Kings of the Boyne

by Nicola Pierce

  ‘Jacques, stop. Wait!’

  It was Nancy and she was shouting breathlessly and in between sobs.

  As Gerald opened his eyes he heard stomping footsteps beside him and assumed it was Jacques that had kicked opened the flaps of their tent before flinging himself inside. He sat up quickly, blinded by the sun while trying to work out what was going on.

  ‘Nancy, are you all right? What’s wrong?’

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust before he could see her standing in front of him, her hands to her face, wiping away the tears. She seemed in a daze, staring at the tent which had been slapped closed against her.

  Gerald was horrified and studied his friend’s shadow against the canvas wall as if it was a page of a book. He took a deep breath and asked, ‘You … you have had an argument?’

  In response, Nancy just cried and cried, wrapping her arms about her middle, not caring what she looked like, unaware that she was starting to attract attention from soldiers that were on the look-out for a distraction. Gerald roused himself to his feet, feeling immediately out of his depth. True, he had lived with women all his life, but he had never seen his mother cry, while his sister had only shed tears that one time when she had been unable to prevent a baby from dying. Even then all he had to do was step back and let his mother handle it.

  He glanced around, wishing for the second time that evening that his mother or Cait might surprise him.

  ‘Would you like to sit down for a bit?’

  Nancy remained standing while a gruff voice from inside the tent called out, ‘Tell her to go home!’

  Gerald swallowed and tried again. ‘I can escort you home, if you like? I’d be happy to.’

  Nancy was miserable, saying in a low voice, in between hiccups, ‘Am I that troublesome, that I would make two people happy if I just left?’

  ‘Oh, God, no! No, not at all. That’s not what I meant.’

  Gerald felt the heat in his cheeks. How on earth did she reach that conclusion? He had only meant to be kind. Jacques had told him that women were complicated beings, but he thought that his friend was just being funny. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Nancy was too sad to reassure him. Her sobs had been reduced to weeping, using the cuff of her sleeve to wipe her face. ‘I can’t find my handkerchief,’ she explained and looked on the verge of collapsing again.

  Grateful to be able to do something, Gerald rummaged through his knapsack and pulled out his own handkerchief which was thankfully clean or clean enough. He has washed it out in the Boyne a few days earlier. Cait had embroidered his initials on it as her parting gift when he left home to join the army. Those carefully embroidered letters – G O C – were now wrapped around Nancy’s damp nose. Gerald pretended to fixate on something in the distance while she did what she had to do, mumbling, ‘Thank you, Gerald. I’ll bring it home and clean it for you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. You can keep it.’

  She forced herself to give him a watery smile. ‘Was it your sweetheart who initialled it for you?’

  Gerald shook his head with regret. ‘My sister, Cait.’

  ‘You are lucky to have a sister who cares about you.’

  Without thinking, Gerald said, in a tone that suggested he needed convincing, ‘Am I?’

  Nancy nodded. ‘Better to have a sister who cares about you than fall in love with someone who wishes you would just disappear.’

  Oh, dear. They were treading in dangerous waters again.

  Gerald stared at her in the full knowledge that he had absolutely no idea what he could possibly say to this. So he said nothing. She shrugged, understanding he was in an impossible position, torn between loyalty to his friend and wanting to show sympathy for her sadness.

  She changed the subject, noting the book lying on the ground beside his feet. ‘It’s the book that … we bought you. Watch out it doesn’t get grass stains. Maybe you should put it in your bag in case you forget to later on?’

  Eager to display cooperation where he could, he immediately bent down to pick up Cait’s present and dutifully shoved it to the bottom of his bag.

  Needlessly, she added, ‘That’s better, isn’t it? It would only have been ruined otherwise.’

  Gerald nodded in agreement. He recognised that she was putting off leaving, in the hope that Jacques might reappear. There was no movement inside the tent and Gerald reckoned that his friend was lying on his blanket and staring moodily at the canvas ceiling while listening to every single word.

  Stubborn mule! Why doesn’t he come out? He must know that she doesn’t want to leave until he does.

  A moment of stricken silence passed while Gerald struggled to think of something appropriate to say. Nancy looked around her helplessly, trying not to look at the tent that seemed to grow in size the longer she stayed.

  ‘Gerald!’

  They both jumped guiltily, and Gerald dived towards the flaps and pushed his head inside.

  ‘What?’

  Jacques scowled at his naïve question. ‘What do you mean “What”?’ Gerald widened his eyes to signify his utter innocence and ignorance, thoroughly conscious that Nancy would hear their every word.

  ‘Bring her home. It’s getting late.’

  ‘But,’ began Gerald, ‘maybe you could …’

  Nancy called to both of them, ‘I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home. I’m not a child.’

  Gerald was glad that she could not see the thunder in Jacques’ eyes. He defended her as quietly as he could. ‘She’s really upset. Can’t you come out to her?’

  ‘She wants to marry me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gerald, for the sake of saying something.

  ‘Oh,’ echoed Jacques and rubbed his nose. ‘She refuses to understand that I am a soldier because I wish to be. I chose this life to see the world. I don’t wish to be needed in this way. I don’t want a house or children. It is not for me!’

