They crept along, wincing at dry twigs that snapped beneath their feet and untangling themselves from branches that snagged their clothes. Michael led the way, while Gerald fought against imagining that he could hear lots of worrying sounds until neither of them could deny it anymore. There were Williamites all around them. They could hear the grunts of running men and shouts in foreign languages. Michael cursed himself silently. They should never have stopped running, now it was too late.
And then, just like that, they stepped out in front of one of the enemy.
It took the Williamite a moment to realise what they were. For a second, no one moved. Then the man smiled unpleasantly as he raised his musket, saying, ‘Je suis désolé!’ (‘I am sorry!’)
Gerald felt something tiny hit his hat and glanced upwards to see a grinning Joseph, his mouth bulging with food, sitting on a thick branch in the tree beside them. Michael must have spotted him too because he stared back at the Frenchman while saying, ‘Joseph, stay where you are. Unless you have a musket up there, just stay out of sight.’
‘Are you mad?’ Gerald was baffled. ‘He has to do something or we’re dead!’
The soldier seemed surprised by the sudden burst of conversation. The Jacobites presumed he could not speak English and as long as Joseph kept quiet, he was safe.
Drops of sweat stung Michael’s eyes and he sounded defeated. ‘Leave him be, he can’t do anything. It’s not his fault. His mind … it’s gone.’
‘But we need him!’ said Gerald. ‘You hear that, Joseph, we need you!’
‘Soyez silencieux!’
All this talk was making the Williamite edgy. Michael knew if the man shouted out for help they were goners. Therefore, he slowly reached down to place his own musket and sword on the forest floor and then held up his empty hands.
‘Now, Mister Frenchman, you wouldn’t shoot an unarmed soldier, would you?’
Apparently he would. The soldier pulled back the trigger and yelped in surprise as someone rushed out at him, knocked him over and began punching him.
‘Jacques!’ shouted Gerald in heady relief, before being promptly thumped by Michael for making so much noise.
The two Frenchmen were well-matched as they struggled for the upper hand. Keeping his sword at the ready, Jacques had one free hand to deliver punches. He needed to finish the man off quietly and quickly. The forest was positively crawling with enemy soldiers. Fortunately, they were not actually searching for Jacobites. Instead, they were more concerned with chasing after the retreating army.
Michael focused on trying to get Joseph out of the damned tree, while Gerald wondered how he could help his friend. This was one situation where he would not simply stand and stare. With dagger in hand, he watched the two fighters intently and waited for his moment. Finally it came when the Huguenot rolled over on top of Jacques to pin him to the ground and Gerald was able to plunge his knife into the man’s back. Gerald had meant to stab him a few times; he knew that one stab might not be enough through the man’s bulky coat, but the angle was awkward. What he had not allowed for, however, was that the man would cry out in pain before releasing an anguished yell for help. And yell he did, until Gerald grabbed a rock and smashed it over the man’s head, knocking him unconscious or maybe killing him. He had no idea as he shoved the now-silent body off Jacques.
All he did know was that the man’s shouting had succeeded in attracting his fellow Huguenots. Jacques hissed, ‘They’re coming. We’ve got to get out of here.’
Michael looked up at Joseph, feeling utterly helpless. ‘Please, Joseph, please come down now.’
Joseph merely smiled, and Michael suddenly remembered the magic words: ‘We’re going to the tavern, Joseph. Aren’t you coming with us?’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Gerald.
Jacques had no idea what was going on with Joseph, but he grabbed Michael and began herding him and Gerald away from the excited voices that were calling out for their fallen friend. He would have preferred to cover up the body, but there was no time. The three of them broke into a disjointed run as they climbed over tree trunks and got scraped by brambles, almost losing their hats. To their despair, they found themselves forced to a stop as the brambles thickened and trapped them.
In no time at all they heard exclamations of horror. Jacques whispered, ‘They’ve found him.’
The three of them crouched down. Michael wondered if it was better to split up and take off in three different directions. Jacques listened to the French soldiers and translated, ‘One of them is suggesting that they keep going and come back later for him.’
Gerald was grateful to have Jacques beside him. It was a huge advantage to be able to understand what the enemy soldiers were saying. He and Michael were lucky to have Jacques because if they didn’t, they might do something unnecessary, not realising that the French soldiers were not going to take the time to avenge their comrade’s murder.
Yes, they were lucky to have Jacques right beside them.
However, neither of them needed Jacques to translate the voice that was speaking now. Instead they just stared at one another in fright as they heard Joseph call out to the Williamites, ‘Look at me, I’m up here. I’m the one who killed your friend!’
Michael jumped up only to be pulled down immediately by the other two. He pleaded with them, ‘He thinks he’s saving us. We have to do something.’
Jacques shook his head, while Gerald put his hands over his ears. If they moved, they were all dead.
‘Ha! I’m not scared anymore!’
