by Angus Donald
Hogan found himself climbing up the side of the wagon, cutlass in hand, and leaping down on the other side. He had made no decision. He made no choice. He seemed to have no say in this at all. And he was not alone. All the Irishmen, hundreds of them along the barricade, were spilling over the top and coming forward in a great human wave to get to grips with the enemy. Even the Irish Foot Guards were jumping down from the walls to join in the mêlée.
The two sides met and mashed into each other, no time for musketry, blade to blade, muscle against muscle, hatred and fear driving men to claw and bite, hack and stab; the noise was that of a howling mob, shouts of outrage, screams of pain and terror. Hogan slashed a grenadier laterally across the face, crunching through teeth and lips and half severing the skull itself. He stabbed a yellow-coated Dane through the thigh, dropping the man, then stamped on his anguished face as he moved past him. He felt a whirlwind of rage and fear buoy him up, give strength to his limbs. Like a warrior of old, he slashed, he sliced, his cutlass swinging and thudding into meat. His enemies fell back before the sweeps of his blade, and Hogan advanced again. The French colonel was still calling the men to come forward and fight. A soldier with a green sprig in his hat rose up from nowhere and pointed a pistol at Hogan. He pulled the trigger but the gun misfired as Hogan began his down stroke. The cutlass chopped through the man’s extended arm. He screamed and curled away.
Hogan paused, panting. Amazed at his closeness to his own death. Every breath in his aching lungs was a burning miracle. From the rooftops on either side of the killing zone, Hogan could see the figures of men and women, and children even. They were hurling bricks and slates down on the boiling mass of the enemy; bottles too smashed down, splitting scalps, slicing faces and necks.
The Irish were shouting for their own victory. ‘For Ireland; for James!’
And the enemy was being pushed back, slowly, surely. They were retreating. Hogan found himself at the foot of the rubble slope, the stones slick with blood, the dead and wounded a carpet of flesh that writhed and moaned.
He cut down a musket man, no more than a frightened boy, with a chop to his skinny neck. And stepped on to the rubble stair, then he was running up, up, towards the summit of the breach. Pushing the enemy up and away. And there, he stood in the breach and looked down on the enemy lines, for the first time in hours.
The enemy were not done yet. There were formations: redcoats, some blocks of men in grey a hundred yards away and they were marching in good discipline – every man in step, towards the breach in the walls. Hundreds of fresh soldiers. The might of William’s army. And coming for them.
Hogan’s countrymen were around him now. He could feel their joy, their courage and pride in what they had done. His own blood was fizzing in his veins. And Colonel de Beaupré was there, his raised sword slathered in red.
‘Come on, mes enfants, one more charge. For Ireland! For France!’
The man set off down the slope of the breach at a full run, stumbling on the uneven surface. He’s mad, thought Hogan. The Frenchman is moon-struck.
Along with hundreds of his compatriots he found himself galloping down the rubble slope, waving his own gory sword and bellowing like a furious bull. The Irishmen charged towards the formed bodies of the advancing enemy, screaming their war cries, as moon-mad as Colonel de Beaupré. And the Williamite troops saw them coming.
They halted. Dressed their ranks. Brought muskets up to their shoulders.
The first volley smashed into the charging Irish ranks, blowing scores of good men into the next life. The charge faltered, men stopped or hesitated, some stumbling over bodies. A line of smoke covered the first line of redcoats. And out of that grey bank the second volley lanced out, a hundred fiery spurts, which scythed through the Irish. Hogan felt a tug at his flapping coat that pulled him off course. He tripped over a dead man’s leg, and fell on his face, the air knocked out of his lungs, winded, his cutlass sent flying, only a dozen yards from the nearest enemy sappers’ trench.
He heard another disciplined English musket volley scream over his head. And he knew then that all was lost. Squirming round on his side he could see many of his comrades running back towards the breach. Their lunatic attack was over and done, and now it was their enemies’ turn to advance and kill. There were redcoats running at him. Thirty yards away, red-faced men in scarlet coats, green sprigs in their hatbands, muskets plugged with bayonets grasped before them in both hands. They were coming to kill him – and that was all right – he had done his duty well enough – but they were coming to kill his comrades, too. And that was not. He could see Colonel de Beaupré, a dozen yards away, his back to the enemy, screaming at the running Irishmen to stand and fight. And some heeded him, halting their flight, and turning to face the wall of charging redcoats. A pistol shot and Colonel de Beaupré fell to his knees, his broad back a mass of dark blood.
