Blood's Campaign

by Angus Donald

  The Dolphin Tavern, Cork, Ireland

  Saturday, 27th September, 1690

  My darling wife,

  I have been a complete and utter fool, Elizabeth, and my behaviour towards you has been cruel and inexcusable. I can only hope that, in due course, you can find it in your heart to forgive my gross stupidity. I spoke tonight with Jack Churchill – who, as you may know by now, has captured the city of Cork – and I have arranged to take passage with him to England as soon as possible. I do have a small matter of business to attend to in the port of Kinsale over the next few days but once that is concluded I shall be sailing for home, where I hope we can effect a loving reconciliation . . .

  Chapter Thirty

  Wednesday, October 15, 1690: 9 a.m.

  Not long. Not long now and he’d be free of this accursed country. Henri peered through the gap in the battlements of the North Bastion at the enemy siege lines on the hillside above. Charles Fort was a low, thick, powerful construction on the eastern side of the mouth of the Bandon River, two miles as the crow flies south-east of Kinsale town. The Fort had five bastions: fat, stone, spear-points that jutted out from the walls into the green surrounding countryside, all mounted with heavy cannon which were set to cover every approach. It was a well-made fort, built in the modern style, and yet the enemy encampment and their massive siege guns easily overshadowed it on the landward side. Why do these Irish imbeciles insist on building their fortresses at the bottom of hills?

  A gun fired from one of the English batteries on the left of the enemy lines. A blossom of red. A faint line of black. A massive shuddering impact in the thick wall beyond the gatehouse and beyond the Flagstaff Bastion fifty yards to his right. A cloud of smoke and grit flew up in the air and pattered around Henri, who hunched his shoulders in reflex. The breach was a few feet wider. This was the twelfth strike on the area of the breach in ten minutes.

  A few more hours, he told himself. Tonight the Hirondelle would surely be here and he and Matisse could shake the dust of this siege, and this whole damned nation, from their heels. After tonight, he did not care if the whole of Ireland surrendered to the forces of King William – not just this badly sited, oversized gun redoubt. His royal master could not complain – Henri had done his duty. For eighteen long months he had fought his own private war in this damp island, with scant thanks and little reward. He had, he believed, been a considerable thorn in the side of His Most Christian Majesty’s enemies for all of that period. And now it was over. Time to go home. He had persuaded the citizens of Cork to hold out far longer than they might have, and he had done the same here in Charles Fort, the largest fortress of the port of Kinsale.

  In truth, the Governor of Kinsale, Sir Edward Scott, a white-haired but still peppery seventy-year-old, had needed little persuasion. Henri had made his familiar false claims that the Duke of Berwick was on his way, and had repeated more recent rumours that Sarsfield was coming with a thousand fresh cavalry – but it had not been necessary. Sir Edward Scott knew his duty. He would resist the foe until he could realistically resist them no more.

  The enemy had arrived two weeks ago, and Scott had abandoned the town of Kinsale, and given orders that it should be burnt to the ground to deny the enemy its comforts. He had pulled all his military personnel into Kinsale’s two forts: James Fort and Charles Fort, which faced each other over the width of the Bandon River, the only access route by sea into Kinsale Harbour. But the fires set in the town had been swiftly extinguished by the arriving enemy cavalry, and these two fortresses – impressive though they undoubtedly appeared – were designed only to guard the mouth of the river, and keep out pirates and enemy shipping. They were no more than fortified coastal defence batteries, orientated toward the water. Perfect for trapping enemy vessels between two lethal fires. But when the enemy came at them by land, they were quite useless.

  Würtemberg’s Danes and Marlborough’s English troops had overrun James Fort – the smaller of the two Kinsale fortresses – in half a day, coming round by sea in small boats, landing in the south and attacking it from there. Henri had watched from the safety of Charles Fort across the River Bandon in appalled, almost stunned silence as the lines of hundreds of red-jacketed men poured down the hill and swarmed over the stone walls. A massive explosion, a fountain of red and gold fire mantled in black – caused by a careless spark in the magazine, most likely – marked the end of the battle, and now the cross of St George fluttered from the ragged and powder-blackened battlements.

