Now, at once, he said, we should knock the Castlebar army off balance, and make ourselves the masters of Connaught. We were badly outnumbered, it was true, but would be in a far worse situation if the English were given time to move up reinforcements from the south. And this argument, too, I found persuasive. Warfare, or at any rate this war, seemed to be composed of unpleasant dilemmas. But I suspected that he had an additional reason. He wanted a showy triumph, with which to impress the Irish, and still more to impress Paris. Sarrizen, indeed, came close to accusing him of this. Poor Sarrizen was like a cat on a hot griddle, second-in-command to a general who was playing his own hidden game. And Bartholemew Teeling was far from happy, for it was his concern from the first that the French should not use the Irish rebels as pawns in their own game. In this matter he was most punctilious, although his position was difficult, for he held the rank of colonel in the French army. And yet, despite his unhappiness, he agreed with Humbert as to the importance of attacking Castlebar without delay, and however great the risks. Throughout the campaign, almost to its close, Humbert and Teeling were in at least a tacit accord upon most matters, with Sarrizen and Fontaine being more often than not in opposition, although they carried out their orders most ably.
We Irish officers, O’Dowd, MacDonnell, Blake of Barraclough, Bellew, and a few others, were admitted to these counsels of war as a necessary courtesy. But there was, to begin with, a problem of language, for French was known only to myself and to John Moore, who at Humbert’s insistence had been given a most curious and unmilitary position as delegate to the army from the Society of United Irishmen. But even had we all understood French, there was little that we could have added to these deliberations, because of our inexperience. This, of course, did not prevent O’Dowd and MacDonnell from swaggering out into the Irish camp as though they had helped to make great decisions. But I do not wish to make sport of them, for they were to prove most valiant and accepted every throw of the dice without complaint.
From military histories and memoirs, one readily gains the impression that generals form their battle plans after poring over maps for long, studious hours. If Humbert is typical, nothing could be farther from the case. He seemed to be everywhere, moving quickly but without the appearance of haste. Our Irish encampment must surely have astonished him, with its whiskey plundered from the taverns of Ballina, and its noise and wild music. But he smiled, clapped men on the back, several times took long pulls at jugs which were thrust towards him, and all the time kept up a rapid fire of instructions to Teeling and Sarrizen. What view he held of his allies we were presently to discover, but at any event he had no reason to query the sympathies of the Mayo peasantry. Thus, sometime after midnight there was an extraordinary sight. Down from the hill of Ardnaree, on the far side of the river, came a host of men carrying green branches. They were the men of Coolcarney and Attymass, who had heard of the victory at Ballina and had decided to join the rebellion, as one might join friends upon a holiday.
And yet it was no holiday. Castlebar has always been the gateway to Mayo, for hills rise up on either side of it, an easy position to defend, a treacherous one to attack. Bloody battles were fought over it in the seventeenth century. The road, or what passes for a road in Connaught, runs southwards from Ballina to Foxford, to the east of Lough Conn, and then, below the lake, runs in a southeasterly direction from Bellavary into Castlebar. Some men who came into us from Foxford told us that that town was still heavily defended, the garrison having been augmented by the troops who had fled from Ballina. They were unskilled at estimating numbers, but in Teeling’s best judgement they were talking of about two thousand men. We would have to fight our way past these before ever we came face to face with the main English force.
Humbert had put aside the maps he brought with him, and instead drew one of his own, adding to it or modifying it as each crumb of information came to him. He carried it folded in his pocket, and from time to time would take it out and study it, crouched on his haunches at a campfire.
I cannot remember who brought the men from Nephin to him, but it was their arrival which determined the manner in which the battle of Castlebar was fought. I remember them standing before him, ten or twelve of them, with Teeling and Owen MacCarthy acting as interpreters. They came from a town called Coolagh, which like all of Nephin lies to the west of Lough Conn. When Humbert heard this, he put down his pencil. How did they get here, he asked, and I answered him before MacCarthy could. They followed a goat path, it was no better than that, which took them northwards, to Crossmolina above the lake, and then came by the Crossmolina road into Ballina. What did we mean by a goat path, he asked, and how far did it run? It took O’Dowd, MacDonnell, and myself, racking our memories, to answer that question, although we were all Mayo men. And when we had finished, he made us question the peasants closely.
