To silence the fretful voice in his head, he decided to hand himself over to God. In other words he made God responsible for his immediate future, silently asking Him to give me a sign either way and I will accept my fate.
If God meant him to be king once more, so be it. If God meant him to return to France and settle down to a small but quiet life, so be it. The third option was not as attractive as the others: but if God means this to be my last day on earth, so be it. If he could choose for himself, he would definitely pick one of the first two. He did not want to die just yet. After all, who would want to die on such a beautiful day as this?
The shrubs and hedgerows were alive with flashes of oranges and reds as the butterflies danced their way from flower to flower, unbothered by their large and sombre audience. Buzzing bees mistook the plumes on James’s hat for a blooming flower, but he didn’t try to wave them off. When he was seven he had been stung by a bee that he had flapped at with his hands. His nurse explained that had he just stood still, the bee would have realised its mistake and continued on its way. According to her, insects were only concerned with surviving their day and had no interest in tackling the impossible.
His horse’s tail swished cheerily at the flies and really if James did not dislike the countryside so much he might have been able to appreciate that, for the moment, he was surrounded by perfection.
‘Sire!’ Lauzun gestured ahead.
In the distance was an approaching figure, one of the scouts who had been sent out to look for the enemy. They were surely halfway to Rossnaree and should expect to see William’s army within the hour. Because the youth had his horse at a gallop, James assumed that the news was important and sat up a little straighter in the saddle, feeling the old tension stretch across his shoulders.
The scout drew his horse up in front of him and saluted. ‘Your Majesty!’
James flicked his hand. ‘Well, have you spotted them yet?’
‘No, sire. Not yet.’
‘Really? How far did you go?’
The scout, a boy of seventeen or eighteen years, looked worried. ‘I rode as far as I could, My Lord. I mean, as far as it was possible.’
James did not appreciate vagueness in wartime. ‘What do you mean? Explain yourself and be quick about it!’
‘Yes, Your Majesty’ was the obedient reply. The young man pursed his lips and continued, ‘Sire, I am not from these parts. I come from Tipperary.’
He was interrupted by his nervous king who cried out, ‘What on earth are you talking about? What has that to do with anything?’
The scout decided against any further delay in presenting his bad news. ‘Your Majesty, about a mile from here I encountered a deep, overgrown ravine that looks … well, it seems just about impossible to cross.’
One look at the bewilderment on his king’s face prompted the scout to hurriedly suggest, ‘But, sire, I’m not from these parts. Maybe there is another way around. That’s all I meant.’
‘Well, then,’ said James. ‘There’s your solution!’
‘Sire?’ The scout was keen to understand what he was being asked to do in order to bring this unpleasant interview to an end.
The king rolled his eyes and said in a weary tone, ‘Why don’t you go and get me someone who is from this wretched place and send them to find me another approach to the ford?’
‘Oh, yes, Your Majesty. As you wish, sire. Right away!’
The young man made good his escape, galloping down the lines of French Jacobites in his quest to find a local soldier who knew the landscape. It was a simple request and James was right, an obvious solution to their predicament. So, how was it that he could not find a single soldier that knew his way around the area?
The scout kept going, partly because the further he went down the army the more distance he created between the bad-tempered king and himself. If he could, he might have continued until he reached his home county. He knew what he had seen and he alone knew what it meant. James would simply have to see it for himself.
And so he did, about forty minutes later. He saw it all. There were the Williamites about a mile away from him and there, in between them, was a steep drop into a valley that was crammed with huge thorny bushes, tall mounds of nettles and trees packed in tightly, as if protecting a secret gateway to another world.
It was embarrassing, maybe even comical. Two armies wanting to get at each other and all they could do was make obscene gestures that could barely be seen from a distance and issue threats of violence, at the top of their voices, that they could not make good on.
The onus was on that young man from Tipperary to inform James that there was no one from the area in their ranks and that he had tried and tried but could not find a way either down or through the thorny jungle of the ravine. ‘Sire, there is no way for a horse to get through that bramble; it is as solid a barrier as the walls of Derry were.’
Stung by this thoughtless reminder of his earlier failure, James yearned to whip the scout and welcomed the distraction of a messenger from Oldbridge.
He gazed across to the colourful figures in the distance and wondered what his son-in-law made of this bizarre episode. Perhaps William believed that James had planned this clever usage of the landscape. First there was the fast-flowing and expansive river to be dealt with and now there was this gaping hole in the ground itself that no animal, wagon wheel or man could penetrate.
Maybe I should build a palace here, thought James. It is proving safer than my old nursery where I had not a care in the world.
The messenger bowed and said rather quickly, ‘Your Majesty, the Lord-Lieutenant Richard Talbot sent me to tell you that William, along with most of his army, is attacking Oldbridge.’
James showed no change in his expression.
Not a sound was emitted from any of the listeners that had gathered around him. The silence was unnerving. It was as if everyone present had turned to stone, including the horses.
Lauzun suppressed an urge to shout out something vulgar. Unable to look at James, he focused on the space between his horse’s ears, spying a tiny insect scurrying along the hairs, disappearing suddenly only to reappear again.
