Of course, it’s their first time to see a king.
He could appreciate their shyness and curiosity. Some of his men, however, did not share his understanding. He heard someone from the Derry regiment, which marched behind him, mutter, ‘This is a pretty poor welcome for their king. Maybe they prefer to see the Papist James and his army.’
‘Hush, Henry Campsie! It’s not your place to say such things!’
William almost smiled at this and silently blessed the bold Henry, whoever he was, for being defensive of his king’s feelings.
At least the sun was shining. Indeed, the people of Belfast seemed somewhat dazzled at the spectacle of King William and his massive army, some thirty-five-thousand strong, on horse and foot. And who would not be awed at such a sight?
William rivalled the sun in his blood-red cloak which clashed dramatically with the plainness of his white tunic. Large buttons of gold glinted from his cuffs and various collars, all the way down to the purple sash around his waist. Everything about him, from the glamorous curls of his dark wig to the folds in his knee-high shiny boots, suggested money and power.
A dog suddenly appeared out of nowhere. It darted forward, barking and snarling at William’s horse. The mare shucked her head in annoyance, checking that she was not going to tread on him. The manic barking snapped the spectators out of their reverie, and there was a collective gasp of horror from the crowd as one young lad was roughly pushed out to fetch the rude animal, which he did, grabbing it by the scruff of its neck, all the while keeping his eyes to the ground.
A pathway began to open up behind him as his neighbours shuffled aside, assuming he would drag the dog and himself backwards to disappear amongst them. And that was exactly what the boy wanted to do and was trying to do.
However, King William had other plans for him. Raising his arm in the air, he cried out an imperious ‘Halt!’ to be obeyed by his cavalry and infantry, and the boy whose crimson cheeks matched the fiery red of William’s cloak.
Making sure that all eyes were on him, William addressed the trembling youth, ‘What is the name?’
Swallowing hard, the boy just about managed to utter ‘Scruffy’.
A hiss from somewhere in the crowd reminded him to tack on the necessary ‘Your Majesty’ to the end of his reply.
‘Scruffy, Your Majesty.’
Looking perplexed, His Majesty raised himself in his saddle to peer down and ask: ‘Really? That is the name your parents gave you? How peculiar!’
Feeling trapped, the lad looked around for help while the dog turned to nip at his ankles. William saw a few smug smiles break out here and there, but it was left to the poor boy to try again: ‘It’s … it’s the dog’s name, Majesty.’
‘Ah!’ nodded William. ‘That makes more sense. He is rather a scruffy creature, isn’t he?’
The boy looked even more miserable than before: ‘Er … it’s a girl, Majesty. Sorry.’
William pursed his lips and said, ‘Oh, there’s no need to apologise.’
One woman called out, ‘Tell the king your name. That’s what he meant, you fool!’
She followed this up with a wide smile of apology, feeling obliged to explain her intrusion. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. He’s my grandson, sire. Your Majesty. Sir.’
Then she curtsied rather awkwardly, which is not surprising considering it was the first time she had ever curtsied to an actual king before. To keep things simple, William chose to ignore her, preferring to concentrate on the boy; however, the grandson did not have the luxury of being able to ignore his grandmother.
‘My … my name is Archie McKenzie, Your Majesty.’
‘Well, Archie, now I know your name, but do you know mine?’
Young Archie was at a loss to know why the king persisted in dragging out a conversation with him, of all people. The only adults that ever bothered speaking to him were his parents and grandparents and they usually just shouted at him about his chores or clipped him around the ears if he made a mess of things, which was usually the case. In truth, he felt exhausted from holding the dog and having to participate in this nerve-wracking interview. What he really wanted to do was plop himself down right there on the road and let someone else take over.
More than a few people, including his mortified grandmother, felt it necessary to prompt him: ‘It’s William!’
Again, the king pretended not to hear the extra voices. Instead, he called out, as loud as he could without actually shouting, ‘Allow me to introduce myself.’