The one passable road between Ballina and Castlebar is the one which I have just described, to the east of Lough Conn. The country which stretches westwards of the lake is wild even for Mayo. It is a land of mountains, dark lakes, and moorland wastes, uninhabited save by wretches who rip a miserable existence from its arable acres, or tend scrawny herds and flocks upon its melancholy slopes.
And yet there was known to be a path through it, beaten down in places by feet and hooves, in others a stubborn and treacherous morass. Southwards from Crossmolina it runs past bogs and lakes, along the slopes of hills, and then begins to rise steadily and steeply through the glens of the Nephin range, trailing through the lost villages of Coolagh and Laherdane, running then over the humped crests of mountains, dropping at last into a rocky and precipitous defile called Barnageragh. Beyond Barnageragh it levels out, and then runs for two miles, straight into Castlebar.
Humbert heard us all out, interrupting us with questions, and then turned on his heels and walked away. Teeling watched him as he stood by himself, looking down into a dying fire. “Ballina is my home,” I said. “I was born here. But I have never travelled that path. A cart couldn’t move along that path; horses would stumble on it.” Teeling nodded and shrugged his shoulders, his eyes still upon Humbert. When Humbert returned, he walked towards Sarrizen and Fontaine, but paused in front of us and said, “Tell the Irish officers that we will march south from Ballina tomorrow afternoon.” “Which road?” Humbert answered in a surprised voice. “There is only one good road into Castlebar. Through Foxford. The British know that. They are already taking up their positions.” “But in fact we will be going through the back door, will we not, General Humbert?” “It is a path for goats,” Humbert said. “That is close to my old trade. Goat skins and rabbit skins.” He struck Teeling lightly on the shoulder. “You cannot take artillery along that path,” Teeling said. “We can try,” Humbert said, and then walked away from us to join his French officers.
It has been said that sometime during the night a Ballina loyalist brought information to the British force in Foxford that we would be advancing upon that town the following day. It is certain that Foxford sent such a message to Castlebar, and followed it with a second.
We left at four O’clock, and I joined our column just at its point of departure, for I had spent some time at home with my wife. By my best calculations, we brought forward to the battle seven hundred French and eight hundred Irish. The remainder of our forces were left behind as garrisons in Killala and Ballina. A hundred of the French mounted dragoons were in the van, followed by the French foot soldiers and then the Irish. We marched along the Foxford road until the first cool of evening fell upon us, and then Humbert halted the column, wheeled it around, and pointed it towards Crossmolina.
It was in Crossmolina that his intentions became clear to his soldiers and to our own men. The French were accustomed to sudden and confusing orders, and in any event they had no notion of the route which was proposed for us. With the Irish it was far otherwise, and the stir of their incredulity was so strong it could be felt. MacDonnell, O’Dowd, and Blake rode up to protest and because they did no
t speak French they poured out their protests to Teeling and myself. Humbert sat staring at them impassively until they had finished, then, before we could translate, he spoke to Teeling, his voice loud, and his tone harsh and vehement.
“Tell them that the British generals agree with them. They have disposed their troops and artillery and prepared their entrenchments to face an enemy advancing upon them due south along the Foxford road. But we will disappoint the British. We will make a forced march along the far shore of this great lake, and sometime tomorrow morning we will fall upon their flank. I know that it is very bad country, but we will cross it, whether we slip or slide or scramble like goats. I am a good general and I have won battles and campaigns. If they will follow my orders, I will lead them. But it is their country, not mine. If they don’t want to fight for it, let them go home. Before they leave, they are to stack their muskets. The muskets are the property of the French Republic, which was born in pain and defended with blood.”
