Kings of the Boyne

by Nicola Pierce

  Born and bred in Lucan, eight miles from the city of Dublin, the colonel was understandably passionate about his birthplace and the city. James had recognised the young man’s loyalty by promoting him to the position of colonel but secretly considered the Earl of Lucan too much of a hothead to be taken seriously. However, the man did his have followers and his regiment had recently proved successful in taking Sligo town, beating a Williamite battalion into submission. James could not ignore victories made on his behalf and thus congratulated Colonel Sarsfield while confiding to Talbot that ‘The colonel is undoubtedly a brave man, but I fear that his abundance of courage makes up for lack of … well, intelligence.’

  Richard Talbot was thrilled by this confession. He detested how the men cheered the dashing Sarsfield. As Lord Lieutenant of Ireland he believed that he should be the cherished leader since he was the actual leader of Ireland when James was not around.

  For his part, Patrick Sarsfield disliked the Lord Lieutenant and was one of many who called him ‘Tricky Dicky’ behind his broad back. It was widely felt that the Lord Lieutenant played up to James, befriending the King’s friends and giving them presents in order to insert himself into their intimate circle.

  By now, James realised that the longer he put off the inevitable battle, the longer he would have to stay in Ireland. He knew he could not, would not, return to Louis without a fight. Privately, he determined: I have no choice but to get this over with, come what may.

  A map of Ireland was stretched out on the table. William, they knew, had recently left Belfast and was marching south. The area between Dublin and Belfast had never seemed so small. An ornate clock was ticking on the mantelpiece; time was also marching on.

  ‘I was thinking,’ James said aloud, ‘of heading towards William. I assume that he is planning to approach us, thereby stopping us in our tracks.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Talbot, ‘travelling north to meet him?’

  James allowed a brief nod of his royal head.

  His French commanders shared a worried glance, and it was left to Lauzun to ask: ‘But, Your Majesty, is it wise to stray so far from Dublin? What if you need to … that is … leave Ireland in a hurry?’

  Lauzun congratulated himself on his own bravery: somebody has to point out the practicalities. Also, the French prime minister had warned him severely against risking the lives of the French soldiers, while Louis, it could be safely assumed, wanted no harm to come to James. Lauzun’s shoulders drooped beneath all this responsibility as he followed up with a sincere: ‘Your safety is my first priority, Majesty!’

  James raised an eyebrow to this and did not altogether dismiss it.

  Neither Talbot nor Sarsfield were pleased by this blatant hint of possible failure. Perhaps the only thing they had in common was their belief in a successful outcome. They had to win this battle because so much was riding on it.

  Patrick Sarsfield rushed to say, ‘My Lord, may I assure you that your Irish soldiers have no intention of losing. Every man has sworn to do his very best for you and, surely, after our victory in Sligo we should be confident in ourselves.’

  Richard Talbot discreetly rolled his eyes but had to respect the colonel for grabbing the opportunity once again to mention his success. Self-promotion was an important aspect of any military career.

  ‘And,’ said James, ‘when I am returned to the throne of England, will every Irishman continue to swear allegiance to me and bow his head to me as his monarch?’

  An awkward silence followed.

  James leant forward as if afraid he might not be heard. ‘Make no mistake, gentlemen, I know why my Irish supporters are so eager for war. Now, let me be clear: I do not believe in a divided empire and have no intention of releasing Ireland from her relationship with England. I believe in the union of our nations and I shall always believe in the union of our nations.’

  Richard Talbot was obliged to close his eyes, as if trying to stave off a headache. What could he say to this? Ever since James became king and made him Lord Lieutenant, he had dreamed of an Ireland being ruled alone by an Irishman and a Catholic. However, first things first – until they got James back on the throne they were well and truly stuck.

  Talbot opened his eyes and said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty’, as he thought to himself, that blond upstart had better copy me or else …

  He need not have worried. Patrick Sarsfield did the exact same thing, bowed his head and echoed his chief. ‘Yes, Your Majesty!’

  James went back to studying the map. ‘What about returning to Dundalk and meeting him there?’

  Lauzun tried to stifle his panic. Should he risk James’s infamous hot temper by repeating what he had only just said? Yes, he should! He’d rather have James shouting at him than King Louis.

  ‘Sire, don’t you think it would be better to stay in reach of Dublin?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Lauzun!’ It was Richard Talbot that glared at the French advisor, thinking to himself, that little weasel doesn’t care whether we win or not.

  Ignoring Talbot’s grouchiness, James suddenly pointed at the thin blue line that weaved its way in and around Drogheda and asked, ‘What about that river?’

  The men moved in closer to look, with reluctance, upon the line for themselves. It was Patrick Sarsfield who politely argued, ‘Your Majesty, if we choose to make a stand before a river, we’d have to divide up our army to prevent the enemy from crossing it and that, sire, is a long line. We’d have to stretch ourselves the length of its banks.’

  James seemed not to hear the colonel, while Lauzun felt torn all over again. Sarsfield was the youngest man in a room that was otherwise occupied by aging warriors who had not proved themselves in battle for many years now. Surely they should be listening to anything he had to say. Accordingly, Lauzun decided to ask: ‘What do you mean, Colonel?’

