pair going out into society together. He had ignored the unpleasant anonymous letter. He was now forced to recognise that even his friend Jack Churchill, Lord Marlborough, had made a passing reference to it in one of his letters. He decided that he must act. And so he had begun this letter that sat before him on the paper-strewn table. One of the most difficult he’d ever had to write.

  Dalliance. He decided ‘dalliance’ was the correct word to use.

  I have heard from numerous reliable sources of your disgraceful dalliance with this Captain van Dijk, which news has caused me considerable distress, not to mention a large amount of personal embarrassment and humiliation . . .

  He thought for a moment. Did he really want to do this? In a few strokes of his pen he could destroy a bond that had survived for nearly three years. How did he feel about Elizabeth consorting with this lustful young Dutchman? He did not like it, certainly. But he had been away a long time. On the other hand, this was not how a wife was supposed to act. She had broken the rules of marriage. And rules were important to Holcroft. There was no question of a divorce: an Act of Parliament would be required to formally end the marriage, and that would be expensive, and worse, would expose him to more public ridicule. No, no divorce. He would simply cast her off. An image leapt into his mind of Barden’s gleeful drink-reddened face in the mirror, when he had made the sign of the horns behind his back . . . and Holcroft dipped the quill and wrote.

  Accordingly I must ask you to remove your person and all of your possessions from the house we have shared in Mincing Lane. I do not care in the slightest where you go, although I suggest that
you return to your father’s house and confess to him the sins you have committed that have destroyed my honour.

  He dipped the quill again, buoyed up, indeed surprisingly invigorated by a righteous, almost a joyous anger.

  I shall not be renewing the lease on the house in Mincing Lane, which falls due at Michaelmas, a few weeks from now, and I shall be sending my agents in London to collect my belongings as soon as possible. I shall also instruct my goldsmith Richard Hoare, at the sign of the Golden Bottle in Cheapside, that you are to receive a sum of one hundred pounds on the first day of January every year – but not another penny. Furthermore, after this missive, I do not intend to communicate with you. Once this campaign is over, and it cannot be very long now, I am considering making Ireland, the land of my forefathers, my permanent home. If, for some unforeseen reason you should wish to contact me, a letter delivered into the hands of Richard Hoare, at the address above, will find me in due course. It is most unlikely, however, that I shall choose to reply.

  Yours, etc,

  Holcroft Blood.

  A part of him knew that he was being unjust, perhaps even a little cruel. But a hundred pounds a year was a reasonable sum for her to live in some comfort. And perhaps this Dutch lothario van Dijk would support her as his official mistress. He shook fine-grained sand over the wet ink from the pewter shaker on the desk and rang the bell to summon the boy, who would take the letter, folded and sealed, to the General Post Office over the river in Fishamble Street.

  It should reach Elizabeth at Mincing Lane in three days.

  There was a knock at the door, but when Holcroft called ‘Come in!’ he was surprised to see, rather than the inn’s tiny weasel-like errand boy, the lean, elegant, grey-uniformed figure of Francis Waters in the doorway.

  ‘Good evening, Major Blood,’ he said.