  Marlborough and Würtemberg then turned their attention to Charles Fort.

  It had been twelve days since Marlborough had sent in an officer under a flag of truce to demand the surrender of the garrison. Sir Edward Scott had replied with cool hauteur that, since the defenders had ample quantities of food and ammunition, and since they expected to be relieved very soon, it might be more suitable if Lord Marlborough were to apply again in one month’s time.

  Another English gun fired on the hillside. Another massive explosion in the breach, showering the defenders with grit and sand.

  Henri had had enough. The breach in the north wall of Charles Fort, beyond the Flagstaff Bastion, was big enough, by his own calculations, to be deemed practicable. Today or tomorrow, Sir Edward Scott would hang out the white flag, and it would be over. And Henri had no intention of being part of the mass surrender. He knew that if he handed himself to the English, he would swiftly find himself at the wrong end of a rope. That bastard Holcroft Blood was out there somewhere, still alive, and no doubt slavering for his petty revenge. No, he would decline their kind invitation to render himself up to the foe. He and Matisse would make other arrangements.

  He brushed some loose dirt off his shoulder and turned to descend the battlement, smiling at a young, rather pretty Irish captain, who was in charge of the North Bastion. He would go and find Matisse. It was time to start packing.

  The same day: 2 p.m.

  Another siege. Another breach in the walls that must be made wide enough by his cannon before the men of the Forlorn Hope were sent in to die in its jaws. Holcroft was struck with a sense of the familiarity of his position on this day – his beloved guns on a bare hillside above a castle by the wide grey sea; if he half closed his eyes he could almost be back at Carrickfergus – and, as he nodded the order to fire to Claudius Barden, who had command of this No. 3 Battery, he was also struck by the futility of this war. The Catholic Irish had not been brought to love King William, nor to tolerate their neighbours, his loyal Protestant Ulstermen. Quite the opposite. And how did the stout farming folk of Tyrone and Armagh feel about the papist raparees who had ridden, raped and robbed across their lands? James’s cause might be finished, all hope gone, but the hatred on both sides showed no sign of abating. This conflict in Ireland, to Holcroft’s mind, would smoulder on, enduring for generations.

  He wondered what Hogan was doing now. Had he bought himself that sheep farm? Could he turn a deaf ear to the trumpet’s call for ever?

  So many good men killed or maimed. So many widows and orphans made.

  And here he was outside the walls of Charles Fort, with three powerful English batteries under his hand – placed in his charge by Lieutenant-Colonel Jacob Richards, who had been called to Lord Marlborough’s council tent – and he was still pounding away at another set of men, probably decent men, who fought him only because they differed over his choice of king. Déjà vu.

  Were it not for his driving urge for justice, he might have resigned his Ordnance commission two weeks ago in Cork and caught the first available ship home to Elizabeth. But he had not, and he would not. Not until the issue with Narrey, with that bastard Henri d’Erloncourt, was settled. And not until he had unmasked and brought to justice the spy known as Agricola. Not until the two reckonings had been made. Narrey was evil. He must be stopped, and not only for the sake of revenge, although the Frenchman’s casual and callous poisoning of his dear friend Aphra Behn was still a burning coal in his belly.

  H
enri d’Erloncourt must be stopped because, if not, he would continue to spread his poison, both literally and figuratively, unless he was put down. Agricola was a case in point. Narrey had recruited Agricola and used him as an agent of his evil: Agricola had betrayed the site of Schomberg’s tent and caused the wounding of Jacob Richards; Agricola had most likely betrayed the attack on Cavan, and caused far greater casualties than necessary, including the deaths of many of his own friends and comrades in Tiffin’s Inniskillingers; Agricola had betrayed the route and timing of the Artillery Train as it headed to Limerick, and caused the demise of many good men in that night attack at Ballyneety and, almost as heinous to Holcroft’s mind, the destruction of many fine pieces of Ordnance. And those were only the betrayals that Holcroft knew about and could readily identify as perpetrated by the spy Agricola. There must be dozens more.

  So Agricola must be stopped. Henri d’Erloncourt must be stopped.

  And thus Holcroft’s war continued.

