Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  Whatever the truth, Henri was disappointed with the two senior Irish commanders in Limerick. They could not seem to do anything right. The defences of the old city were woefully disorganised. Morale among the Jacobite troops was lower than at any time. And, worst of all, ten days after the biggest man-made explosion that Henri had ever heard – it had shattered house windows and toppled solid oak dressers, even six miles away in Limerick – the English had simply replaced their cannon with others and the new guns were even now hammering steadily at the walls. In a matter of three or four days they would have a practicable breach and then all would be lost. Their troops would pour into the city and overwhelm it in a matter of hours.

  The war would be over.

  But it was not only the siege guns that were giving Henri an aching head that morning. His best secret agent, Agricola, had gone strangely silent – not a peep for more than two weeks. Usually the agent would send something via the courier networks that stretched across Ireland: well-paid tinkers, travelling priests and a few well-chosen and well-mounted raparees who delivered close-written notes in code every few days – even if it was just a background assessment of changes in King William’s military capabilities or a few items of gossip from the officers’ mess. But the last Henri had heard from his most valuable asset in the heart of the English establishment in Dublin had been the report in early August about the powerful Train of Artillery heading for Limerick. Deep in his belly, Henri knew that Agricola had been unmasked and was now dead, or facing execution. Well . . . tant pis, that was the fate of most secret agents in wartime, and Agricola had served France for a whole year – and been paid handsomely in gold for that service. There was little that Agricola could divulge to his enemies of Henri’s covert activities, few vital secrets to betray under torture. So then, Agricola, merci and adieu!

  But Henri had another source of disquiet, another problem to make his poor head throb: the Irishman Michael Hogan, the Galloper. The Major had, according to Sarsfield, captured an English officer at the fight at Ballyneety and had ridden south to Cork with him – for reasons unclear to Sarsfield – and he had not been seen since. The Irish general, flushed with his great success in destroying the enemy guns, had not tried to prevent Hogan’s mission or dissuade him from his path. According to the general, the English cavalry had been buzzing about like flies on a dung-heap after the explosion and it had been every man for himself. Sarsfield had only just managed to get his own surviving men safely back across the Shannon by riding all day like demons. Two men, travelling alone, in a countryside crawling with vengeful English cavalry . . . their chances of evading the enemy were slim to none.

  Was Hogan then dead or captured? This was to Henri potentially worse news than the loss of Agricola. He had been grooming Hogan to take the role that poor dear Guillaume du Clos had filled so admirably. Hogan had been destined to be Henri’s strong right hand – the man was brave and ruthless enough, and while his bottomless lust for gold was still the prime motivating force, Henri was fairly sure that he could bind the Galloper to him with more subtle and enduring bonds. The man Hogan was a true Christian, a devout son of Holy Mother Church, and his deep commitment to the land of his birth, too, could be used to manipulate him. But if he was dead, incapacitated or rotting in an English gaol, then he could be of no further use to Henri – or to France. And all the time and money he had lavished on the man was wasted. That would be a blow. Yet one he could survive.

  The new fellow they had sent him from Paris, Premier-Maitre Jean Matisse of the Sun King’s navy, who was manning the bureau in Cork, was a reliable sort, loyal and strong, and apparently a gifted sailor, although he was a little uncouth and not perhaps as intelligent or well bred as he might be. It was odd that he had not heard from him either. Although the English patrols might easily have intercepted any messages from Cork.

  Such was the incessant din from the English guns – audible even here in King John’s Castle on the far side of the city from the barrage – that Henri did not at first hear the knocking on the door of his round office on the top floor.

  ‘Enter!’ he called, wondering if it were time for dinner in the hall on the ground floor – it was long past noon. He was hungry, tired and his head pounded like a kettledrum. Perhaps he would order hot wine to be sent up after the meal. Or a little brandy. Maybe he would take a long nap later.

  He was surprised to see a young French officer pushing open the door and holding it for the squat, square form of General Lauzan, who strode inside.

  ‘Shut the door and stand guard outside,’ Lauzun growled at the junior officer. ‘We do not wish to be disturbed.’

  They exchanged the usual pleasantries and Lauzun, who seemed preoccupied, wandered over to the curved wall and peered out of an arrow slit at the bustling cavalry encampment on the County Clare side of the Shannon.