  Talbot gazed earnestly at the map, allowing Sarsfield to make the valid point: ‘What I mean is that a successful army does not weaken itself by breaking up into smaller groups. No, it sticks together at all times because this is where its strength lies. With all respect, Your Majesty, I suggest that we choose a stretch of land that does not contain such a tricky obstacle as a river.’

  James looked annoyed, but Talbot felt obliged to support the colonel, ‘Your Majesty, I must agree with Sarsfield in this matter. A river will present God knows how many possibilities to the Williamites, who will scour the area looking for places to cross. We’d never be sure of having covered every conceivable danger, while what we do know for sure is that there are more of them than there are of us.’

  The Frenchmen looked from the Irish to the English, feeling they had nothing to add to this particular discussion. At least the river was not too far from Dublin. That was something.

  James thought for a moment, before leaning over to fold the map in two and say, ‘If the river forces us to split into groups it will do the same for the Williamites. And since they have more men it is best to avoid meeting their entire army head on.

  ‘Gentlemen, I have made my decision. We shall meet them at the River Boyne.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Heading South, June 1690

  It was almost seven o’clock on a beautiful bright morning and King William’s Derry regiment was on the march once more.

  Daniel was doing his best to hide his anxiety about the Watson children and also his guilt.

  The night before, he had found an agitated Robert and Henry waiting for him on his return from the cottage.

  ‘Well?’ asked Robert. ‘What happened? What took you so long?’

  Daniel was hungry and made for his bag, where he had hidden some bread for himself. He bit into it and only then replied, ‘I had to wait until it was dark. I mean, I could have tried to get in the house but they would’ve just hidden any evidence like a red coat or a rifle.’

  Henry did not look convinced.

  ‘So I thought,’ continued Daniel, ‘that it would be better to spy on them through the window.’
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  To his relief, his brother nodded and said, ‘Hey, that’s good thinking, Daniel!’

  ‘All right,’ said Henry in a gruff tone, unwilling to compliment the young soldier on his clever plan, ‘and what did you see?’

  ‘She’s definitely a woman!’

  Robert waited for Daniel to justify the declaration, but his brother merely took another bite of his bread.

  ‘How do you know?’ Robert wanted to shout the all-too-obvious question aloud.

  ‘Because …’ said Daniel, chewing again, enjoying keeping his listeners in suspense, ‘I watched her nurse the baby.’

  Henry sniffed. ‘Really?’

  Daniel kept his tone light. ‘Now, Henry, you cannot believe that a soldier would pretend to feed a baby if there was nobody around to catch him out. Even you couldn’t pretend to believe that.’

  ‘You swear that’s what you saw?’ Henry asked.

  Robert answered his friend, ‘If that’s what Daniel says he saw, then that’s what he saw. He’s no liar!’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Yes, I know. Sorry, Daniel. I just wanted to be sure.’

  This was a surprise indeed. When had Henry ever apologised to him before?

  Daniel experienced a twinge of gratitude and shame. It wasn’t often that Robert defended him to Henry and for him to accidentally choose an occasion when Daniel was telling an out-and-out lie did not made the younger Sherrard feel proud or one bit clever.

  ‘Left, right! Left, right!’

  How many hours were passed thus, moving one foot in front of the other in a definite rhythm that lulled a young soldier into believing he was part of something huge and momentous?

  Mrs Sherrard had urged her son to take in the sights so that, on his eventual return, he could tell her all about the different places that she would never get to see for herself. Like most women, his mother had no need, or ambition, to step out of the city she was born into; her entire life would be lived behind the walls of Derry.

  Daniel wondered what his mother would make of Mrs Watson. Would she be appalled at the widow’s single mindedness or might she applaud it?

  How would he describe the landscape now? Was it so different from where he had come from? It was the one island after all; a person would be forgiven for thinking it was an island of fields. Since leaving Belfast they had seen little else. Daniel hoped to visit Dublin city; now that would be worth describing around the Sherrard dinner table. He had heard it was almost as big as London and contained colleges and students and libraries and the Lord knows what else.

  The day passed steadily, as expected, in hundreds of thousands of footsteps until the sun began to slide towards its bed and word went round to break for camp. The scouts would have suggested this location because it provided access to fresh water and trees. Soldiers busied themselves erecting their tents while others were summoned to carry out necessary tasks.

  As usual Robert had orders for his little brother, confident in Daniel’s trustworthiness when it came to gathering firewood.

  Daniel didn’t mind. Having spent the entire day walking in the middle of a tightly packed crowd, the boy yearned to be released into the nearby forest to search for fallen branches or whatever else he could find. He wasn’t the only one sent out for wood, but he quickly dislodged himself from the pack and tried not to fret about wild animals.

  In any case, he could hear his wood-gathering colleagues complaining about their aching feet and their empty bellies and that made him feel safe enough.

  He moved farther away from them but could still hear their voices in the distance. Robert nagged him about not being friendly enough but Daniel felt no great urge to get along with his fellow soldiers. Wasn’t he surrounded by them night and day? The only time he didn’t see them was when he closed his eyes. Certainly it was no surprise to him that he should want to linger in the forest, even if it was a little creepy in the strained light of the setting sun.

