The room was crowded, the summer temperature creating a thirst that could only be satisfied by a mug of brown ale. Gerald insisted on paying for their two drinks, still determined to repay, in some way, the price of the book.
They found two worm-ridden stools and sat down close to one another.
Gerald had been thinking about the word ‘duty’ and even before Jacques could enjoy that all-important first sip, he asked, ‘Can I make an observation and, pray, do not be offended?’
Jacques swallowed a mouthful of warm beer as he nodded his permission.
‘Well, it’s just that you said we are all doing our duty … but, you see, your country is not really under threat, is it? I mean, you have a Catholic king, one of the most powerful rulers in the world. He has plenty of money and a huge army.’
‘Oui, this is so,’ conceded Jacques, concentrating mostly on his beer, making sure none of the house flies ended up swimming in it.
‘But, well, it’s just that … you are only here because Louis told you to be.’
Gerald had rushed out his last few words and seemed to expect an explosion of some sorts.
Slightly baffled, Jacques simply agreed, ‘Yes. I know that. You know that. What of it?’
Gerald paused, feeling slightly lost himself. What was the point he had wanted to make?
‘Look,’ said Jacques, ‘you told me why you are here, about your grandfather’s castle that was burned to the ground, about your mother that longs to be a great lady again, like her mother before her. You fight to win back the riches of your family, and I fight for Louis to hold onto his riches. Don’t pretend, my friend, there is a nobler reason for us to be here. Really, war is usually about the power and the money.’
He rewarded himself for his speech by draining his drink and then looking pointedly at that of Gerald, who was not as keen on the taste and, without thinking, swapped cups with his friend.
‘Merci bien!’ muttered Jacques happily. ‘This is the life, no?’
The first beer had settled him in nicely and, with a contented sigh, Jacques took in their fellow drinkers. ‘Ah, see, there is Michael and Joseph.’
He waved at the other soldiers, saying: ‘Now, I do not much care for either of them but tonight let us all be merry. Yes?’
At long last, Jacques glanced at Gerald’s face and was perplexed at not seeing the usual friendly expression. However, just before he could investigate matters further, he was obliged to deal with Michael and Joseph, the two soldiers from Tallaght and Trim who had found a stool each and were pushing in beside them.
Michael glanced at Gerald and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
When Gerald made no answer to this, Michael smirked as he said rather too loudly to Jacques, ‘Oh dear, I hope we’re not interrupting anything.’
The younger soldier, Joseph, had not noticed anything and had no idea what his friend was talking about and certainly was not prepared for Gerald’s furious bark.
‘How dare you!’
Jacques was mystified, looking from Gerald to the new arrivals and back again. ‘What? Who are you talking to?’
Gerald spat out his answer. ‘You, Jacques, you! You think it’s so easy, don’t you? You have met a girl you like so now you are perfectly happy. It doesn’t matter where you are, only that you can drink beer and chase girls. That’s all you care about!’
Michael was understandably thrilled with this. He had hardly expected a performance to go with his beer and certainly not one that involved the pompous Frenchie being made to look as sorry as he did.
Doing his best to ignore the eager audience, Jacques sought to calm his young friend. ‘I do not understand. What have I said?’
However, Gerald refused to dignify the question with a reply, forcing Jacques to work it out for himself.
‘Wait!’ said Jacques, before declaring, ‘This is about me saying there are no noble reasons to fight. I am right, no?’
He paused, not wanting to upset Gerald anymore than he had already done. Nevertheless, he had finished the second beer and, therefore, was not going to indulge any silly whims. He was nobody’s nursemaid.
But, first things first.
He stood up quickly, startling them all, announcing quietly, ‘I need more beer!’
Gerald rolled his eyes to the grimy ceiling while Jacques called out his order to the plump barmaid, who sloppily filled a jug and brought it over to share out between the four beakers. Joseph and Michael were mightily appreciative of Jacques’ generosity and drank up quickly, to make room for more. Only Gerald did not offer up his empty cup.