  ‘It is nearly time, d’Erloncourt,’ he said.

  Henri said: ‘Do you think that I don’t know that?’

  General Lauzun appeared not to hear him. ‘It’s just a matter of days now and I don’t want us to be caught here when they break through,’ he said.

  ‘So we leave?’ said Henri. ‘What will our gallant allies say to that?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Tyrconnell,’ said Lauzun, ‘persuaded him. He agrees with me. This war is lost and it is time to recognise that uncomfortable fact. You will have heard that the Earl of Marlborough is preparing to bring thousands of fresh troops to Ireland by ship? You read the secret report from the cabinet noir?’

  Henri nodded.

  ‘So, it is time for us to go home, my friend. Ireland is doomed.’

  So much for perpetual war, thought Henri. Yet I do not wish to sacrifice my own life for this land of brutes and savages. Agricola is dead, or captured. Hogan most likely, too. There will be other wars. The King has need of me yet.

  He said aloud: ‘So the Duke of Tyrconnell and all his men will come with us then? To Galway? We are simply to abandon Limerick to the English?’

  ‘Yes, Tyrconnell and his regiments will take ship with us in Galway Bay – I have arranged for the navy transports to meet us there – and he and his men will serve Louis in the Low Countries. The King made a generous invitation to all Irishmen who wish to serve him. But there’s a problem . . .’

  ‘I believe I can guess: General Sarsfield, yes?’

  ‘He says he will not yield Limerick to the enemy. He says he will fight on for as long as he is able. He genuinely thinks he can win the battle here.’

  ‘Then there is no problem. Let Sarsfield fight here – and die – if the fool wishes to, and with as many of his men as choose to throw away their lives.’

  The sound of loud voices could be heard from beyond the door. Someone was arguing with General Lauzun’s aide. There was the unmistakable meaty sound of a blow and the door flew open to reveal Michael Hogan standing over the prone body of the junior French officer. The Irishman was rubbing at the red knuckles of his right fist.

  ‘Morning to you, Henri,’ said Hogan. ‘I’d like a brief moment of your time, if you don’t mind. It is fairly urgent, I believe, but I am afraid I was not able to communicate that urgency with sufficient force to your wee man here.’

  ‘It seems to me that you used far more than sufficient force,’ growled Lauzun. ‘If you have killed him, I shall make you pay for it, monsieur!’

  ‘Major Michael Hogan, may I introduce to you General Antoine de Caumont, Duc de Lauzun, commander of the French Brigade here in Limerick.’

  ‘Your servant, General. I wish you joy – and all the usual nonsense. But, if you don’t mind excusing us, sir, I need to speak to old Henri here alone.’

  *

  The past ten days had been a strange, dream-like time for Michael Hogan. After leaving Holcroft Blood in the hands of the crude French sailor in Cork he had headed north towards Limerick, but slowly. He rode with a heavy heart.

  In truth, he felt a deep sense of guilt about handing over the English of
ficer to his doom. Sure, Blood was an enemy, even though he claimed an Irish father; sure, he had killed more than a few of Hogan’s friends. But he liked the man. There was something about the fellow that sparked respect in him, the kinship of fellow warriors, perhaps, or the acknowledgement that they were both at bottom honourable men, a feeling which Hogan found hard to ignore. He would have fought the tall Englishman hand to hand – indeed, he had done so more than once – and he would have killed him if he could, just as he was sure that Blood would slaughter him in the heat of battle without a second thought. But delivering the man up to torture and death at the hands of that foppish piece-of-shit and his drunken minion – well, that stuck in his gullet. He thought about the gold – the hundred pounds in louis d’or that Narrey had promised him for his head, his usual moral panacea – but it didn’t make him feel any better about what he had done. Indeed, when he looked deeply into his heart he felt dirty and dishonoured by his recent actions.

  And honour meant a great deal to Hogan. So when he rode out of Cork, he was not clear in his mind where he wanted to go. Obviously, he wanted the money, and the gold was with Narrey in Limerick. But if he went back there, he would be putting himself under the control of the Frenchman, accepting servitude: the money notwithstanding, he wasn’t sure he wished to do that.