Boots thundered past Hogan’s face. He closed his eyes, spent, the fight gone from his body, waiting for the prick of steel, the agony of a death-wound.
He heard the sound of trumpets, a familiar fanfare. And felt the rumble of many hooves vibrate through the soil beneath him. Could it be? No, surely that was impossible. He forced himself to sit up. Looked south, and there they were – horsemen. Horsemen in emerald green, many hundreds of them, at least a regiment, more likely two. And, by God, could that really be old Paddy Sarsfield out in front – gleaming sabre drawn, a wicked smile on his boyish face?
It was.
The Irish cavalry smashed into the attacking redcoats. The horsemen set about them with sabres and pistol or rode them down with the sheer weight of their galloping horses. The redcoats stood no chance. Out of formation they were easy prey to the chopping blades of Sarsfield’s battle-mad horsemen. The cavalry rode here and there hacking down the cowering infantry – those that did not run back towards their own lines or dive into their trenches were dead men. They were chased and sliced down in a couple of blows and the riders spurred on, laughing, to seek fresh targets. The remaining men of the Irish foot charge cheered their horse-borne comrades, urging them on to the slaughter of the foe. And in a few short minutes it was all over for the English. The victorious horsemen rode about the field between the breach and the sappers’ trenches unchallenged – their enemies dead or fled. Some of Sarsfield’s troopers were still seeking blood. Hogan saw three of them chase down a single fleeing redcoat – the man had played dead and tried to run at the wrong moment. He was hounded across the field before being sliced and chopped and skewered till he collapsed in a bleeding heap of reeking cloth-bound meat.
Hogan, back on his feet, was menaced by a rider with a bloody sabre. Only just in time he recognised the man: ‘You keep your fucking distance, John Reilly,’ he growled. ‘I rode with you to Ballyneety a few weeks past. Shared my flask with you. Don’t pretend you don’t know me now.’
The horseman grinned at Hogan and opened his mouth to say something – when the mortars opened up again. A shell screamed down into the outer rubble slope in the breach and exploded, the bodies of dead men – Irish, English, Dutch and Dane, or parts of them – were tossed high in the air and came thudding down again. Hogan ran for the breach, and scrambling up the gore-slimed slope, behind him he could hear Sarsfield recalling his horsemen, sounding the retreat; and the deadly crack-crack-crack of muskets from the English trenches.
*
The rain returned in the night. Hogan could hear it drumming insistently on the roof of his lodgings as he bathed a deep sword cut on the back of his hand and a bullet score on the outer flesh of his thigh – he had no recollection of receiving either of these wounds. He washed the injuries with brandy – and made them sting worse than ever. Then drank the rest of the bottle and slept like the dead.
In the morning, his body aching from scalp to shin, he reported for duty with the Limerick Volunteers. What was left of them. Hogan saw how battle-depleted the company was. Of the fifty-three men on the wall the afternoon before, only seventeen unharmed men reported f
or duty at nine of the clock in the cathedral square. But grief in the deaths of so many of his comrades was tempered with a savage, soaring joy. Victory!
For when they filed up on the parapet once more and looked out over the field of battle, Hogan saw that the enemy were gone. In the night, amid the gently falling rain, the massed legions of King William – his guns and horse, all his wagons, carriages and carts – had packed up and quit the field.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday, September 5, 1690: Noon
Holcroft heard the voices coming up the stairs. Surely that was the Irishman Hogan’s genial baritone. He recognised the voice even above the sad murmur of conversation from the next, larger cell where half a dozen Protestant merchants of the city of Cork were caged. He recognised it over the moans of Robinson, the poor man who lay on the filthy floor of the back of their cell dying of gaol fever. And the other voice – who was that? His heart grew cold. That was Henri d’Erloncourt. He was sure of it.
He heard Narrey saying: ‘. . . I’m expected at the Governor’s House at one o’clock for dinner. It will no doubt be another of Colonel McElliot’s truly disgusting repasts – he really should hang his cook – but I fear I must attend.’
‘I won’t trouble you a moment longer than necessary, monsieur. Once I have all my money, I shall be on my merry way . . .’