Joseph had barely finished before a volley of shots silenced him. The three Jacobites could not look at one another while Jacques leant over to fasten a grip on Michael’s arm, fearing he would make an enraged dash to confront the boy’s killers. They sat there until they could no longer hear the Williamites. Gerald stole a glance at Michael and, on seeing tears running down the man’s face, said, ‘He saved our lives. He was very brave.’
‘No,’ spat Michael. ‘He was bloody stupid!’
Jacques waited a moment before saying, ‘No, it is war that is stupid.’
He and Michael stared at one another for a moment or two before Michael quietly agreed, ‘Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right. War is stupid.’
He held out his hand to Jacques who gave it a firm shake. Gerald looked from one to the other, not understanding what was going on.
‘I wish you all the best, my friend. Gerald, say goodbye to Michael. He’s going home.’
‘What? Really?’ asked Gerald, not wanting to cause a fuss but needing an explanation all the same.
Michael took Gerald’s pre-offered hand. ‘I must go back to my wife and children. If I die, they will be turned out of the house to starve. It’s funny. I did not really consider the possibility of being killed until Joseph … anyway, my family cannot afford to lose me. I’m all they have.’
Jacques warned him to leave immediately, saying, ‘You could take the Williamite’s coat; it might keep you safe if you run into any of them.’
Michael smiled sadly and shook his head; he did not want to see Joseph who was probably lying mere feet away from the French soldier. ‘Good luck, you two. I better get going in case they come back. Stay safe!’
The two friends walked for a minute or two in silence until Jacques asked, ‘You don’t agree with him leaving?’
Gerald found it a difficult question to answer. ‘I don’t know … maybe. Isn’t it like giving up, or being a coward?’
He felt guilty talking like this. ‘But he’s no coward. He looked after me earlier, and he tried to look after Joseph.’
Jacques nodded. ‘True and why should his family suffer for King James? Sometimes courage is knowing when to stop.’
Chapter Thirty
The Hill of Donore
It had been a long day and it was not over yet. The Jacobites ran the two miles from Oldbridge, and when they had done that they had to run up the hill of Donore itself. And when they had done t
hat they had to fight an army that was four or five times the size of theirs and right in front of them.
But fight they did.
William was on the ground in the midst of his men, using swords, pistols and then his fists. His clothes were still damp from the Boyne, but he sensed that they were almost done and this helped him to ignore his nagging hunger and exhaustion. Those Jacobites were battling to survive and this lent them a great spirit born out of desperation.
Once again, the noise from the muskets was tumultuous, and the billowing smoke was blinding. Red coats mingled with blood and each other. By this stage, those tiny sprigs of Williamite greenery and bits of Jacobite white paper had just about disappeared from sight, thereby rendering the conditions as treacherous as they could be.
Having just finished off a Jacobite, William was looking about for his next victim when he became aware of a big man who was quickly bearing down on him. The man, who had recently lost thirty of his comrades, had become maddened with grief and rage. He searched and found a redcoat to take his revenge upon. With his sword and bayoneted rifle raised in each hand, he bellowed out some sort of battle-cry and drew himself up to his full height, intending to cut the Papist into several pieces. Just at the last moment, William found his voice. ‘What are you doing Samuel McGregor? Are you angry with me now?’
The man froze, appalled as he recognised the man he had carried out of the Boyne. ‘Sire! My God, forgive me!’
William forgave him immediately. ‘Go find another redcoat to take care of and be sure that he’s your foe not your friend!’
Samuel disappeared, leaving William to reflect on what might have happened had he not noticed the man in time to stop him. Imagine to have survived this far and then be murdered by one of my own.
The smell of blood was everywhere, and men were dying in their hundreds on both sides. Because the fighting was up close it was especially brutal and vicious. The closer you are to a man, the more complicated it is to extinguish his life. Therefore, the soldier is forced to be creative and determined. Skulls were smashed, throats were impaled and arms were snapped in two.
William allowed himself to back away from the ruins of the old church, which was the hub of the battle, and be escorted to his horse by a variety of Europeans. Time was marching on, and still those Jacobites stood their ground.
Earlier, Meinhard Schomberg had sent a messenger to describe his situation, being stuck a mile away from James and unable to get near him. William had ordered the duke’s son to stay put and keep trying to find a way through. If the worst came to the worst and it was impossible to get at them, then at least Meinhard was keeping James and the best part of his army tied up. Thinking about Meinhard reminded William that the general would have to be told about his father.
William was genuinely surprised that his father-in-law did not make an appearance or send some men back to reinforce his battalions at Oldbridge. The old man makes it easy for me and also spares me the awkwardness of having to capture him … or worse.
A messenger approached and told him that James and a large convoy were already on the road to Dublin, although the narrow bridge at Duleek had slowed them up terribly. Immediately, William was asked what he wanted to do. ‘We could easily catch up with him, sire?’
William surveyed the scene around him and pitied these misguided men fighting for a king who was no more. He guessed that James was returning to Dublin to board a ship to France. A mere dip of his head and his men would be off to Duleek. William, however, resisted this. What would that solve? Yes, I could have James brought back to London in chains and imprisoned for the rest of his life, but … what if he actually died in prison? He might become a martyr. The English are so fickle.