It is my opinion that they grasped the meaning of his manner and tone more firmly than they did Teeling’s translation, for all its fluency. The authority which an able commander exerts is mysterious. Is it some accretion from the battles he has fought, or is it some personal power, with him from the first, by virtue of which he was able to win those battles? I know that it exists, for it was present in this buyer of skins, speaking to wild squireens and peasants in a language which they did not understand. It is an ambiguous and dangerous power, as I now have reason to know, a lion watchful in the forest, but it can carry men beyond their capacities, can plunge them into dangers which any man of sense would avoid.
The Irish captains rode up and down the lines, talking to their men. My Irish is faulty and I did not grasp all of what they said, but it seemed to me a fair paraphrase of Humbert’s words, cast in a homely idiom. The men, of whom many had at first been angry or frightened, grew quiet and thoughtful, or so, at least, it appeared to me. They moved me to wonder at the passions which draw men into battle, risking their lives for a wisp of cloth, a fragment of song, a flattering or a cajoling speech. Certainly it was not a risk run for the sentiments set forth in the proclamations which Teeling had brought with him, resounding affirmations of the principles of the Society of United Irishmen and of the Revolution in France. “By God,” Corny O’Dowd said, jerking his head towards the French grenadiers, “Those lads over there know how to fight and they have worked wonders. They have cleared all the yeomen and all the militia out of their own country, and cut off their King’s head and stuck it up on a spike outside his palace.” He was wearing the blue uniform of a French officer, but his own coarse breeches, and heavy boots to which still clung the muck of his farm. “And it was that lad over there who showed them how to do it. He is the most famous of the French generals, and they have sent him over here to lead us. We bet them at Killala and we bet them at Ballina and we will beat them at Castlebar, if we keep our minds to our tasks. Wasn’t it always promised that the French would come over to us with men and with weapons? You know your history, and if you do not you can ask the schoolmaster.” MacCarthy gave him a brief smile, half friendly and half sardonic, but said nothing. He carried neither musket nor pike, nor the pistol which had been issued to each of the Irish captains. He was the sort of fellow who can be found on any market day, propped against the gable of a shop, thumbs hitched into the band of his breeches.
It says much for Humbert that he moved us out of Crossmolina without further murmur or protest, not even from those Nephin men who knew part of the route. And Humbert himself acted as if it did not greatly matter, one way or the other, talking easily and quietly with Sarrizen and Fontaine, and several times laughing.
The people of Crossmolina watched us leave, standing quiet and observant beside their cabins.
Castlebar, August 26
By midnight, when Lake arrived in the drab, mean town, shops squatting on the square, courthouse, barracks, market house, and gaol, he already knew that Hutchinson had moved the Connaught forces. A messenger had reached him on the road, outside Claremorris. He climbed out of the carriage and walked up and down beside it, to stretch his cramped legs, a large, imposing man who did justice to his scarlet uniform. Hutchinson was waiting for him, to explain the order in which he had disposed his troops and the instructions which he had given his officers.
“All in good time,” Lake said, in a fair imitation of Cornwallis’s manner. “All in good time.”
There was a most singular atmosphere, turbulent and yet watchful. Castlebar was dense with army wagons; soldiers jostled each other in the narrow streets. But the shops and taverns were dark and silent.
“Do we know what he is doing?”
“He marched out of Ballina late this afternoon. About seven hundred of his French, and a like number of rebels. I have reinforced General Taylor at Foxford, and we have been waiting now for word from him.”
“Taylor will never hold him,” Lake said. “He will be upon us in the morning.”
“He will indeed,” Hutchinson said. “He seems prompt and energetic. His name is Humbert, it seems.”
“His name doesn’t matter,” Lake said. “The names keep changing. Lose a battle and they put you to the guillotine. A bloody minded people.”
“I have begun to move out our people,” Hutchinson said. “They will be in position before dawn. We are in a very strong defensive position here.”
Lake nodded and looked around him. “I want the latest intelligence from Foxford. By God, this is an ugly place. The people here are all rebels, I take it?”