  It was a long speech and Gerald did his best to understand what his friend was telling him.

  ‘She says she loves me. Pah! They all say that! But what does it mean for Jacques?’

  Gerald shrugged. Nobody had ever said those words to him and he had been rather looking forward to the day that someone did. He did want to fall in love with a girl who made his stomach flip at the sound of her voice. Now, he wasn’t so sure about having children but, certainly, he longed for love in the same way that he longed to be a great soldier and improve his family’s lot back home. It was all part of a glorious but still vague future to be thought upon again after tomorrow’s battle.

  The fiddler in the camp was playing a sweet ballad about true love. Gerald pushed down his desire to smile as Jacques looked absolutely disgusted by the timely tune.

  ‘You do like her. I know you do. You go all funny when you talk about her.’ Gerald tried to think of a better description. ‘Your eyes sort of light up, or something.’

  Now, they both looked embarrassed.

  ‘I have to be free!’

  Gerald did his best to look impressed but ended up asking, ‘For what? For some other girl? Jacques, you told me that she was the most wonderful girl that you have ever met. Can’t you see how lucky you are?’

  In truth, he had no idea where these lines were coming from, although it probably helped that he was just a little bit smitten with Nancy himself.

  Nancy!

  Gerald turned, expecting to see her still standing behind him, waiting for a peek inside the tent.

  ‘Oh?’ he said once more.

  The change in his tone made Jacques sit up. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Jacques half shouted at him, ‘Gone? What you say, gone?’

  Gerald was confused. ‘But you wanted her gone. Jacques … really, I …’

  Jacques cursed dreadfully in French and crawled towards Gerald, pushing him out of the way. Jumping to his feet, the French soldier looked up and down but there was no sign of Nancy.

  Gerald slowly got to his feet, no
t knowing what to think.

  What was left of the sun had been partially covered by cloud. Birdsong competed with the sound of the fiddle and the frequent bursts of laughter from the groups sitting around their fires.

  ‘Where did she go?’ Jacques’ anger had been replaced by anxiety.

  ‘How would I know? I had my head in the stupid tent talking to you,’ Gerald snapped out of guilt at having done something wrong.

  Jacques snapped back, ‘But I wanted that you bring her home! Why did you not do that?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jacques! She didn’t want me to. She wanted you!’

  Gerald instinctively balled up his fist and wanted to plant it in Jacques’ sulky mouth. This was too much. ‘You know, I could be dead tomorrow. Is this how I’m to spend my last night?’

  Jacques’ mouth actually fell open. ‘Huh …?’

  He was still gazing around him, looking for a head of blonde hair while trying to digest the truth in Gerald’s statement. ‘Mon Dieu! You are not going to die tomorrow. I will be right beside you the whole time.’

  ‘You can’t promise that, you know you can’t.’

  Grabbing his young friend by the shoulder, Jacques forced Gerald to look at him properly. ‘Listen, I am not going to let anything happen to you. I promised your father and now I am promising you.’

  Gerald nodded, wanting to believe him. This was such a strange night. Nothing felt normal.

  ‘We can talk about this later, but now I must find Nancy. It is too dangerous for her to be out here alone.’

  A loud burst of rude laughter interrupted them.

  Jacques craned his neck to see what had caused it, adding, ‘I don’t trust soldiers on a night like this, when they are readying themselves for the action like wild animals in a pack who only live for the moment.’

  They both began to look around them in earnest, Jacques instructing Gerald not to call her name. ‘Do not draw attention or it will be more than us looking for her.’

  Gerald followed Jacques’ lead by reaching for his sword while his friend threatened the evening sky, ‘I swear, if anything happens to her …’

  ‘You’ll what!’

  Nancy stepped out from behind their neighbour’s tent, her hands on her hips, looking triumphant yet defiant.

  ‘Nancy!’ Gerald whispered in delight, mindful of keeping his voice down.

  Jacques stared for just a second or two and then ran to her, pulling her into his chest so that Gerald could no longer see her.

  Smiling at the entwined couple in the twilight, Gerald discreetly dropped to his knees and crawled back into the tent, dragging his sword behind him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Jacobite War Council

  James found himself to be relieved when he was told that William was not actually dead.

  I would not be the cause of my own daughter’s widowhood.

  He felt that he had lost Mary forever but that did not mean he wanted to cause her pain. He was still her father and, therefore, would always wish her well, her and her sister Anne, no matter what happened the following day.

  His war council was rather subdued.

  Richard Talbot looked uncomfortable, feeling guilty about a letter he had written to James’s wife in Versailles with his own version of the situation in Ireland. He had actually told her that he felt there was no point in fighting a battle that one was bound to lose. Not surprisingly, his attitude to William’s near-miss was the exact opposite to his king’s. Damn it! Why couldn’t that cannonball have finished him off?

  What nobody could deny was that nothing appeared to be in their favour.