  The tall Ordnance officer walked across the gun platform to the nearest cannon, and seeing its familiar shape, he felt a further pang. It was Roaring Meg. But crewed by a group of men he did not know well. There was Enoch Jackson’s death to be taken into account too. How he missed his friend!

  He gave terse instructions to the crew to fire more to the west, a fraction. The last ball had sailed through the centre of the breach and bounded away inside the Fort. The cannon fire should chip away at the edges of the breach, or just outside them, if possible, widening the hole with every ball.

  The gun captain was a young man who had unfortunately been named Peaceable Bonner by his earnest parents. Claudius Barden, who overheard Holcroft giving his orders to Meg’s crew, called out cheerily: ‘No time to be peaceable now, Peaceable. Major Blood wants to see blood today! Ha ha!’

  Holcroft was suddenly consumed with an almost overwhelming wave of hatred for Barden. For a moment his vision was filmed with red. It took every atom of his will to prevent himself from walking over to the lieutenant and beating him senseless. Then Peaceable Bonner, cried: ‘Sir, look, sir. A white flag.’

  Holcroft whipped round, and there it was. From the Flagstaff Bastion, east of the gateway, a limp, dirty grey sheet was hanging from the pole.

  ‘Cease fire.’ Holcroft gave the order in a loud carrying voice. And along the No. 3 Battery, the men stopped what they were doing, frozen in their tasks – a couple of men carrying a sixteen-pound cannon ball on a hurdle, another with a big scoop full of gunpowder in his hands, a fellow with his rammer poised at the cannon’s muzzle. For an instant, the only thing that moved was a knot of infantry in grey fifty yards away who were marching towards them, muskets on their shoulders, accompanied by two officers on horseback.

  ‘At ease, everybody,’ said Holcroft. ‘Set your stations in order.’

  ‘Do you mind, Major, if I give at least some of the orders on the No. 3,’ said Barden. ‘Makes me look bad in front of the men if you do all my work for me,’ he continued. ‘Makes it look, ha ha, as if you don’t have confidence in me!’

  Claudius might have been joking but he did indeed look more than a little hurt by Holcroft’s usurpation of his powers. His senior officer, while in command of all the three English batteries on the hillside, had spent much of the day at the No. 3 Battery, barely visiting the other emplacements.

  Holcroft ignored the younger man. He was watching the approach of the infantry and the two mounted officers. They were a company of Inniskillingers. The fourth company of Tiffin’s Regiment. He could make out the brick-red features of Sergeant Hawkins in front. And the two horsemen walking their beasts on either side of the company were Captain Francis Waters and Lieutenant-Colonel Jacob Richards. His friends.

  Holcroft smiled at the men as they arrived – so many familiar faces. And watched as they formed up in beautiful order, fifty men in two exactly straight lines slightly to the right of the battery. Waters and Richards came closer, they dismounted, and casually handed their reins to Sergeant Hawkins, who looped them over the wheel of a gun carriage.

  Francis saluted; Jacob said, ‘Blood,’ to which Holcroft replied, ‘Richards.’

  Then Francis Waters glanced beyond Holcroft at the assembled men of the No. 3 Battery and said, ‘Are you sure you want to do this now, Major Blood?’

  ‘I’m sure. The white flag is out. The surrender will be this afternoon, most likely. Narrey will be in custody by nightfall and then we shall have our proof.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Barden. ‘Who is Narrey? What proof?’

  Holcroft turned to the Ordnance lieutenant and said, ‘Narrey is the code name for the French spymaster Henri d’Erloncourt – who is inside Charles Fort. Once he is in our hands, he will identify his agent, the spy known as Agricola, to us. He will trade that information for his life. He will tell us tonight who Agricola is. He will also provide written proof – several secret documents that may be used in a court of law. To save his own greasy neck, Henri, Comte d’Erloncourt will name you, Claudius Barden, as the notorious spy Agricola.’

  Barden went as white as milk. He looked wildly between Holcroft, Waters and Richards. He shook his head, ‘No, no, Henri would never do that . . .’

  Francis Waters said formally: ‘Lieutenant Claudius Barden, I am arresting you for the grave crimes of treason and espionage . . .’