Jacques pretended not to notice and focused on the latecomers, asking them, ‘So, tell me, you two, why are you soldiers in King James’s army? Why will you fight his battle for him?’
Gerald scowled while the others seemed surprised at such a strange question.
However, Joseph wanted to be helpful and offered, ‘My father told me I had to go because we needed the money.’
Jacques seemed surprised at this and stared at Joseph, who suddenly looked far too naive for his red coat. Joseph’s face was covered by a dizzy blend of orange and brown freckles, and Jacques pitied the boy for his giant front teeth that refused to stay hidden.
Feeling that he should elaborate, Joseph added, ‘I’m the eldest of seven.’
Michael nodded. ‘I have a family to feed back in Trim and this uniform is an improvement on scrabbling in other men’s fields, planting their vegetables.’
Gerald now stirred himself to ask, ‘So, you believe in King James and in returning to the old Ireland, where we can be free to better ourselves?’
Michael smirked. ‘Do you mean Tir na nÓg, the Fianna, Oisín, Niamh, Cuchulainn and his hound, and all that lot? Do not forget, my lad, that we are lining up to fight for an Englishman. I doubt that the Fianna would be so proud of us.’
‘But James can give us back our religion, our rights.’ Gerald was adamant that at least one of them would see sense.
Michael slurped his beer noisily and swallowed quickly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, James is the one who pays my wages.’
It was Jacques’ turn to become tetchy. If they were going to drink his beer they had to get their facts straight: ‘Correction! King Louis is the man who pays your wages. Without him, none of this would be happening. Your children would starve and you, Joseph, would be still sitting at your poor parents’ table.’
‘You know what,’ said Michael rather loudly, ‘I don’t like your tone. And I don’t care who pays me as long as I get paid!’
Joseph seemed lost. He sent Gerald a worried look, which was promptly ignored.
‘There!’ Jacques nudged Gerald lightly. ‘Is Michael any better than me? He might have an Irish accent but at least I know who I’m fighting for.’
Wanting to keep his two hands free to hit someone, Michael shoved his mug at Joseph. Joseph, however, scraped enough courage together to refuse it. He stared at his feet and pretended he was elsewhere.
‘You don’t know anything about me, Frenchie.’ Michael spoke slowly and precisely. ‘Remember you’re not in France now. You have no idea what we’ve been through.’
Jacques was confused. ‘Huh?’
Michael twisted around suddenly, making Joseph flinch, as he pulled up his tunic and shirt to show them his back which was crisscrossed with shiny welts that they could just about make out in the candlelight.
‘You know who gave me them?’ he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he told them, ‘the English lord that caught me looking for potatoes on his estate. I was twelve years old and my parents were dead. I was hungry, dressed in rags, and he had his gardener whip me as if I was a rabid dog.’
The others stared at Michael’s red face. Feeling a little embarrassed, the older soldier slid his clothes back into place. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘That Englishman told me that I had no business being alive! Has any foreigner said that to you in your own country?’
His question was for Jacques who was struggling to underst
and the turn in conversation.
Adamant that Jacques concentrated on what was being said, Gerald added, ‘You hear that, Jacques and that’s only one story. There are plenty more! I spent my childhood being walked for miles by Father Nicholas so that he could show me burnt-out churches and graves that had been dug up just because the corpses were Catholics.’
Michael nodded at this, as Gerald continued, ‘People are starving, our people. We’re not allowed to farm our own land because it belongs to England. And when we can’t afford to pay the rent for our homes the English landlord evicts us without a second thought. Babies, old people, sick people, left sitting on the side of the road, hungry and with nowhere to go.’
Jacques shifted on his stool. ‘But we have our poor in France too. Is it not worse that rich French people do not care about their own poor?’
‘Oh!’ cried Michael. ‘So, now we see your true colours.’
‘Colours?’ Jacques scrunched up his features. ‘I do not understand.’
Still stuck on an earlier point, Gerald snapped, ‘And your King Louis is only involved because he hates William of Orange, and for no grander reason than that.’