  James had set up camp on the Hill of Donore, which overlooked the southern bank of the River Boyne. So far, his preparations had involved leaving Drogheda and the tiny village of Oldbridge well protected by a couple of battalions, which would force the Williamites to brave the water if they wished to penetrate the Jacobite territory. The Jacobite leaders had mistakenly believed that the Boyne could only be crossed using the bridge at Slane, so it had made sense to block off the bridge.

  This was all very well until a few hours ago when it was discovered that the river was in fact passable beyond Oldbridge, where there was a ford – a passageway of shallow water – a few miles south-west of Rossnaree.

  James was flabbergasted. ‘What are you talking about? I was told the Boyne was too deep to cross. How can I only be hearing this at my council of war?’

  The French commanders barely contained their own shock. Lauzun wanted to shout at the Irish leaders: how come not one of you knew this about a river in your own country? He could not wait to relay all this to Louis – if he managed, that was, to live long enough to write another letter.

  Everyone began talking at once, with the French shaking their heads in despair and accusing the Irishmen of wanting them all to be killed. One of them cried out, ‘We should leave at once and head for the River Shannon. Let the Williamites exhaust themselves by giving chase. They are not familiar with the landscape, which can only work in our favour.’

  This was loudly rejected by Patrick Sarsfield, who reared up. ‘Oh, what a grand idea! We should just give up. Is that what you’re saying?’

  James was struggling to keep his temper under control. Recognising the warning signs, Richard Talbot called for calm, suggesting that they just accept this latest information and concentrate on finding a solution. ‘Please, gentlemen! Why point fingers at this late stage? Let’s just decide how to deal with it.’

  James moved to take control again. ‘I will send a small party of cavalry to keep watch over the ford at Rossnaree.’

  One of the French commanders said as politely as he could, ‘Your Majesty, might it not be better to send a large group instead, as many as we can spare? If this is the only ford then we must assume the Williamites will definitely use it en masse.’

  Looking sceptical, James argued the point, ‘But if the ford is narrow, it hardly matters how many Williamites there are. They will be slowed down and forced to cross in small groups. A few cavalry with enough ammunition should be able to hold them off.’

  His listeners squirmed with disagreement, leaving the same commander to assume a begging tone. ‘Please, sire, we know their guns are superior to ours. If there is too small a group of defenders, they will be easily picked off by the enemy rifles that are easier to use than our old matchlocks.’

  The commander smiled nervously to show his respect. ‘Sire, I really, really feel we need as many defending the ford as possible.’

  The rest of the commanders agreed with the brave Frenchman but no one wanted to anger James into making a bad decision based purely on his ego. It was best not to crowd him.

  There was no denying the superiority of the Williamite weapons. James wondered if Louis was aware of the poor condition of some of the guns he had supplied. The matchlock musket was out of fashion now, taking too long to reload, and it was useless in the rain. Its replacement, the flintlock, did not require a piece of rope to be set alight in order to burn the gunpowder. Hallelujah! James had also been made aware of the bayonet muskets that allowed the Williamite soldier both to fire his gun and use it as a stabbing sword. Once the matchlock fired its musket ball it was only a length of heavy, dull metal until it was reloaded again. Therefore his soldiers needed to carry swords or daggers as well as their muskets. He deplored the fact that so many of his Irish soldiers carried only scythes and old knives. There were not enough guns to go around, and even if there were, they had run out of time to teach anyone how to fire one.

  Knowing when he was beaten, James said, ‘All right, all right. Send an entire regiment to guard the ford but have the bridge at Slane destroyed.’

  The men hid their relief at this change of mind. A king should always know when to accept advice, especially in military matters when thousands of lives were at stake. It was decided that Sir Neil O’Neill and his Antrim dragoons would be given the responsibility of keeping anyone from crossing at Rossnaree.
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  And then they were dismissed, James suddenly desiring to be alone in order to think.

  He was rattled by his own gloomy premonitions. In the middle of the arguing and shouting, James had found himself questioning once more what he was doing in Ireland.

  Even if he won tomorrow, and he sensed that this would be a miraculous outcome, what would he actually achieve? Of course the Irish would be ecstatic because they would see it as their own personal victory over what they considered to be an English army, while the French Louis would be delighted to have his worst enemy ousted from England. But what would it mean for James? As soon as he asked himself one question, another one quickly formed.

  Did he really want a throne that might bring never-ending problems? Did he really want his baby son to rule a country that already hated him? What if his son ended up like his grandfather, murdered by an angry mob? What about his daughters? He may have lost them for the time being but who was to say that they could not be a family again, somewhere in the future.

  A memory swooped upon him, dragging him backwards in time. He was in his sister’s palace in The Hague, in Holland, playing with her toddler son who had made a run for him as he soon as he recognised his doting uncle.

  ‘Ah, there you are, little man. Do you want to play “horsey horsey”?’

  The child bared his toothless gums and flapped his hands in excitement as James picked him up and placed him on one knee, pretending his leg was a horse, bouncing it up and down to make the child scream with laughter.

  His sister clapped and cooed to her son, ‘There now, William, don’t you have the best uncle in the world?’

  James shook his head to return to his gloomy present.

  His camp atop the Hill of Donore included the battered ruins of a small church and its graveyard.