Feeling obliged to explain himself further, the messenger tried again: ‘Your Majesty, I am told to inform you that our sentries were mistaken; that William made it seem that his entire army had marched away this morning. But they are still there and are attacking us hard.’
The messenger wiped the sweat from his brow and made his own confession: ‘As I was leaving I saw Williamites approaching the bank at Oldbridge.’
Turning slowly, James peered at the enemy in the distance and summoned his telescope. He lifted it to his right eye and through that tiny, circular window he recognised the figure of Meinhard Schomberg who, at that moment, was positioning his own telescope to his right eye and staring right back at him in dismay.
Checkmate!
It seemed that the game was over.
You see, in a game of chess the king does not need to be actually captured in order to be defeated. He just needs to be held in ‘check’ with the threat of capture and for there to be absolutely no possible way of removing that threat.
The crowd around James faded from his sight and he was left dazed, listening to the summer breeze tangle with the banners behind him. After a few minutes of standing still, the horses, including his own, dipped their heads to discreetly nibble at the grass; it seemed to them that there was nothing else to do. And it seemed that James agreed with them.
A weight had been lifted from him and it was not of his own doing.
I asked God for a sign and here it is.
One of the French infantry whispered to his friend, ‘Is he talking to his horse?’
Indeed, it did look like James was doing exactly that.
Lauzun moved away from the king to give them both space to think.
James continued on mumbling to himself, ‘How could I have been so blind? First I am nearly murdered at Derry and now thi
s … this obstacle that surely did not exist before today. I cannot cross this and there is no way to return to Oldbridge in time to do anything.’
His horse continued to munch, while James took a breath and released it, saying, ‘To continue would be against God’s wishes. He has kept me safe from harm and I owe it to Him to cease this useless campaign.’
The French soldiers shifted from one foot to the other, raising their eyebrows, afraid to breathe a sigh of relief just yet. One of them whispered, ‘They say at Derry that he went into shock and sat motionless on his horse for hours. Do you think that this is what is happening now?’
A second soldier asked, ‘Should we not be heading back to Oldbridge? They are probably being overwhelmed without us.’
No one bothered to agree to this. The first man shrugged. ‘Perhaps he should just give up?’
Oh, just about every man agreed with that idea. As far as they were concerned, James could take all the time he needed if he was going to forget about a battle and let them go home.
The birds struck up a joyous chorus, the sun dazzled, the horses relaxed while the bees buzzed around and around. If this wasn’t Heaven it was as near to it as you could get in the whole of County Meath.
One man, however, wished for a little more. ‘Just a pity we can’t sit down for a bit.’
‘Hear! Hear!’ said his friends quietly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Here Comes the Jacobite Cavalry
Back at Oldbridge, Richard Talbot was calling out instructions to the cavalry troops who gathered together at the bottom of the hill from where they had watched their infantry do their best to hold off the attack.
‘I didn’t hear him. What did he say?’ Gerald’s voice was high and thin.
Jacques held him at the elbow. ‘Come on, Gerald. Master your panic, do not be lead by it. You know better than that.’
‘But Jacques … I don’t know … I …’
Jacques held the boy still and kept his voice low. ‘Take a deep breath, and then another, and another.’
Gerald did as he was told, grateful that his friend ignored his trembling limbs. An icy cold sweat trickled down the side of his face, and he wished with all his heart that Nancy might suddenly appear with his handkerchief because he needed it more than he had ever expected to need a small square of linen cloth.
Below them the fighting was growing more desperate. The Williamites were positively swarming the Jacobite side of the Boyne, but the Irish infantry kept plugging away at them. However, much worse than that was the sight of thousands of extra Williamites hanging around until it was their turn to step into the water. Gerald tried to silence his fear, but how could he pretend not to see the facts: we don’t have enough men.
And neither could he fail to notice the dismay in his friend’s eyes. The Frenchman rolled his lips inwards and Gerald plainly saw him clench his jaw. Also, Jacques’ skin was shiny from sweat, though he did try to blame that on the warmth of the morning.
The order came through for them to mount their horses, but Jacques was not letting Gerald go until he was sensible again.
‘What you are going to do?’
Gerald did his best to concentrate. ‘Stay beside you and Paris.’
The two soldiers had watched as the Williamites exited the Boyne and began to step into their square formation. The war-torn Jacobites had fought valiantly but, in the end, they found themselves overrun. Where possible, the Irish infantry began to edge away from the river.
Among them was Michael, whose adrenaline was beginning to flag, making him aware of a multitude of aches and pains throughout his entire body. His clothes were splashed with blood that he could not be sure was his. One thing was certain and that was they needed more weapons. Michael kept up the same cry throughout: ‘Take any muskets and swords!’
He did his best to look out for Joseph but had lost sight of him a while back. He saw the wounded being dragged away and tried to see if the boy from Trim was amongst them.
Keeping an eye on the hill behind them, he waited for his men to be relieved. He had guessed what was going to happen next. In between all the noise, he just about made out the blast of the trumpet and thanked God for it.
The infantry had done all that they could, but now they must step aside, to allow the French and Irish cavalry take their turn.
‘Soldiers, mount your horses and wait at the top of the hill for my say-so!’