“I have no reason to believe that,” Hutchinson said stiffly. He was an Irishman, the son of the Provost of Trinity. “The people seem quiet enough.”
“Do they indeed? I’ve seen towns like this in Ulster and I’ve seen them in Wexford. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. But give them one chance, Hutchinson. Turn your back on them just once.”
They walked together into the barracks yard, where the other officers had gathered to greet him. He recognised Lord Ormonde, who commanded the Kilkennys, Lord Roden of the cavalry, Lord Granard of the Longfords. Militia regiments. Loyal enough, no doubt, but clumsy and inexperienced. Grant, the Highlander. That was more like it: the Highlanders were the real lads. Good luck that Crauford wasn’t here. Cornwallis’s pet Highlander, a violent, witty man, but inclined to steal every show with his cavalry flash.
Torches lit the crowded barracks yard.
“Well now, gentlemen. Well now. What is our strength, General Hutchinson?”
“Something better than seven thousand men,” Hutchinson said. “Regulars and militia.”
“And spoiling for a fight, I’ll wager, eh Lord Ormonde?”
“They are, General Lake. If you mean the Kilkennys.”
“Yes. Of course they didn’t look too well a few months ago when they had their own county to defend. Things were a sorry mess down there before I took command.”
“General,” Grant said. “Isn’t it peculiar that we have had no further word from General Taylor at Foxford?”
“Most peculiar indeed, Colonel Grant. I am looking into that. A most sensible question.”
Just at dawn, Lake and his officers rode out to inspect the positions. The town was cupped by low hills, with shadowy mountains to the left. Hutchinson had chosen to hold Sion Hill, a mile outside the town. The troops were to be drawn up in three lines, protected on either flank by a lake. The cavalry would hold between the first and second lines. The artillery was placed at the north end of the hill, covering either side of the road. Lighter guns were placed at the bridge into town, and in the town itself.
Lake rode slowly over the terrain, but he could find no fault with Hutchinson’s dispositions. He could hear bird song and marching feet, shrilling fifes and the rattle of drums. It would be a clear, warm morning. He turned in his saddle.
“Does this put you back in the Highlands, Grant?”
Grant shrugged and spat. Lake laughed. A text
book battle. But he would share the credit with Hutchinson. A tidy battlefield.
Crossmolina to Castlebar, August 26–27
Dark moors and pools of dark water. The back of beyond. Two miles past Addergoole they were given an hour’s rest, but MacCarthy could not sleep. He walked past men with their heads resting on drawn-up knees. They had reason enough to sleep, some of them. The French general had left behind him in Crossmolina all his artillery except the light curricle guns, and peasants had been yoked to these like beasts of burden. Shoulders bent, they had stumbled and staggered in the darkness, with the French sergeants bellowing at them incomprehensible oaths. What else had there ever been but men who looked like these, like himself, straggling across bogs, or through forests, with mists writhing about their legs? Our poetry, the celebrations of defeats, chieftains cut down in battle, lonely stands by fords and mountain passes, retreats. There would be no song for those who sat exhausted, chests heaving, after doing work that horses and donkeys had refused.
Moorland and rocky glen, by day the bright pale sky would stretch across their emptiness, the landscape of banishment. Here, westwards of the Shannon, the Irish chieftains had been scattered after Cromwell’s triumph. Here, into Connaught, the dispossessed Gaelic landowners had journeyed afoot or by cart, the “retainers” driving their herds with hazel wands. But not the peasants, hewers of wood and drawers of water. These had crept back from bogside, from slopes of rocky hill, to serve their new masters. They served newer masters now, Teeling and Elliott and Moore with their florid proclamations of fraternity and equality, this indecipherable French general, all frowns one moment and all smiles the next. Years before, MacCarthy had stood in the square of Macroom to watch the hanging of Paddy Lynch, the Whiteboy Captain, short barrel of a man, murderous and always smiling. This was a path which Lynch might have chosen, over the humps of hills, through stony defiles. A masterless people save for men like Lynch, a peasant like themselves, ignorant and brutal.
The Year of the French Page 29