Archie, it must be said, looked rather dejected, sunken by that familiar feeling of having failed in every way possible. Thanks to years of practice, he recognised that, once again, the moment had passed when he could have proved himself worthy in some way, though he knew not how.
Meanwhile the king was now addressing the crowd at large: ‘I am King William. I was asked to chase the Papist James from the throne and now I will undertake to chase him off this very island.’
His army raised a cheer to this and were watched politely by those on the sidelines.
Indicating one of the newer battalions, whom he had asked to march closely behind him as thanks for their devotion, William continued, ‘The city of Derry showed her loyalty to me and her church.’
The boys and men cheered once more, while those holding banners waved them with pride. Amongst their unit were some of the boys who had shut their gates against the redcoats; each one of them had gone without food, preferring to starve than surrender to that pretender king James.
William beseeched his listeners: ‘Can I be so bold as to hope for similar support from the people of Belfast? I would welcome new recruits to join the ranks of this army that will – once and for all – end the ambition of James and his Catholic French cohorts.’
At this, he removed his sword from its sheath and held it above his head, looking every inch the mighty warrior. Finally, he was rewarded with a roar of excitement from the audience. Who knows who shouted out first, but within seconds the shopkeepers, fishermen, farmers, politicians, clergymen, servants, housewives and their children took up a resounding chorus of ‘Three cheers for King William: Huzzar! Huzzar! Huzzar!’
Chapter Five
Killaughey, County Down, June 1690
Reverend George Walker was both a man of the cloth and a man of the battlefield. As governor of Derry, he had seen the good city through months of siege and starvation at the hands of the Papist James’s Jacobite army. Of course Derry survived – God bless her! Moreover, Reverend Walker felt that this was largely due to the passionate, morale-boosting sermons that he shouted from the altar in the city’s cathedral.
Now, a year later, he was leading her soldiers south to support their saviour, King William of Orange, in the long-awaited battle against James. But first he had an important task to carry out.
Summoning a handful of his most trusted young soldiers to him, he informed them: ‘Right, lads, we have been told that King William needs more horses and as soon as possible. As it would take too long to bring them over from England, it has been decided that we will make use of what is available to us.’
Private Daniel Sherrard grew concerned. Neither he nor his brother owned a horse or else they would hand them over to His Majesty. However, this was not what the clergyman meant.
‘The quickest way to make up the numbers is to borrow horses from the local population – that is, our local brethren. And you, my boys, have been especially chosen to round them up. So, off you go. And, mind, we need every single horse you can find.’
‘Borrow, sir?’ asked Daniel, wanting to be clear about his orders.
Reverend Walker shrugged impatiently. ‘Well, yes. I suppose. Isn’t that what I said?’
Daniel did not look convinced, while Robert, his older brother, who had recently been promoted to corporal and had no interest in the finer details, snapped at him, ‘Come on, Dan!’
Robert saluted the reverend and gave him a confident, ‘Yes, sir. Right away!’
As usual Robert’s best friend, Henry Campsie, whose father had twice been elected Mayor of Derry, walked with them and tutted loudly. Daniel ignored him. However, he could not pretend to be deaf to his brother’s exasperated lecture: ‘Why, oh, why must you always ask questions? A soldier’s lot is to carry out orders, not study them. You’re worse than Father!’
If Robert had meant to insult Daniel, he failed. Instead, Daniel was flattered to be compared with their father, whom, he fervently believed, was the most intelligent man that ever walked the earth.
Henry smirked. ‘Perhaps you should have stayed at home, Daniel. I always thought you would become a physician like your father.’
What could Daniel say to this? To take offence would mean sounding critical of his father’s profession, which was, to be honest, something he had thought about for himself. However, he was not going to admit this to Henry, who seemed to think he alone knew all there was to know about anything at all.
