The Year of the French

by Thomas Flanagan

  That said, he turned his horse’s head to the right, and rode off towards the loyalist line. It was a sudden and astonishing action. At that moment, the cannon shook the earth again, and the sound and movement seemed joined. He put the heavy bay mare to the canter, and shortly had moved so far from us that every one of our men had his eyes upon him, a tall, thin man in blue uniform, riding with the assurance and apparent unconcern of a fox hunter. Indeed, an image of the hunt imposed itself fleetingly upon my imagination, the air was clear and brisk, the wide sky held the mild blue of autumn, and the grassy field towards which he was riding was a dark, vivid green. A low wall lay before him: the mare cleared it easily. He was riding now at the gallop, straight towards the centre of their line. The sounds of battle continued, the crack of musket fire. But many of the loyalist troops were staring at him, and I fancied, though at the distance it was too far to tell, that some of the French had lowered their muskets to stare.

  Alone, held within the swift-moving circle of his intention, he rode across the field, following the soundless belling of invisible hounds. For a minute or two after he had come within range, none of the muskets were pointed in his direction, but then the balls began to spatter the ground before him. He rode to their lines, then wheeled, and rode towards the gunner who stood, motionless, beside his cannon. Then, when he was almost within arm’s reach, he presented the pistol flush into the gunner’s face and fired. The gunner fell backward, as if he had been lifted from the ground and thrown, but by the time he reached the ground, Teeling had turned again, and now towards the French lines. An officer was now directing fire towards him, and two cavalrymen gave him chase, but turned back when they came under the French guns. He was riding at the gallop when he reached the French, and he drove through them.

  For a full minute, the field was uncannily quiet. The scene seemed sunk within an immense jar of clear water. Then I heard voices behind me, ragged and scattered at first but then rising in volume, and I turned to find that our men were shouting with excitement and something like exultation. I had not seen them so inspirited since the first hours after Castlebar, and I found a deep, peculiar pleasure in the knowledge of its cause, an act of individual bravery and resourcefulness, separated cleanly out from the deeds of packs and mobs and armies. This pleasure was so intense that I almost forgot the purpose of Teeling’s ride, although imagination could have shown me the gunner’s face, with blood exploding from the ugly hole that had been smashed into it.

  MacDonnell lifted off his hat, with its absurd, swaggering plume. “Did you see him, boys? You did. Riding past those sods and pistolling that great bastard of a gunner. By God, I will let no man from Ulster get the better of me by a morning’s canter. Come on out, now that they have no gunner to batter us with his huge cannon.” It was cheap rant, I thought, but then realised that he meant it, for he was a vain, empty, harmless creature. And he caught their mood, for they began to run forward, first the men of one town and then of another. When the French saw that we were moving forward, they began their advance upon the other loyalist flank.

  It was in this manner that the loyalist garrison was broken, and our road into Ulster opened.

  After the battle, when I had an opportunity to speak with Teeling, I remarked, in jest, that the prospect of returning to his own province had doubtless inspired his feat. He looked at me with his level grey eyes and smiled, but did not otherwise reply.

  “You took a most dreadful risk,” I said. “Your example drew the men forward, but if they had seen you dropped by a bullet, I doubt if they would have moved.”

  “I was not setting an example,” he said coldly. “The gun could have checked the French advance, and had to be put out of action.” He nodded and walked away from me towards Sarrizen and Fontaine. But he paused and said over his shoulder, “I leave examples to MacDonnell and your other squireens.”

  By every meaning which I know for the word victory we had achieved one. Vereker scrambled back to Sligo, and once there decided that the town must be left to its own fate. From Sligo, as we now know, he moved with great haste along the southern shore of Donegal Bay to Ballyshannon, where the lower Erne, emptying into the bay, forms part of the border between Connaught and Ulster. Behind him, on the field of Collooney, he left sixty dead, together with muskets and boxes of ammunition, the cannon, and, for those who value such trophies, the Limerick flag.

