‘He didn’t even get to fight.’
Mrs Watson looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
Robert closed his own eyes for a moment, to steady himself, and replied, ‘We were still in the river. Reverend Walker was killed, and Daniel wanted to get the body back to the safety of camp.’
Robert added once more, ‘We were just in the river.’
Mrs Watson nodded briefly and asked, ‘Where are you bringing him?’
‘To you.’
She said nothing to this.
‘Would you take him?’ He had not considered that she’d refuse him.
‘You’ve got horses … and you knew him … a little. He trusted you.’
He gestured towards the Boyne to explain, ‘I can’t do anything, I have to go back.’
Her silence prodded his guilt and, feeling criticised, he snapped, ‘I suppose you think I should take him back to Derry, to our parents. Sure, why not! I should be a good son and dutiful brother. I mean if this was a storybook, I’d return to my father’s house and be the son he was to them, to make up for his loss. A nice happy ending!’
His tone and tears were bitter and he looked away from her, dreading that she would agree with his words. Because if she did, then he really wasn’t sure what he’d do. How long had it taken to carry Daniel’s body from the middle of the Boyne to this spot while every step felt like another slap in his face delivered by his parents, by Daniel and, most of all, by himself?
She sighed. ‘I can’t take him back to Derry either. Is that what you’re asking me?’
He shook his head, almost disappointed that she didn’t tell him what to do.
‘Do you want to put him down on the ground? You’ll tire yourself out.’
Well, at least he was allowed to do that. She helped him stretch Daniel out on the grass between them.
King William’s letter fluttered out of her pocket, landing on Daniel’s chest. What a jolt it was to see that familiar handwriting. Robert gasped in confusion but then remembered aloud, ‘Daniel gave His Majesty his letter to write on the back of it.’
The widow picked it up and turned it over, shyly admitting, ‘I can’t read so …’
She handed it to him. ‘You keep it; send it on to your parents if you like.’
He scanned it quickly, just a few sentences describing the upset amongst the soldiers when it was believed that William had been killed.
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘There’s nothing in it for them. But thank you anyway; it was kind to offer.’
She shrugged.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘surely you want to keep a letter from the king?’
She watched him run his finger over the red wax that sealed the letter and surprised them both by asking, ‘Will you read it to me? It was only a few lines as I remember.’
He looked towards the Boyne again.
‘Just a few lines,’ she repeated. ‘I feel foolish carrying it and not knowing what it says. I had planned to ask Daniel …’
He snapped the seal and unfolded the note, for that was all it was, and read:
As a reward for perseverance and bravery, I hereby confirm, assign and make over onto Jean Watson, widow, and her heirs male forever, free of rent, all that parcel of land she now holds in Killaughey, the parish of Donaghadee, be the same more or less.
Signed:
King William, July 1690
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Robert. ‘Do you know what this means?’
Mrs Watson covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hide her smile. ‘I own the farm?’
‘Forevermore,’ said Robert, looking pleased for her in spite of everything.
She gazed at Daniel for a moment or two, letting the news sink in. Robert gave her back the letter and waited. Taking a deep breath, she decided to make a promise. ‘I’ll take Daniel home with me. Now that I own the land … well, I’ll see to it that he gets a proper burial.’
Robert was both relieved and horrified because now that he had, once more, taken care of his younger brother, it was time to say goodbye to him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Crossing the Boyne
It might be an exaggeration to describe William as being in awe of the Jacobite resistance, but he was certainly astonished at their show of force.
The Boyne, he could plainly see, was causing extreme difficulties for his men that were still engaged in trying to cross it. He could hear their cries and watched helplessly as one man was carried away by the rising tide, his body becoming still and gradually turning over, as if he had suddenly decided to study the riverbed. Meanwhile, whoever wasn’t drowning or fighting to breathe was being shot at by the Jacobite cavalry who had nothing else to do except wait for their approach. It made for painful viewing.
At last, it was time to summon the final battalion, the Danish cavalry, and lead them into the river. It was not going to be easy but he had no choice. I cannot be seen to lack in courage or belief in my own victory.
He studied the river and saw it was perilously deep. The water flowed steadily and calmly, as if pretending to the observer that it was not a killer. King William pressed his lips together and continued with the conversation in his head: Louis built his palace on bog land to show how he can lord it over nature. How I should like to see him take on this river. He’d lose his nerve soon enough
But what if he drowned? That was not a glorious death and, in any case, he did not come here to die.
How Mary would rage if she could see me now.
He had promised his wife he would not take any undue risks and now look at him. The trumpet sounded out and he directed his horse downstream, to make a crossing at some distance from the last one.
Never had the river seemed so wide to him. He would have liked to pick up a rock and fling it into the middle to see how deep it was, but he did not want to intimidate his men any more than they were already. So he simply dug his spurs into the sides of his horse, prompting her to walk in. That’s the wonderful thing about horses, he thought. Once they trust you they will allow you to walk them anywhere. Poor devils! But maybe they are better off. They know nothing about dying.