William also imagined that James, if given half the chance, might repent his former behaviour and apologise for trying to force his religion upon them. I must be careful. I cannot allow James to play the underdog to make people feel sorry for him. No, best let him go. Nobody would wish to champion a coward.
He told his men, ‘James is no longer a threat to us. Let him flee back to Louis. He is done.’
His men looked at one another in surprise, but William ignored them. Later on, he would write in his diary: once a leader makes a decision he moves on.
He called for his pistol and prepared to move towards the church once more. These stubborn fellows will have to be told that James has given up on them and I am now their king, whether they like it or not.
He wanted to get back to fighting, to prove his mettle in front of the Jacobites as well as his own men. His secretary tried to dissuade him, ‘But, Your Majesty, your army is winning. There is no need to exhaust yourself further.
William smiled. ‘I will stop when it is obvious to me that I should.’
His bodyguards followed him on horseback up the hill, and William looked around for a suitable target. He could see no sign of the Irish and French commanders. We are dealing with a headless monster that is backed into a corner. It cannot last much longer.
The hill was crawling with his men. They had more or less surrounded the church ruins, and William could see that a trickle of them had climbed the walls to get at the enemy. He wondered about making a dramatic gesture. Surely his horse could jump that wall, with his bodyguards following, and that might rattle the last nerves of the Jacobites.
As he considered this, there was the most dreadful sound beside him. Actually, he thought the noise was somehow on him. His horse reared up momentarily, and William assumed the animal’s ears were ringing just like his own. He experienced the odd sensation of believing that his left leg had been torn from him, though done so fast that he had no time to feel pain.
Some of his men were talking to him, shouting at him, asking if he were all right, but he could not hear a single word. He felt slightly precarious sitting on his horse, feeling that his balance was being interfered with. He wished that someone would inspect his leg and confirm to him that though it was gone, he would be all right. Losing a leg might help the English warm to him.
Then one of his men was standing to his left and holding up something small in his hand. Clearly, he wanted His Majesty’s attention. William was in a daze but looked anyway. What on earth is that, a piece of wood? Why, it looks like … a … heel. His soldiers were pointing and laughing in relief. William looked down and found that his leg was exactly where he had left it, but the heel of his favourite boot had been blown off.
While the ringing in his ears continued he could not hear the roar of battle and it was a welcome break from the noise. William took the time to check the state of the day; the sun had begun its evening shift. He felt bone weary and was sure all the men on the hill, both Catholics and Protestants, felt the exact same way.
Eventually the break came. William saw it happen. First, it was just a handful of Jacobites who had had enough. They simply jumped over the wall and began to run in the direction of Duleek. Next, it was a few more – up over that wall and away they went. Then that tentative trickle turned into an avalanche of Jacobites dropping their weapons and taking off after their comrades.
William watched them go and did not envy them: they have another long run ahead of them.
In his deafness he fancied that he could hear the clanging of a bell; maybe it was the now-absent church bell ringing out from the distant past. William smiled to himself. This place is trying to bewitch me.
He had told his secretary that he would only stop when it was obvious. Now, encased by silence, he agreed. It is enough.
Chapter Thirty-One
Malahide Castle, County Dublin
Several hours later, in Dublin, James Stuart is a very weary man. Exhausted from his long day, his nose bright red from spending so many hours sitting in the sun, all he wants to do is lie down and pull the covers over his head, but that is impossible. Protocol requires him to get dressed and ready for the evening ahead with his hosts and their guests. It may prove as treacherous as the battle, but he can see no way ou
t of it.
At long last, his return ship is booked, and he is more than eager to step off Irish soil. If there is one thing he knows for certain, it is this: he will never ever return to Ireland and that one thought makes him happy, in spite of everything else.
He knows he has outstayed his welcome, especially after today. No doubt, because of that disastrous battle, this evening is going to be a struggle. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of them!
The gong is sounded for dinner. Well, he thinks, I am rather hungry and the food is good. It is just the company that might prove tiresome.
As he heads downstairs, he tells himself to ignore any ill feeling, just think about getting on that ship tomorrow.
He enters the dining room and senses that he has interrupted a conversation of which he was the starring topic. Heads are bowed momentarily, and he coolly returns the brief nods of acknowledgement. The servants are holding out the chairs, and he takes his, reaching gratefully for the glass of red wine. The cutlery twinkles in the candlelight, and his nose twitches from the heavy perfume that his neighbour has doused herself in.
James looks around but avoids catching anyone’s eye. Cowards! Why don’t they just say what they are thinking? The first course is served, oysters in wine. James concentrates on his food, too annoyed to make conversation.
There is some attempt to discuss the weather and this and that, but it is understandably difficult to ignore what has happened. His dinner companions know that he leaves in a few hours and expect never to see him again.
Finally, Lady Talbot launches herself superbly. ‘Were you very hungry, My Lord?’
Irritated by the insincerity of her question, James replies unwisely, ‘I am surprised I can eat at all after the day I have had.’
Kings of the Boyne Page 20