Gerald shook off his friend’s hand and planted one shaky leg in front of the other until he reached Troy, who greeted him with a nod of his head. The Drogheda lad gave him a boost up onto his horse’s back and ran to do the same for Jacques who was already sitting on top of Paris. Jacques threw the boy a silver coin. ‘Don’t hang around here. You understand me? It could get dangerous. Go on back to Drogheda or wherever you came from.’
The boy nodded vigorously as he stared in reverence at the coin in his mucky hand.
The trumpet sounded and the riders spurred their horses back up the hill. All in all there were two thousand of them, and they stretched themselves across the length of the hill, maintaining their columns as steadily as they could. They would make runs in groups of sixty.
Gerald began to quietly recite the words of Saint Teresa to keep himself calm and focused: ‘Let nothing disturb you.’ I can do this. ‘Let nothing frighten you.’ I can do this. ‘All things are passing’. I can do this.
The various generals were all taking their places, Patrick Sarsfield muttering to his peers, as he spotted William in the middle of his soldiers, ‘I wish to God we could swap kings!’
They wondered if James might suddenly reappear with their cannon and the badly needed men. Surely he will, thought Richard Talbot. Aren’t we doing all this for him?
There was no time for speeches. The Jacobite infantry were being crushed and badly needed help. Therefore Talbot raised his gun and cried out, ‘Knock them back into the river and keep them there.’
The cavalry roared while their horses shucked their heads and prepared to run. Gerald felt his nostrils would never be rid of the smell of the animals, thick and musky, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Before him, he saw the ruin of his grandfather’s castle, the broken, fragmented palace that hid him, as a child, when he was frightened or in trouble. It occurred to him that the ruin could well be Ireland herself. Today she was the one in trouble and it was up to him to protect and shelter her within. What was the next line of the saint’s prayer: ‘Patience gains all things.’ Well, the people of Ireland had waited long enough, hadn’t they?
Father Nicholas’ student reached inside himself and found his courage, in that moment seeing himself echoing his proud ancestors who had believed that Ireland could be freed from foreign rule.
Jacques remembered something and shouted at his friend, ‘We are the sleeping army, yes? Only we are awake now!’
A shot rang out and the cavalry were released. Gerald dug his spurs into Troy’s side and hollered as loudly as his comrades. It looked like each and every horse jumped an imaginary fence, just for the fun of it, before hurtling themselves down that hill towards the Dutch Blue guards who watched their approach. All Gerald could hear were the thunderous hooves that blocked out the gunfire for a few moments at least.
This was a wondrous boost to the Irish infantry, who took off to the side, out of the path of the horses, and cheered their men on. Michael whooped in delight when he spotted Gerald and Jacques, though they were oblivious to his shouts of encouragement.
Jacques had warned Gerald to be mindful of the enemy’s actions at all times. The squares of William’s elite force shifted as one man for every five stepped forward holding out a long pike with the deadly spear-head. Within seconds, the Williamites were surrounded by pointed pikes as the blocks of men took on the appearance of a prickly hedgehog, whose spiky coat would keep it safe. Those pikes were for fighting an enemy cavalry … in other words those pikes were for taking down the Jacobite horses.
But these hors
es were no ordinary horses and had been well trained for conditions such as these.
Gerald and Troy, Jacques and Paris were in the second row of the first attack and kept at a murderous gallop. They swung down that hill and raced one another to the enemy. Gerald worried that he hadn’t enough strength to pull Troy out of the pikes’ range; he had his pistol in his left hand while his right held the reins. He needn’t have worried. Troy merely copied the horse in front of him, veering sharply to the left, leaving Gerald free to point his gun into the centre of the Blue Guards and fire. Maybe a hundred or so pistols were simultaneously discharged. The noise was ferocious as the air filled with smoke and the screams of wounded men.
‘Turn! Turn!’ Gerald yelled at Troy, who was turning anyway. The Jacobite horses were moving with the instinct of the herd, avoiding the pikes, running down the side of the Williamites, before swerving to follow one another right back up that hill again.
Jacques was right; there was no time to be afraid.
The second run imitated the first. The horses sprinted down as fast as they could before turning at the last moment under the burst of gunfire. Those pikes waited to slash open the nearest animal, while the Blue Guard reloaded their weapons through the blinding smoke and all-out calamity.
Jacques showed no surprised when Gerald shouted, ‘We need to hit the pikes in front to get through them!’
Gerald had grasped that in order to do real damage the cavalry would have to pierce right through to the soft underbelly of the hedgehog: in this case, the lines of soldiers behind by the men with the pikes. They were the ones shooting at the Jacobites.
‘Ready?’ roared Gerald.
‘Ready!’ roared Jacques.
Down the horses galloped once more, digging lumps out of the ground as they went. Keeping to the middle of an attacking line would allow them a chance to attempt to force their way through distracted Williamites. Gerald focused on recognising an opening and kept the stirrups pressed up tight against Troy’s flank, willing the horse against turning this time. Paris was right beside them, Jacques already reaching for his sword. Just like before, the horses in front swerved, but Troy and Paris did not follow them.
Kings of the Boyne Page 16