A moment later, the two men came to the top of the winding staircase and into view. Holcroft stood at the bars of his cell and stared at them. The broad, bow-legged shape of Michael ‘Galloping’ Hogan and the slight, delicate figure of Narrey. He had been in that small, cramped cell for nearly three weeks awaiting the arrival of Henri d’Erloncourt, sleeping on the cold stone floor with only a few scraps of filthy straw to cushion its bite, eating the lukewarm ‘soup’ that Matisse gave him twice a day: greasy water with a few scraps of gristle floating in it, accompanied by rinds of cheese, and heels of barley bread, too hard and stale for Matisse to chew.
It had been a miserable period – twenty-three days by Holcroft’s reckoning – and he had longed to feel fresh air on his skin and eat and drink like a human being once more. To stretch out on a proper bed again, with sheets and blankets. But this was far worse. As Narrey stopped before the cells and smiled unpleasantly at him from beyond the bars, Holcroft knew he was looking at his death. He felt the cold fear grip his bowels tight. Henri d’Erloncourt took off his black hat and made Holcroft an elaborate bow.
‘Major Blood,’ he said. ‘My old playmate, my old fellow Cockpit page. Holcroft Blood – I cannot tell you how much joy it gives me to see you today.’
‘I cannot say the same,’ said Holcroft.
‘Ah, no? I thought we might have a pleasant little conversation about this and that. About how you humiliated our good master the Duke of Buckingham, for instance. Or about my poor friend Major Guillaume du Clos, whom you put to death on the bridge at Duleek with your lucky cannon shot. Or perhaps about the names of the perfidious men and women who spied on the court of the Sun King at your masters’ behest those many years ago. It should be an illuminating conversation, my dear Holcroft, do you not agree?’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘No? I expect over the next few days we can find a way to loosen your tongue. I have so longed to have a nice intimate chat with you, à deux.’
Michael Hogan cleared his throat noisily.
‘Yes, Mister Hogan – you want your money.’ He turned away and strode to the door, calling: ‘Matisse, let joy be unconfined, your master’s home!’
Holcroft found himself looking into the rugged suntanned face of Hogan.
‘You again,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be off fighting the good fight in Limerick. Busy slaughtering Englishmen.’
‘I did my share. But the battle was won a week ago. Did you not hear?’
Holcroft said nothing. In the past three weeks, the only person from the outside world he had seen – apart from the clerk who manned the desk at the door, who twice ventured upstairs to drink wine with the gaoler – was Matisse. And Matisse had never said anything but a few foul curses and the odd brusque order at pistol point to stand back while he brought in the so-called soup.
‘Limerick was saved, Major Blood, and I played a not inconsiderable part in its salvation. And, furthermore, your own King Billy has quit Ireland and gone back home. Went to England, tail between his legs, right after Limerick.’
‘Truly?’ said Holcroft. His world seemed to be lurching sideways. ‘Is the war over then?’
‘Not by a long shot,’ said Hogan. ‘Your soldier-boys still hold Dublin, Waterford and all the north. And they say the Earl of Marlborough is on his way from England with reinforcements. But you got your arses properly kicked in the west – and it looks as if the fighting is done for this season.’
Holcroft looked down at his filthy bare feet. Matisse had stolen his boots and, worse, his coat – his beloved Ordnance coat, his identity, his very soul – the gaoler saying something about prisoners paying for their lodgings. He felt weak and naked without them – unmanned by their absence.
‘So is the famous hospitality of the fine old city of Cork to your liking?’
Holcroft stared at Hogan, who had stepped a little closer to the bars.
‘Because if you are not satisfied with your accommodation here, next time you are at liberty in the city, I’d recommend you try the sign of the Dolphin by the South Gate.’ Hogan’s voice was a murmur. ‘A fine place to rest up, take your ease. They are discreet. Good food and drink, too.’
‘Do you mock me, sir?’ said Holcroft, very angry. He could hear Narrey speaking to Matisse in the office next door, telling him to fetch out the prisoner.
‘I do not. Mention my name if you ever find yourself there, say the Galloper sent you, and you will find a warm welcome. Remember my words.’