  And we were left with our wounded, of whom some were dying. They were attended by Baudry and the two other surgeons who had come upon the expedition, first the French wounded and then the Irish. They moved with despatch, in a brusque and almost a brutal manner, their aprons soaked with blood, less doctors than butchers, hacking away at red flesh. It was a sight which I had no stomach for, yet I forced myself to watch as Baudry sawed away the shattered leg of a young fellow whom I recognised, one of two lads who had joined us a few miles back, in Tobercurry, clambering with their scythes over the wall of an estate. His brother, as I supposed him to be, knelt beside him, clutching his arm for dear life and weeping uncontrollably. But his solicitude was in vain, for the boy died then and there, perhaps of the shock of steel on bone and flesh. Baudry nodded, and then wiped his long, thin-bladed knife and turned his attention elsewhere.

  But what purpose was served by these ministrations, such as they were?

  For when they had been completed, to Baudry’s satisfaction, he nodded to Humbert, who ordered us thereupon to fall into marching formation. Those wounded who were able to walk were allowed to accompany us, but the others were abandoned there, left to Crauford’s mercies or to make their way as best they could into the hills. I know nothing of their fate, but were I a religious man they would have my most heartfelt prayers. Some of them cried, piteously, to men from their own villages, who stood before them, irresolute and stricken, but were then driven forward. The lad whose brother had died beneath Baudry’s knife clung dazed to the lifeless body and was pulled roughly away. Poor devil, he walked along with us, dazed, his face streaked with tears, and though several attempted to speak with him, he said nothing, but would walk along in silence for a while and then commence again to weep. He knew none of us. By what right did we lure children to their deaths, caught by a glint of light on metal, a trumpery banner? We were all of us I think—I cannot speak for the French—shocked by Humbert’s decision to leave the wounded behind us, and many turned to look back along the road towards them, so long as they remained in sight, but I did not. It was that bitter taste that filled our mouths now, and not the “victory” which we had won.

  I had expected that we would march north now, upon Sligo, to follow up our success, but instead we moved in a direction roughly eastwards, along Lough Gill, to the small and primitive village of Dromahair, which is dominated by a ruined and empty castle of some sort. It was late evening when we reached it, and so here we paused. A low hill lay beyond the castle, and there Humbert walked, drawing Teeling, Sarrizen, and Fontaine after him. They remained there for the better part of a half hour, holding a kind of council of war, and of none too amicable a sort, for several times their raised voices carried to me. Once I looked towards them, and fancied that I caught Teeling’s eye upon me, but they were at too far a distance to be observed closely. Presently they came down, with Sarrizen and Fontaine looking greatly discomfited, and Teeling told me that after we had made camp for the night Humbert would hold a general meeting with all of his officers. Then we set off again, to make use of the hour of light which remained to us. Although it may have been but my imagination, I sensed that an uneasiness had fallen upon all of us, perhaps because the wounded whom we had abandoned were a burden weighing upon our backs, but for my own part I had been made uncomfortable by the sight of the four of them upon the hill, outlined against the evening sky, and in the foreground the shattered castle of some old defeat. The country is scattered with them, like hulks upon a strand.

  Nor had I long to wait for confirmation. We had been but twenty minutes on the road before Teeling fe
ll in beside me, and we rode in silence for a space. Then he said, “When Humbert meets with us, he will tell us of a decision he has made. I will support him in this. He would welcome your support as well. And so would I.”

  There was nothing I need say in reply, and after a pause, he continued. “We are not destined to see Ulster after all, it would seem. He proposes to turn southwards at Manor Hamilton, and make for the midlands by forced march.”

  He spoke quietly, and in so easy and conversational a tone that for a moment I did not grasp the import of his words. But when I did, I said, “No,” as much in incredulity as disagreement, and in a voice so loud as to startle several near us. He put his hand in caution upon my arm, and I began again, more quietly.

  “We cannot do that,” I said.