  But Barden was already moving. He lunged past the trio of officers, knocking Jacob Richards flying with his shoulder. At the same time his hand went to the large pocket in his blue Ordnance coat. He took three running steps, pulled out a small steel pistol, cocked it and shot Hawkins between the eyes as the fat man stood there beside the horses. Even as the sergeant was slumping to the ground, Holcroft was diving for the fugitive. He got a hand on the spy’s boot just as he hit into the saddle. But Barden swept a hand across his body and smashed the steel pistol on to the top of Holcroft’s head. And Holcroft splashed down in the mud, breathless, his black hat knocked free by the blow.

  Barden spurred savagely, sawing the reins on his borrowed horse at the same time. The animal was spooked by the strange rider and set off at a mad canter, downhill towards the Fort. Holcroft lurched to his feet, blood running freely down the side of his pale face. ‘Men of the fourth company,’ he gasped. ‘Tiffin’s Regiment! Front Rank! Make ready!’

  The front line of the Inniskillingers, twenty-five tough men, brought their flintlocks smoothly up to their right shoulders.

  ‘He’s killed Sergeant Hawkins. He betrayed us at the fight at Cavan. Remember that . . . and take aim!’ Holcroft’s voice was stronger.

  Twenty-five cocked and loaded muskets were pointing down the slope.

  ‘Give fire!’

  The line of muskets barked, and Holcroft saw two bullets strike Barden, now thirty yards away, in the back and shoulder. But the spy miraculously kept his seat. The horse was tearing down the hill, galloping.

  ‘Second rank, step forward one pace. Make ready . . . take aim.’

  Barden was fifty yards away. He was within hailing distance of the Fort.

  ‘Give fire!’

  Twenty-five muskets spoke. Twenty-five lethal tongues of fire lashed out. A lone bullet smashed into the back of Barden’s skull, blowing away his wig and hat and severing the top of his head like the opening of a soft boiled egg. The Ordnance man flopped in the saddle, body swaying. The horse kept charging onwards towards the Fort. But the body slipped, hanging sideways out of the saddle, blood and matter spilling freely, then it thumped to the turf.

  The same day: 5 p.m.

  ‘What do you mean he’s not there?’ snapped Holcroft. ‘He must be there. We know he was in there. Is he in disguise? Is he hiding?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Francis Waters. He was shocked at the passion, the rage, that he saw in the eyes of his mentor. ‘We’ve examined all of the prisoners, we’ve looked every man in the face and d’Erloncourt is not among them. Your description was most detailed and exact. He
’s not there.’

  ‘He must still be in the Fort, hiding somewhere. Have the place searched.’

  At a little before four o’clock, the garrison of Charles Fort – their honourable surrender magnanimously granted by Lord Marlborough – had marched out of the front gate with Governor Sir Edward Scott at their head followed by his senior officers. Fifes had played and trumpets, too, and the drums had beaten spritely marches. The officers had carried their swords.

  They were gathered in a huge group, more than a thousand men, on an area of flattish ground at the head of the road back to Cork. They were to be escorted under flag of truce to Limerick by a single company of Danish cavalry.

  Yet Narrey was not among them.

  Think, Holcroft told himself. Where does Narrey wish to go? Home. Yes, but by what method?

  ‘Is there a boathouse?’ he asked Waters. They were standing on the battered battlements of the Flagstaff Bastion, which overlooked the Charles Fort. The place was bustling with redcoats, parties of men and officers, exploring the Fort, auditing the stores. The sun had sunk behind the headland to a red glow in the west.

  It would be full dark in half an hour or perhaps less.

  ‘Over on the other side,’ said Waters. ‘There is a boathouse set into the sea wall, with a watergate.’

  ‘Come on, Francis – and you two men as well!’ Holcroft beckoned to two of the larger Inniskillingers in fourth company, John Ellis and Joe Cully.

  He crossed from the bastion to the curtain wall and began jogging clockwise around the top of the curtain wall, along a cart-wide road designed to allow the easy transference of troops, the three soldiers following behind.

  He passed the Cockpit Bastion without stopping and arrived minutes later at the first of two huge rectangular block-like seaward bastions, this south-easterly one called Charles’s, and named like the Fort itself after the English King Charles II, who had commissioned its construction.