Robert might have distracted his friend, but he was still embarrassed and, therefore, annoyed over Daniel questioning the Reverend Walker, of all people. Surely this sort of behaviour reflected badly on him too. His little brother had a lot to learn.
‘It is funny how …’ mused Henry.
Daniel was absolutely sure that whichever way that sentence ended he would not find it the least bit funny.
‘I still have trouble imagining you on a proper battlefield even though you’re wearing the uniform and carrying a musket. Yet I have no problem at all imagining you looking after sick people … yes, and sick animals too. Sure, why not, you’d be great at it.’
‘Oh, shut up your mouth, Henry!’ Daniel sniffed, pretending not to care.
‘Hey, that’s Corporal Henry to you, Private!’
Daniel uttered some words that would have displeased his parents had they been there to hear them. Henry laughed and slapped Daniel on the shoulder, saying, ‘Righto, I’m off to steal some horses for the king. See you two later!’
‘He makes me so mad!’ declared Daniel unnecessarily.
Robert rolled his eyes; it was not the first time his brother had said that and nor, he suspected, would it be the last.
‘Just ignore him. You know he just likes to annoy you. Anyway, right now, we’ve more important things to think about.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Daniel.
‘Let’s just walk for a couple of miles. There are some farms dotted around the place and there’s bound to be a few horses about.’
Daniel had a thought. ‘Why don’t we split up? We’ll cover more ground that way. Or do you not trust me?’
In truth, Robert did not trust Daniel, not really, although it was not something he’d had to consider before his promotion. But he was a corporal now and hoped to make sergeant one day. As far as he was concerned, it was best to be safe. Where possible, he would supervise his little brother until he felt Daniel has earned his trust. However, he could not confess this aloud. Therefore he fibbed, telling Daniel, ‘We’re to travel in pairs in case there are any Jacobites hanging around.’
They walked along in companionable silence. For now, the rain had stopped and the clouds seemed impatient to shed their wintry shades of wearisome grey. Daniel could hear plenty of rustling in the undergrowth and wondered whose day they were intruding upon: a stoat, a hedgehog or maybe just a plain old rat.
The winding road was dimpled with puddles, varying in size and depth while the trees were budding with the promise of new life. Robert breathed in deeply. The reverend had told them they were in County Down, in other words a long way from Derry.
‘This time last year …’ said Robert.
He didn’t have to say anything else. Daniel understood his brother was comparing their present surroundings with being cooped up for three miserable months behind the walls of Derry, simultaneously feeling safe and imprisoned while the Jacobites pounded the city with bombs and bullets. Their every waking moment was dominated by a fierce hunger that would not leave them. It was that hunger that drove the people of Derry to eat candlesticks, mice, grass … having first devoured their beloved pets. Daniel did not like to dwell on it.
Instead he focused on the good things. Surviving the siege meant that they might always appreciate afternoons like this, following a road to God knows where and never forgetting to be grateful for the freedom to do so.
‘Aha!’ said Robert suddenly. ‘Do you see what I see?’
Daniel followed his brother’s gaze and saw, in the distance, a farmer ploughing his field with not one but two horses.
‘Well done, Corporal Sherrard!’
‘Why thank you, Private Sherrard. Shall we?’
Robert led the way; they left the road behind and strode through the wet grass that squeaked beneath their feet.
‘Do you think he’ll mind?’ asked Daniel.
Robert shook his head. ‘The people here are loyal to William. They’ll probably consider it an honour to assist him.’
To the right of the field, they saw a thatched cottage, guessing it to be the farmer’s home. It was modest in size; a thin line of smoke drifted from the chimney. Just outside the open door, they could see children playing. An older-looking girl was bent over a tub of clothes, prodding them with a stick. She was the first to see the two soldiers approaching.
Instinctively, Daniel raised his arm in acknowledgement but then changed his mind and brought it down again.
‘Whatever are you doing?’ asked his brother.
Daniel replied, ‘Well, we’re too far away to greet them, and they should know that we mean them no harm.’