Matisse was at the cell door. He had a cocked pistol in his right hand and the big iron key to the cell door. ‘Back, connard; get back, you dog,’ he said. Holcroft obediently moved to the rear of the cell while Matisse worked the key and swung open the door. Hogan stepped well out of the way and then followed Holcroft – with Matisse at the prisoner’s back with the pistol – into the office.
Hogan lounged casually against the wall on the right of the door by the shelf of ironmongery and watched as Holcroft was lashed into a heavy wooden chair in the centre of the room by the sailor Matisse – with Henri keeping the pistol on him. When the Englishman was bound, Henri slapped him hard across the face. Holcroft rode the slap easily and fixed the Frenchman with a glare.
‘I demand satisfaction for that blow – and for the treatment I have suffered as a prisoner of war in Cork,’ he said. ‘If you were a gentleman, you’d fight me.’
Hogan laughed out loud, and Henri too emitted a little giggle.
‘I am a gentleman of France, a count of ancient lineage, a personal friend of His Majesty Louis XIV, I shall not sully my honour by treating you as an equal. But neither shall I even take the trouble to punish you myself for your gross impudence. Matisse!’
Matisse came forward and punched Holcroft four times hard in the face. Four measured pounding blows that knocked his head left and right, split his lip and loosened at least one tooth in his jaw. Holcroft was reeling; he could feel his mouth fill with blood and a thread trickle out and down his chin. His left eye was throbbing and he could feel the flesh around the socket beginning to swell.
‘You punch like a little girl,’ he said in French.
Matisse went wild. He smashed a barrage of punches at Holcroft’s face and body, striking almost at random. Holcroft rocked back and forth, restrained only by his bonds. Eventually, panting like an exhausted dog, the sailor ceased.
‘Now then, while that was delightfully invigorating,’ said Henri, ‘we must get down to business. It is time for a little chat. What shall we talk about? Ah, I have it. Shall we talk about your time as a spy in Paris? And the friends who helped you during that period. I near
ly caught you once, did you know that?’
Holcroft, barely conscious, spat a mouthful of blood on the floor.
‘Well, heart-warming as it is to witness your little reunion,’ said Hogan, ‘if you don’t mind, monsieur, I shall have my money now and take my leave.’
Henri looked at the Irishman crossly. ‘You really are a man with only one thing on his mind. Can’t you wait until I have finished interrogating this one?’
‘I have things I wish to do today – my money, monsieur, if you please.’ Hogan put a hand on his cutlass hilt. ‘And do you not have an engagement yourself with the Governor at one? It must be very nearly that hour just now.’
‘Very well, very well . . . I have it here.’ Henri went over to the escritoire, opened the lid, pushed aside a mass of papers, and pulled out a small iron box from a narrow drawer at the back. He lifted the lid and extracted several small, knobbly linen sacks. ‘Business before pleasure, as always. I see we must postpone our little chat, old playmate, His Excellency the Governor awaits . . .’
‘There is one more thing, monsieur. This fellow slaughtered several of my dear friends. Perhaps you will permit me one small measure of revenge. Yes?’ Hogan lifted his right hand, bunched into a formidable gnarled fist.
‘Indeed, sir, as you wish. But do not kill him – I have many important questions for him to answer when I return from the Governor’s dinner.’
Holcroft strained at his ropes as Hogan approached. The raparee seized Holcroft’s shirt collar with his left hand, lifted his right and punched him hard on the point of the jaw. Holcroft’s head snapped back, and his vision exploded into red and black shapes and he sensed himself spinning out of the world. But before he lost consciousness he felt, unmistakably, the slide of something cold and hard down inside his shirt against his skin, an object that came to rest inside at his belly where the shirt was tucked into his breeches.
*
Holcroft only fully recovered his senses a half hour later. He was back in his cell lying on the stone floor and his face was swollen to twice its normal size. He could barely see out of his eyes. But he shrugged off the words of consolation from the worried men in the next cell and his hands fumbled at his waist. He could feel the object still there. Small, but iron hard. He knew what it was, and offered up a silent prayer to God to shower His blessings upon Michael Hogan. He went to the bars and peered to his left. The door of the office was half open and he could see part of the room, if he twisted his head at an uncomfortable angle. He could see the lower legs of Matisse, his baggy seaman’s trousers, and – with a flash of anger – he saw that the man was wearing Holcroft’s boots. There was no sound but a gentle snoring. Narrey was, no doubt, still at his dinner with the Governor.