Within a few short feet, the water reached his knees. It was cold even on such a sunny afternoon as this. Time had marched on and the hours were adding up. The mare kept her head out of the water as she grunted with the effort of walking against the flow of the Boyne. She shucked her head in frustration, wondering why she could not move at her own speed. Behind her, her fellow horses were experiencing the same confusion. Their riders strained to keep pushing them forward, while some felt it would be easier on the animals if they dismounted and allowed the horse to swim, if it had to, while they hung onto the reins.
With growing alarm William understood that he was in serious trouble. He could not swim so there was no way he would dismount, but his horse was almost at a standstill thanks to the strength of the river. He kicked her sides to keep her moving. Without realising it, he was using his entire body to urge her forward, while trying to resist the current himself. After a few seconds, he was out of breath. A few seconds more and his breathing grew ragged until he could only wheeze. Now his chest ached because his heart was beating so fast and he recognised that his overworked lungs were under attack … in the middle of the River Boyne. Please, please God, no. I beg you. Don’t let me die like this. Sprawled over his horse’s neck, he panicked that he might lose consciousness, slip into the water and end up drowning anyway.
There was a buzzing in his ears and the afternoon light was growing dim. His chin was so close to the water that he could have wetted it without having to move. All he could think about was breathing – such a simple act that most of us never question. He needed to sit up to make it easier to catch his breath, but his exhausted body refused to obey him.
He only became aware that there was a man by his side when he felt himself being dragged from his horse; he was past caring whether he was friend or foe, although, to be sure, it was a relief when he hea
rd a thick accent declare, ‘Don’t you worry, Your Majesty. I’ll have you out in a wee bit.’
William didn’t know what a ‘wee bit’ was, but he didn’t let that bother him. The man, or giant that he was, was using the horse to block the might of the river while carrying his king in reasonable comfort to safety. Goodness only knows how many minutes were involved until his saviour got him and his horse to the southern bank of the Boyne. William was in too much of a daze to thank his saviour, only managing to wheeze out a few words, ‘Wh … who are you?’
‘Samuel McGregor from Enniskillen. Just rest yourself there, Majesty. I need to go and help some of the other lads.’
And off the giant strode, back into the river.
It took some time but the Danish cavalry were finally across. The water spilled from them and their horses as they nervously checked that their gunpowder and muskets had remained untouched.
William’s breath was returning to normal and he told the men to be ready to fight. How relieved he was that the Boyne was finally behind him. My God, I did it!
He fully expected a Jacobite attack of some description, but it didn’t happen. As soon as he could, he got back on his horse, a sign that every single soldier was to get on theirs. The battalion was two thousand strong and he prepared to lead them upstream to reinforce the others.
‘Be on your guard,’ he instructed the men nearest to him. ‘We could be ambushed at any time!’
He looked around in vain for Samuel McGregor. He did exist, didn’t he?
No matter. They had to press on.
And then they heard it, the Jacobite trumpet blasting out the notes to retreat.
‘Follow me!’ William roared as his horse leapt forward, glad to have her four feet back on dry land.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Retreat!
‘Jacques, look!’ yelled Gerald. ‘William’s cavalry! They’re going to cross farther downstream!’
Jacques scanned the bank behind them and could see no spare men to deal with yet another crossing. They were barely coping as it was and that was no mean battalion over there, it looked to be another couple of thousand men who had not been in combat for hours and, therefore, were fighting fit.
Jacques searched the sky for inspiration but got no further than thinking the obvious: there are too many!
Turning to Gerald, he said, ‘Go back to Oldbridge and tell them. Go on, now!’
Gerald dug his feet into Troy and they took off. Oldbridge was only a mile or so away; maybe Talbot had already noticed that William was preparing to cross. A shot rang out, but Gerald took no notice; it was only one of thousands he had heard that day. He was certainly not expecting a sudden reaction from Troy who stumbled, pitching forward onto his forelegs while his hind legs were still in motion. The poor animal made a most dreadful noise, like a baby strangled by whooping cough. Gerald slid off him and saw a gash in the middle of Troy’s chest. As Troy gulped for air, blood pumped out of him. Overcome by terror, Gerald merely stared. The horse rocked his head from side to side, trying to shake off the pain and the blindness which was surely falling.
‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do!’
Who was he talking to … poor Troy himself?
The animal was in agony. It was unbearable to watch, and yet Gerald could not move.
A shadow appeared behind him and a second shot was fired but this time from a different rifle. The horse ceased resisting and slumped forward in silence. Gerald turned to find Michael standing there with a musket in his hand and looking mortified at what he had done.
‘I had to, didn’t I? He was dying and it was the only merciful thing to do.’
Stunned, Gerald walked up to the body.
Michael followed him, saying, ‘It isn’t safe here. We’ve got to get moving.’
Gerald got down on his knees and patted Troy’s neck.
‘Where’s Jacques?’ asked Michael, keeping a look out for Williamites.
‘Back there’ was the dull response.
‘All right. Let’s go and get him, shall we? Where are your weapons? You’ll need to take those along.’
Michael leant over Troy to reach for the sword and the musket that had been dropped to the ground. ‘There you go. Is there anything else you need?’