  “We can,” he said. “We can take the southern road at Manor Hamilton.”

  “The midlands are distant from us by a hundred miles at least. We have been moving northwards and east. Away from the midlands. If that had been his plan—”

  “I do not know whether it was his plan or not. Neither, to judge by their responses, do Fontaine and Sarrizen. It is his plan now, and I am most ready to support it. So should you be.”

  “Why, in God’s name?” I asked, keeping my voice low with an effort.

  “The French officers have lost whatever confidence in this enterprise they may have had. Hardy’s ships have not arrived, and there is little likelihood that they will do so before Cornwallis closes with us. Sarrizen argues that they should surrender while they can still obtain honourable terms from the English.”

  “He can argue that a few hours after winning a victory?”

  “Victory,” Teeling repeated, and his tone gave the word an underscoring of contempt. “Victory over some local colonel in command of militia. That means very little. But that fellow behind us, hanging on our footsteps, he is a different matter. And somewhere or other, Cornwallis is waiting for us with a great mass of troops. That is the truth of the matter. Perhaps we can slip around Sligo; perhaps, with more luck than we deserve, we can reach Donegal. Then what? It is what they expect of us. But if we cut loose suddenly, if we vanish and make for the midlands, what then? We have a hope of reinforcements there. If they join us, we can make straight for Dublin. It is worth a try.”

  “I have never heard so desperate a notion,” I said. “It is madness itself. MacDonnell and O’Dowd have kept up the spirit of the men by telling them that soon we will all be safe in the mountains of Donegal. Now you would ask them to turn their backs on the coast and go far into the heart of the island. They will not go. And the French will not go.”

  “That is very likely,” Teeling said. “The French are in a bad mood. There is no doubt of that. Humbert would have no choice then. He would surrender in the morning.” He shrugged again. “He has made a good fight of it. Not even the Directory expects the impossible. He would go back to Paris with his credit undamaged.”

  It was now so dark that I had difficulty in making out his features, and sought therefore to judge him by his voice, a flat, drawling voice, with the burr of northern speech.

  “It is possible,” he said. “If the midlands have risen up. If they hold the roads to the south.”

  “If,” I said. “We have heard nothing of a midland rising. And there is an army between ourselves and the midlands.”

  “Dennistoun is a good man,” he said. “A determined man. You know him. Dennistoun is worth a gamble.”

  “You cannot bring them with you,” I said, referring to the noises which surrounded us. “They are already terrified. They have been terrified since we left Mayo.”

  “Neither can they turn back,” Teeling said. “Frenchmen have the choice of surrendering. But not Irish peasants in arms against their King. They should count themselves lucky to go anywhere Humbert is willing to take them. They should count themselves lucky for every day they stay alive.”

  At this, I reined in my horse, and addressed the level, maddening voice. Men moved past us in the darkness. I was whispering now. “You speak of them as dead men. Men marching under a sentence of death.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “If we are very lucky indeed.” He was still speaking softly, but not whispering.

  “And that is Humbert’s purpose?” I asked in sarcasm. “To keep them alive? I had not known that he possessed so deep a well of humanity.”

  “Not at all,” he said easily. “Humbert has always had one purpose. To win. He will play every card in his hand.”

  “And this is the last one.”

  “Very nearly. I cannot think of many others. He is desperate to win, and I do not understand his desperation. Perhaps it is no concern of ours.”

  “What of your own desperation?” I asked him.

  “The question is fairly put. I think that Humbert’s plan is in fact the best one. And I believe that we have an obligation towards these poor fellows whom we drew away from their homes with our promises and our fine words. We have an obligation to the oath we both took, and which we persuaded them to take.”

  “To them, certainly,” I said. “But to no oath. It was in a different world that that oath was taken.”

  “I asked for your support,” Teeling said, in the tone of one bringing a conversation to its close. “I have not had your answer.”

  “Oh, as to that,” I said. “You will have it. What choice have we but to follow him? But he will lose his gamble.”