  He grudgingly began to look around for twigs, feeling he should at least do this much before it got too dark to find any. Of course there wouldn’t be a lot on offer as the forest was in the whole of its summertime health. He walked on, following meandering threads of pathways, wondering if anyone had stepped here before him. Finally he found some old, dried-up twigs dangling from bushes and foliage, never having made it all the way down to the ground. However, he knew that they would burn too quickly without providing any warmth and continued looking for newer branches to add to his bundle.

  He could still hear the others calling out to one another as he spied a tree in front of him from which a long, solid branch hung low. That’s more like it, he thought, and put down the twigs. He leapt and fastened both hands around the branch which barely creaked in protest. Then he swung himself back and forth, back and forth. When he realised this wasn’t working he began to jostle the branch up and down, feeling that it should give at any moment. It didn’t. The tree had no interest in delivering up one of its own, though Daniel was doing his utmost. He decided to raise both legs until his feet wrapped round the branch. Next, he hauled himself into a precarious sitting position that he managed to hold for one glorious moment until he lost his balance and smashed heavily to the ground.

  He lay there stunned and embarrassed, grateful that there were no witnesses. Or so he thought.

  The ground was cool, but it was pleasant to lie there awhile and breathe in the smell of the undergrowth. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and imagined that he could start a new life here and set up home beneath this very tree. Well, why not? No more army, no more war talk and no more of Henry’s taunting. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear only birdsong and the quarrelling of animals … and nothing more serious than that.

  As he lay there, Daniel found himself thinking of Horace. He imagined he heard his dog by his side and could feel his eyes upon him, waiting for his young master to stir himself. And then Daniel fancied he could smell his pet, his meaty breath and … and then … Daniel heard him … a low, guttural growl.

  Only Daniel knew that it couldn’t be Horace because Horace was dead. Slowly, very slowly, he opened his eyes and pushed himself up to lean on his elbows and looked around … meeting the hungry gaze of an enormous wolf.

  The beast’s black coat and dark eyes lent it a dreadful majesty while it displayed its fangs in a fleeting sinister grin. Both wolf and boy acknowledged their roles in the scene. The wolf was in charge. It stared at its prey calmly as if they had signed some sort of contract in which Daniel had promised not to run, not even to move. All Daniel could think was that he hoped death would be immediate.

  The wolf sniffed half-heartedly at the ground, nosing through the twigs that Daniel had dropped, all the while building itself up to the moment when it would finally act. Daniel watched it because he couldn’t do anything else. Briefly he wondered about reaching for his knife. But he knew the second he moved the wolf would pounce, as it was going to anyway. In fact, he fancied that the wolf was simply waiting for him to make the first move and start the proceedings.

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  For a moment, Daniel thought he had dreamt the voice, or stranger still that it was the wolf itself offering advice. In his terror, he could only whisper, ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘Good,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Keep staring at him, exactly like you’re doing.’

  Already shocked to his core, Daniel made no reaction as he recognised the voice of Mrs Watson. He merely did exactly what she told him to; he maintained eye contact with the wolf, who showed some confusion at the sudden arrival of this tall woman in her floppy hat. She was somewhere to Daniel’s right and he resisted the urge to look at her which meant that he received as nasty a shock as the wolf when an axe suddenly soared between them and thudded into the tree behind them.

  Daniel croaked in panic, ‘You missed!’

  Mrs Watson ignored him while the wolf was startled by the large flying object that had just about bumped his nose. Briefly he considered holding his g
round until the woman quickly followed up with a large rock that bounced clumsily off his forehead. He yelped in fright and, with a speedy twist, darted off into the bushes, tearing them as he ran. Mrs Watson listened to his fading footsteps but Daniel could only hear the blood pumping inside his head. He shivered violently while his body seemed encased in a freezing sweat.

  ‘I didn’t want to kill him. There’s no need for murder when he could be so easily frightened off.’

  Daniel didn’t know what to say to this. He was still distracted by his thumping heart and clung to the grass beneath him as if afraid he might fall a second time.

  Mrs Watson strode over to the tree and tugged her axe from it, giving the blade a quick wipe of her sleeve.

  ‘You … you saved my life!’

  His rescuer shook her head. ‘All you had to do was stand up and show him how tall you were, make some noise, hold his gaze. Wolves are opportunists; he saw you lying on the ground and assumed you were wounded and would not put up a fight.’

  She was standing over Daniel, reminding him that he had yet to move an inch. Suddenly mortified, he got to his feet, feeling more than a little unsteady.

  ‘What were you doing anyway, taking a nap in the middle of a forest?’

  Daniel blushed as he confessed, ‘Um, I fell out of the tree. I’m gathering firewood for camp; at least that’s what I’m meant to be doing.’

  He pointed to the small scattering of twigs. She did not look impressed.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ said Daniel. ‘I’d better get back in case they come looking for me.’

  He could have explained about Robert and Henry believing she was a murderous Jacobite but he was embarrassed enough as it was.

  ‘Stand back!’ Her manner was brisk.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked Daniel politely while glancing around to see if the wolf had returned.