Gerald shook his head. ‘I just stood there and did nothing, like I always do.’
He looked up at Michael. ‘I could see he was in pain and I didn’t do anything. I should have shot him but I was too afraid.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Of course I could do it. He wasn’t mine, was he? I didn’t know him which made it easier. Look, he’s at peace now, but we’re not. We need to get out of here.’
And then they both heard it, the trumpet signalling retreat.
In the next moment, they were part of a huge crowd of battered-looking Jacobites that were on the move. ‘Come on!’ yelled someone. ‘Head for the Hill of Donore. We can make a stand there!’
‘They’re right behind us. Get going!’
That was enough for Michael. He put his hands under Gerald’s shoulders and dragged him upwards. ‘Right, you’re coming with me. If you want, we can come back later for the funeral, but right now I need you to run like you’ve never run before!’
And with that, he pushed Gerald in front of him and then pushed him again and then again until Gerald snapped out of his daze and broke into a jog.
Michael gushed, ‘That’s the spirit, lad! Keep going until we reach the Hill of Donore.’
Those tired Jacobites had quite a run ahead of them. The hill was about two miles away, but if they managed to reach it, the ruin of the church and its wall would afford them some shelter. They had been fighting for hours now, but if the two miles enabled them to stay alive then it would be worth it.
Michael felt that his heart was bursting out of his chest, while his scythe and stolen musket had never felt so heavy. He did his best to keep up with the boy and had to fight the temptation to stop and take off his red coat … and his boots, if it came to it. He’d much rather be running in his bare feet.
The way to the hill lay through a forest and the redcoats disappeared into it, shooting off in all directions. All the while they could hear the triumphant shouts of the Williamites that were not too far behind them. Michael simply followed Gerald since there was no time to stop and debate the direction they should take. Surely, all that was required was to keep heading south.
As he ran, he repeated their destination to himself: The Hill of Donore. The Hill of Donore. In between that, he admonished himself against thinking of anything else. Yes, it was best not to dwell on the perilous fact that they were now being chased by all those thousands upon thousands of Williamites and there was no longer a river between them. What would happen if they were caught?
He was concentrating so hard that he smashed right into Gerald and then was quickly obliged to grab the boy to stop him from falling into a clump of thorny bushes below them. Without realising it, they had run up some sort of mound or slope and there was no way down that did not involve a wild jump that might well break one or both legs before those thorns ripped them to shreds.
Because they were forced to stop running, they suddenly realised that they were in quite a state. Michael said nothing when Gerald collapsed to the ground pleading, ‘Just for a minute. Just let me get my breath back.’
Michael nodded and flopped down beside him, dropping his weapons to wipe his clammy hands against his now filthy coat. He would have to wait until the blood stopped roaring in his ears to judge how close or far away the Williamites were. He had lost his bearings, but it would be a minute or two before he could care about that. Gerald looked so miserable that Michael was prompted to say, ‘If it’s all right with you and Jacques, I promised Joseph that we’d go to the tavern later.’
Gerald looked at him in bewilderment until Michael winked at him and then, in spite of everything, Gerald dissolved into laughter, shoving the cuff of his coat into his mouth to
stop himself from making any noise.
Until then, Michael had all but forgotten about Joseph and was suddenly so overwhelmed with guilt that he could not tell Gerald about sending the boy back to the tents. He put a finger to his lips for silence, and they both listened. There is something magical about a forest, where crowds of people can be swallowed up out of sight, while sounds are magnified but hard to pinpoint exactly where they are coming from.
Gerald could feel his heart thudding against his chest. He strained to decipher the shouts in the distance, wondering where Jacques was. Will he find Troy’s body and be angry with me?
At least, thought Michael, the Williamite cavalry can’t come in here, the forest is too overgrown for horses. However, they could not stay here. He whispered to Gerald, ‘We need to get going if we’re to make it to Donore in time.’
‘In time for what?’ asked Gerald.
‘You heard them. We’re making a stand there.’
Just then, they heard a rustle coming from somewhere behind them or was it in front of them? They froze and waited to hear something else and were in no way prepared for the giant shadow that silently swooped just over their heads. Gerald clamped his mouth shut to stifle his scream. It was a hawk and appeared to have vanished in an instant. Michael blessed himself, not caring if it made him look weak in front of the boy.
Gerald shrugged. ‘At least it wasn’t a raven. For a moment I thought it was the banshee.’
His companion groaned. ‘Oh, not you too. Joseph was blathering on about seeing an old woman washing bloodstained shirts in the river. I mean, for God’s sake!’
Gerald blessed himself, and Michael wished he could swallow back his words. The forest was spooking him too; it was like the foliage was reaching for them and he feared that if they did not leave now they would never be allowed to. He stood up and asked Gerald, ‘Well, are you coming?’
The boy only nodded.
How loud their footsteps sounded, as they made their way back down to solid ground. Sunlight pierced the tiniest of cracks in between the trees and Gerald remembered Father Nicholas telling him that he felt nearer to God in a forest that he did anywhere else. However, this forest was full of Williamites and neither Gerald nor Michael could allow themselves to forget that.
Kings of the Boyne Page 19