Robert laughed. ‘They’ll know soon enough. Besides, the only one we need to talk to is him.’
At last, the farmer had spotted them and stood, waiting for their approach. He fished out a large, red handkerchief and proceeded to mop his face and the back of his neck. The horses flicked their tails and stared off into space or maybe they were concentrating on the green grass in the next field and wishing it was nearer.
‘Now, leave this to me!’ Robert was taking his position of corporal seriously.
Daniel was going to protest but knew there was no point. He had long ago learned that if Robert wanted to be in charge of something, it was best to let him be.
‘Good day to you, sir!’ Robert’s voice was hale and hearty. ‘We bring you greetings from King William himself.’
Daniel rubbed the ear that his brother had virtually bellowed into and looked ahead of him.
And looked again.
No. It couldn’t be.
Oblivious to Daniel’s confusion, Robert continued shouting in a cheerful manner. He had a job to do and, unlike Henry Campsie, he also had a younger brother to tutor in the ways of the world. As such, he was too busy to notice Daniel’s twitchy attempts to attract his attention.
And so it was that they were only a few feet away from the farmer when Robert finally understood that he was not actually addressing a farmer. No, he was addressing the farmer’s wife.
‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, for that was all that came to mind, and then he glanced at Daniel as if to say, ‘Behold, this is a woman!’
However, Daniel only muttered, ‘I did try to tell you!’
Chapter Six
Drogheda, June 1690
Having seen that their horses, Paris and Troy, were fed and watered, Gerald and Jacques were wandering around the small walled town of Drogheda. Their walk was hindered by overcrowding. People were nervous. Catholics streamed in from miles around, trusting the safety of their families to the bricks of the garrison town – exactly like the Protestants who made their way into Derry in 1688 to take shelter from the coming storm of a Catholic army. Accordingly, the population of Drogheda had exploded.
The noise was incredible thanks to screaming children, lowing cattle, barking dogs and the hawkers selling their wares. Because of Drogheda’s proximity to the sea, fish was a popular product. Here and there, the fishmongers, with their ruddy hands and sleev
es pushed up past their elbows, delighted in the flamboyant gutting and beheading of their goods, spurts of blood splattering their already filthy aprons as they worked.
The traffic was thick and fast on the streets: weary horses pulled carts that held all manner of things and then there were the horses of the well-to-do that pulled the grander carriages; young boys herded bleating goats and sheep to the butchers’; women scurried along doing errands; while bands of children got in everyone’s way as they played their games of chasing one another or daring one another to grab the tail of a passing horse, thereby risking being whipped by the rider or being kicked in the head by the irate owner of the tail.
At one stage, Gerald thought he might have to go to the rescue of a young child who had become separated from its mother and stood lost in the midst of a bustling crowd, bawling at the top of its voice – ‘Mama! Mama!’ – until he was too overcome to pronounce the word and only bawled.
People rushed by, too absorbed in their own business to notice the toddler in distress. Gerald had been about to snap into action when the mother suddenly emerged out of the throng of strangers and did nothing more than grab the child by the hand and drag him off, ignoring his moist smile of relief and happiness.
Gerald would not have thought to admit it to himself but since he had been forced to watch that girl hang, he was determined that he would not just stand by again.
Jacques made a face. ‘Phew, this town smells worse than Paris!’
Gerald grinned. ‘Do you mean your horse or the city?’
Jacques laughed. ‘Both!’
On their way into the town, they had passed what they assumed was a dumping ground, sitting just outside the walls. It was a towering mass of rotten fruit, fish guts, ancient potato skins and perhaps other types of skins too, broken crockery or what was once crockery, and, yes, the rotting remains of at least two animals, possibly dogs, or goats – really, it was impossible to tell. The dump seemed to throb with life thanks to the rats and the large birds scavenging for meals. The gulls and the crows screamed in protest at the thieving rats that were too big to confront.
Kings of the Boyne Page 3