  In the event, the decision was made for him. Ten miles north of Cork, near the village of Grenagh, he ran into an English patrol, a small company of red-coated dragoons, who enthusiastically chased him west all the way into folds of the Boggeragh Mountains before he managed to lose them. He was dog tired, he realised, when he was able finally to stop running, and so was his poor sweat-lathered horse. He slept fitfully in a damp ditch that night with his pistol in his hand and the next morning he pushed on west, towards Killarney, but avoided the town and the people he knew, and eventually found himself in a small wood on the southern shores of Lough Leane. There he made his camp.

  At first, alone, hidden by the trees beside a stretch of smooth water, he felt isolated and a little uncomfortable in his solitude – then after several days of tickling brown trout from the streams, hunting squirrels and rabbits for the pot with his carbine, swimming before breakfast every day, he began to feel calmer, at peace with himself. He was stealing time from his own life. And it was a joyous theft. He thought a great deal about Henri d’Erloncourt who would no doubt be chafing at his absence; he thought about Holcroft Blood – and the doom that awaited him. In his idle hours, he recalled all the women he had known and loved, the men he had fought, the adventures he had enjoyed, the wild midnight rides. He thought about the situation of the little untenanted sheep farm he hoped to buy with Narrey’s gold, when the war was over, and spent a morning riding over to it and across its heathery slopes and small, neglected fields. It was a humble place in the lee of the Purple Mountain, wild, remote and beautiful. He believed he would have enough money to swing the deal, and if it cost more he would find it somehow. A decision was made. After more than a week of living like a savage, ten pounds lighter but clearer of mind, he saddled up his horse and set off at a brisk trot for Limerick.

  *

  ‘Where the Devil have you been?’ said Henri, when General Lauzun had reluctantly yielded the room, and taken his stunned but living aide with him.

  ‘Never you mind. I have been about my own business in the south.’

  ‘Your business is my business – you serve at the pleasure of His Majesty King Louis, Major, as I’m sure I do not have to remind you. His Majesty is the man who pays your stipend. And I am His Majesty’s deputy here in Ireland.’

  ‘I hereby resign my commission. As of this moment. Draw up some papers, or whatever is necessary, but I can no longer serve either you or Louis.’

  ‘You’ve lost your taste for my gold?’ said Henri, putting his head on one side and considering the Irishman. ‘You’ve come into an inheritance, perhaps.’

  ‘I’ve lost my taste for service,’ said Hogan. ‘But there is a matter of business that remains between us. And I mean to hold you to your word on it.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘You once offered me a hundred pounds for the head of Holcroft Blood. I now claim that prize. I’ll take my money in gold, and my leave of you. Today.’

  Henri looked pointedly at the Irishman’s hands. ‘I see no severed head,’ he said. ‘And no head means no prize money for you.’

  ‘His head is still attached to his neck and is currently in the cells with the rest of his living body in the Old Tower at Cork, guarded by your man Matisse. I captured him at Ballyneety, took him to Cork, where I believed you were to be found. I delivered Holcroft Blood’s head to your new man – and now I want my money.’

  ‘Blood’s head is fifty miles away. You have not delivered it to me.’

  ‘Do not trifle with me, Monsieur d’Erloncourt,’ said Hogan. ‘You have had good service from me. I have fulfilled all my bargains with you. Know this: if you try to cheat me in this matter you will suffer for it.’

  ‘Threats now? And you were so scornful of them when we first met.’

  ‘Pay me or you will die, monsieur, I cannot say it clearer than that.’

  ‘Well, that is certainly crystal clear, Major Hogan. But consider this: this old castle, built by Jean Sansterre – the Lackland, as you call him – is occupied by more than a hundred stout men of the French Brigade. I have but to call out . . .’

  ‘You would die before they came through that door.’ Hogan’s right hand moved across his belly to rest lightly on the brass hilt of his cutlass.

  ‘And you would die shortly afterwards. But there is a way that we can avoid all this unpleasant bloodshed, Major. A way that both of us can continue to breathe – and, furthermore, a way in which you can receive your money.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The money – the gold – is not here. It is safe in my strong box in Cork. And the enemy, I am told, are thick on the roads between here and that port. Now, I have some business in Galway over the next week or so, ten days maximum. I have affairs that need to be put in order before my departure . . .’