‘You lot, keep it down!’ yelled the barmaid. ‘No fighting in here or I’ll put you out.’
‘Sure. Why not?’ shrugged Jacques. ‘Louis wants to rule Europe so he uses James to beat William, and James uses Ireland to beat William, while William fights to remain king of all England. So what?’
Gerald’s face was white with rage. Why had he come into this awful tavern? He hadn’t wanted to. He knew his mother and Father Nicholas would be disappointed, not to mention his sister who would despise each and every one of these drunkards.
When he bade his family and tutor goodbye, he thought he knew exactly who he was, where he was coming from and what he was going to do. All he had ever heard from them all was how marvellous Ireland had been in the past.
For Father Nicholas the matter was simply explained: ‘The English have infested our landscape and heritage and the only way to deal with them is to flush them out. Do you understand what I am saying, child?’
And, of course, Gerald did understand because he had been brought up to view the world through the eyes of his family and the priest.
To be sure, things got complicated in his mind when he saw Derry’s skeletal citizens and soldiers guarding her walls, and he could not help wondering if they should not just leave the city to herself.
And hanging that girl and her friend … well, he still doubted the necessity of killing them.
But, here in Drogheda, it was easier to re-arm himself with Father Nicholas’s and his mother’s rage. Hadn’t he just walked along Scarlett Street, so called because it was soaked with the blood of those whom Oliver Cromwell had slaughtered in his God’s name?
Ireland was under attack once more, but this time he was here to fight for her.
Taking a deep breath, Gerard said, ‘James may well be using Ireland to get what he wants, but we, the Irish, are using him.’
His three companions considered this for a moment.
‘I accept that we are all here for different reasons and that some of those reasons might not be as … admirable … as others. But I know why I’m here. I want Ireland and her Catholics, which – yes – includes my family and me, to be free from tyranny.’
Jacques fidgeted at the word ‘admirable’ but did not contradict Gerald. However, he was not going to let the moment pass without attempting some sort of apology. ‘My friends, perhaps the richest man is not the one sitting in a castle, counting his coins. Rather, it is the man who is free to choose his lot in life. Yes?’
Michael studied Gerald. Up to now the boy had not interested him. It was obvious that his own childhood had been vastly different from Gerald’s and presumably they had little in common. Yet he noted the fire in the boy’s eyes and wanted to believe – yes, Michael did – that there could be a better life for him and maybe for all of them sitting here. He said, ‘I don’t know much about riches or freedom but I can agree to fight for a better future.’
Joseph surprised everyone by asking, ‘Have any of you heard of Ireland’s “Sleeping Army”?’
They shook their heads, and Joseph explained, ‘There is a cave somewhere between Drogheda and Ardee containing an ancient army of Irish warriors that were put to sleep long ago by some sort of spell. In order to wake the soldiers, who neither belong to our world or the next, one must enter the cave and fire the loaded gun that sits in the middle of them. My father met a man who swore he found the cave. He saw the soldiers lying on the ground, their eyes closed, looking as near to death as any dead man. Then he saw the gun and, without thinking, picked it up and half-cocked it. Immediately, every single soldier sat up but their eyes remained closed. The man got such a fright that he dropped the musket and left, leaving the gun half-cocked and the soldiers sitting halfway up.’
Joseph’s listeners waited for him to continue but he was finished. It was the longest speech he had ever made and it had exhausted him.
To make up for his rudeness earlier, Gerald smiled at Joseph and said, ‘Of course! The sleeping army could be like us and the man could be King James. All he has to do to waken our army is to fire a single shot and leave the rest to us.’
Chapter Nine
Around the Campfire
The campfire spat and spluttered as Daniel prodded the potatoes in the pot. Henry Campsie sat nearby, cleaning his musket. Against Daniel’s wishes, Robert had just told his friend all about the widow. His response was typical. ‘Are you sure that she was a woman?’