  “He has been lucky thus far,” Teeling said, almost with indifference. “Lucky and skilful.”

  His luck held for him that night, when he met with his captains. They sat ranged in a semicircle around him in the darkness, and he stood facing them, with Teeling beside him to act as translator. We could barely make him out, a heavy, indistinct figure, and only a handful of us could understand his words. What carried the day for him was his tone of voice, as confident and as easy as it had been that morning when he stood on the steps of the Castlebar courthouse. There was incredulity at first, and a fear which masked itself as bluster, but he painted a picture which fanned hope in them—the midlands in flame, and the road to Dublin open. Then he played upon their fears, an army behind us, and another one waiting for us somewhere ahead. He boasted shamelessly, recalling what they had done, and magnifying every skirmish into a mighty triumph. It had been all along his intention, he told them, this long march to the northeast to mislead the English, and now this sudden swerve southwards, plunging deep into the countryside. In a hundred years’ time, he told them, the world would still be talking of the march which the men of Mayo and the men of France had made across Ireland. He paused then, and joined his hands loosely across his bulging paunch. “I will lead you,” he said. “I led you here and I will lead you to Dublin. There are brave men waiting for you in the midlands.”

  “Between us and the midlands there are a great many men waiting to kill us,” Randall MacDonnell said.

  “If they can,” Humbert said. “We all know that. Why should I deceive you? But I will not permit that. And when we join the men in the midlands, we will be unbeatable. Trust me. I know my trade. I am better at that trade than any of the English generals. You saw that today. The full garrison of Sligo came against us, and we threw them back.”

  “One garrison,” MacDonnell said. “Cornwallis has an army.”

  “If we can move past that army into the midlands, it will be behind us, and the road to Dublin open.”

  “You can talk all you like about a midland rising,” MacDonnell said, “but not a word have we heard from them.”

  “Malcolm Elliott has,” Teeling said, and I picked up my cue.

  “I was there,” I said, “not two months ago. In Longford and Granard. They are better organised than we were, and there are more of them. I know Hans Dennistoun, and so does Colonel Teeling. You may depend upon it that he has raised the midlands.”

  “We depended on a second fleet,” MacDonnell said, “but we haven’t seen it.”

  “You can depend
upon that fellow,” Teeling said, pointing to the west. “He will be after us night and day if we don’t shake him off. He is the beater, and he has been set to drive us against the guns. We’ll not play their game.”

  Humbert could not of course understand Teeling’s words, but nevertheless placed a hand upon his shoulder to cut him off.

  “I spoke to you once before, on the night before Castlebar. Do you remember that? You were reluctant to take the bad road, along the lake and then over the mountains. But I was in the right then. We took that road and we defeated an English army and we won a famous battle which will never be forgotten. I knew then what I was doing and I know now. I cannot hold you with me. You can all run off and stay alive for a day or so or a week. A week of life is better than none. But you would be fools and cowards, as would the men whom you have brought here with you. We are an army, a small army but an army, and we have won our victories. Not once have we been defeated. Now let us in God’s name march southwards as an army. This is your country and you have a right to it. It is a country worth fighting for. But it is not my country. I will take you to where you should go, and I will show you how to fight. The rest is up to you.”

  “And what about your Frenchmen?” O’Dowd asked. “Will they fight?”

  Almost before Teeling had translated the question, Humbert exploded. “My French! My French are soldiers. How dare you ask such a question? Look at them. Look at my brave Sarrizen and Fontaine. They are soldiers of the French army, the army that has challenged the kingdoms of Europe. They have fought in Italy and on the Rhine. And they have fought in Ireland. I have no need to preach sermons to French soldiers.”

  Fontaine and Sarrizen had reluctantly accepted Humbert’s decision, and now, to do them justice, they managed to make doughty and resolute noises in the darkness. They believed that we were launched upon a hopeless enterprise, but they contrived to give no sign of this. Humbert’s confidence was matched only by his duplicity.