  ‘You are leaving Ireland?’

  ‘With the French Brigade, and some of your men, too. Shortly, in a few weeks, Major Hogan, it seems that we must bid each other a fond farewell.’

  ‘And my money?’

  ‘I am getting to that, Major. Have a little patience. As I say, I must attend to some private matters in Galway, which will occupy me for about ten days, and then, if you would be so good, you may meet me there at the sign of the Blue Anchor in Harbour Street – shall we say on the third day of September? – and escort me safely across the territory controlled by the enemy to Cork, where I shall interrogate the prisoner Blood – and pay you what you’re owed in full.’

  ‘How do I know that you will not just sail merrily away from Galway, and back to France, never to return?’

  ‘You must trust me . . .’

  Hogan scoffed.

  ‘You must trust me,’ Henri repeated, ‘because you have no other choice. I cannot pay you – the money is in Cork, not here. All you can do is kill me – and die yourself. If you follow my suggestion, you shall have your money in less than two weeks and our business will be done. You need never see me again. The French ships can pick me up from Cork and take me home from there.’

  Hogan stared at him for a few moments. The urge was very strong to draw his blade and hack the little shit-weasel into chunks. He controlled it.

  ‘Think on this, Major Hogan, before you decide. I was willing to pay a hundred pounds in gold to end the miserable life of Holcroft Blood. Do you think I would pass up that opportunity? Consider how much his life, his death, means to me. You might also consider, that my strong box – my whole treasury, if you will – is in Cork. You will find me in Galway, at the Blue Anchor, in ten days!’

  Hogan gave an angry jerk of the head. ‘I’d better find you there,’ he said. ‘Because I will come after you, follow you all the
way to France, if you’re not.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Wednesday, August 27, 1690

  The rain falling on Hogan’s upturned face was warm and welcome. He did not care that his riding cloak was soaked, and the muddy green coat beneath it too, nor that the jaunty pheasant feather in his hat was a bedraggled reed. The rain meant the approach of winter. Rain meant winter quarters; an end to hostilities for months.

  The rain, which had started an hour after dawn, had also briefly silenced the English guns. Open powder kegs could be spoiled by the wet; lit matches were often extinguished, unlit ones ruined. When the sky turned black, the gun batteries were hastily covered with tarpaulins, and the crews stood down till it passed. It would not last, Hogan knew that, the sky to the south-west, behind the gusting wind, was a pale innocent blue. It was a squall that had drenched him, nothing more, and by noon the sun would return and with it the anger of the siege guns.

  For the past three days Hogan had stood his duty on the parapet of the old wall in Irish Town. He had thrown off his major’s rank, which had always made him feel like an impostor, and dismissed what was left of his band of raparees to fend for themselves. Many had drifted away during his sojourn in Lough Leane – gone home to their farms, or signed up with one of the regular cavalry units – and as a mere volunteer, a private soldier, Michael Hogan found himself doing his part in the fight for Irish freedom as a musketeer. He wasn’t sure why – only that men were needed on the walls to keep the enemy out. And he found that he could not shirk when the call went out for volunteers.

  He spent the hours on duty idly taking pot shots at the Williamite sappers toiling in the trenches that wormed their way a little closer to the walls every day. The nearest sappers, a company of Danes, Hogan believed, were no more than sixty yards away now. He had missed his mark dozens of times – even his modern French-made flintlock carbine was not an accurate weapon. Like all muskets it was meant to be fired by a company of soldiers at another company – in other words, at a very large target – and at a maximum range of perhaps fifty or sixty yards. In these conditions about half of the company’s fifty or so bullets would strike a man in the enemy formation. Hogan had always used the carbine as a close-range weapon, riding up to an enemy and firing at a distance of only twenty or thirty feet, which gave him a reasonable chance of a kill. But the defenders had plenty of ammunition, and he and his new comrades of the hastily formed First Limerick Volunteers all blazed away at the enemy from time to time during their watches, often just for something to do. In the past three days, Hogan had killed or badly wounded at least two of the sappers. But despite these small victories over the foe, when Hogan killed like this, firing from a distance at some dog-tired, mud-smeared workman, despite the loud cheers from his comrades on the parapet, it still felt like cold-blooded murder.