Daniel refused to acknowledge such a stupid question but Robert was immediately intrigued. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You said she was huge, was wearing trousers and had a bit of a Scottish accent,’ said Henry.
When Robert nodded, Henry produced his own theory. ‘Maybe she was actually a Jacobite soldier … you know, one of those Scottish giants, the Redshanks.’
Back in 1688, the Redshanks were the first Catholic soldiers to arrive at Derry’s walls and demand to be allowed into the city. They hailed from Scotland, wore red coats and were handpicked for their height – a man had to be at least six foot tall to join them.
‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed Robert. ‘Did you hear that, Daniel? Why didn’t we think of that?’
Daniel was astounded. Ignoring the usual smirk on Henry Camspie’s face, he asked his brother, ‘Are you serious?’
Robert was determined that Daniel’s dislike for Henry should not cloud the issue. ‘Come on, Dan. He has a point. How can it be that the tallest woman we have ever met also happens to be wearing trousers and a pair of man’s boots?’
‘We both heard her speak, and she didn’t sound like any man I know.’
‘True,’ agreed Robert. ‘But she only spoke quietly, remember? She kept her voice low so she could have been disguising her true self.’
‘Or his true self,’ added Henry with a wink.
Robert was furious at himself. What a mistake to make. Noticing his brother’s eyes on him, he asked him, ‘What were we thinking? Why didn’t we check?’
‘Because …’ said Daniel in an exasperated tone, ‘we both knew she was a woman. Because we were there, while Henry was not.’
‘But we should have checked at least,’ said Robert, already thinking how this might look to the likes of Reverend Walker and King William himself.
‘Checked how?’ asked Daniel. His grip so tightened around the wooden spoon that he felt his fingers cramp. He stirred the hot water in a poor attempt to release the tension from his hand.
‘You’re the doctor,’ said Henry, laughing. ‘How do you think?’
Even Robert flinched at this, but he would not hush his friend. Instead, he looked at his brother in the hope that he might have something useful to say.
Realising that his big brother was in a real fix, Daniel followed his usual urge to help him out. ‘Robert, she had six children and the ones that spoke call
ed her “Mama”.’
‘Yes!’ Robert slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly! Six children. That’s right. We met them all, so we did.’
He looked at Henry waiting to receive his blessing, or something like that. However, his friend just slowly shook his head from side to side as if he could scarcely believe his ears. ‘Oh, I see. Well, of course. I mean, children never ever lie to save their father’s life.’
‘You fool!’ snapped Daniel.
Henry put his musket on the ground and gave Daniel a peculiar look, asking him, ‘Just who do you think you’re talking to?’
Daniel flung the spoon into the boiling water, causing it to splash a little, the water burning his hand. ‘What kind of man – and a soldier at that – would pretend to be a woman?’
‘Steady on, Daniel,’ said Robert. Not for the first time he wondered where his little brother had gone. Where was the boy who only wanted to be liked and would not have picked a fight with anybody?
‘You always take his side, Robert! How can you be persuaded she was a man by someone who wasn’t even there?’
Henry stood up; he had something to say and it felt appropriate to get to his feet. His father had been mayor of Derry and someday Henry hoped to be mayor himself. With that in mind, he practised his oratory skills whenever the opportunity arose. His father had always warned him against losing an argument through bad temper so he smoothed himself down and put his thoughts in order.
And then he began. ‘Look, you two, we are in the middle of a war or soon will be. Nothing is as it seems in times of war. Daniel, you ask what type of man would pretend to be a woman and the answer is a desperate one.’
Robert nodded absentmindedly, while Daniel just stared, successfully hiding the fact that in the farthest corner of his mind he was starting to question Mrs Watson himself.
Henry continued, ‘James and his army are desperate men; they have to be. They lost in Derry, and now King William has arrived with a bigger army than their own. Imagine it, Jacobite soldiers hiding out so that they don’t have to fight to the death … doing whatever is necessary to save their skins.’
Kings of the Boyne Page 6
