Behind the Walls

by Nicola Pierce

  Daniel found his voice. ‘But we have to stand up for what we believe in, Father.’

  Mr Sherrard swirled the beer in his mug. ‘Yes, we do. I think maybe I just don’t fully trust who is building the fire.’

  Baby Alice began to wail, letting the whole street know that her nap was over and she was hungry.

  ‘Time to get back to work,’ said Mr Sherrard with a smile. ‘Come on, son, I want to show you my new book.’ They both went into the workroom while Mrs Sherrard headed upstairs to her daughter.

  Alice’s face was scrunched up like her fists, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Mrs Sherrard peeled off the small hill of blankets that she had piled on top of the infant. Next she did something she always did. She lifted up the baby, placed her nose in the crux of her daughter’s neck and sniffed. She felt better immediately: Nothing – not even freshly baked bread –smells half as nice as a newborn.

  A few miles away Gabriel Murray was sitting in front of his fire, watching the flames flicker and strain, marvelling at the multitudes of oranges and reds. Adam, his son, had just left after a brief visit, during which he had updated Gabriel on the recent goings-on: Enniskillen fighting back and the skirmishes that Adam was currently organising against Jacobites who strayed too far from their camp. Gabriel had listened but said little.

  His son was passionate and intelligent with plenty of courage. Apart from his animals, Adam and this house were all the old man had in the world. His wife had died when Adam was two years old. Gabriel had to bring him up alone; he made it up as he went along. These days he felt his wife around him and her pride in their son. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her remind him, ‘A home and a family. It was all we ever wanted.’

  So what if he sensed peril approaching? Gabriel wasn’t scared of death. After a lifetime being the best man he could, he had no fear of meeting God. ‘Aye,’ he sighed, as he stretched his legs closer to the heat, ‘what will be, will be!’

  Chapter Nine

  On 22 December, Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Lundy entered Derry and took control of the garrison. He had been promoted by his commander, Lord Mountjoy, in recognition of his obedience and hard work. Not that it felt like a reward.

  Hours upon hours of talks with the town’s elders had yet to produce a final solution. However, thanks to Lord Mountjoy, there had been some agreement in the form of the ‘Articles of Agreement’: no other troops, apart from Lundy’s, could enter the city before 1 March 1689; the citizens could continue to guard the walls just as they had been doing; strangers to the city could not carry arms or stay overnight unless they had permission from Lundy or Horace Kennedy, the sheriff.

  The articles had only been achieved by the fact that Lord Mountjoy had chosen not to ask his superior, Richard Talbot, for his opinion or his permission regarding them. But surely the lord lieutenant would agree with the fact that he was carrying out his order to ‘sort out’ the situation.

  On top of that, Enniskillen’s triumph had breathed fresh confidence behind the walls.

  Lundy’s position was not an easy one. He was no stranger to the city. Originally from Scotland, he had been a member of Derry’s garrison since 1685. However, not too many residents would have recognised him since his foremost allegiance and devotion was to his job and, consequently, he was not the type of man to be found drinking ale in the local taverns. Certainly, he shared the Protestant faith, though his was of the Episcopalian strand which set him slightly apart from the Anglicans and the Presbyterians.

  Yet, for all his knowledge of the city and his Protestantism, his position was not going to be easy because of who he and his superior, Lord Mountjoy, took their orders from … the Catholic lord lieutenant, friend and supporter of King James. It was confusing for everyone.

  A delegation of town elders arrived from Enniskillen to ask him what their next move should be. To their utter disgust the lieutenant-colonel advised them to cease their opposition to King James. But really, what had they expected an army man to say? I’m not a rebel! I cannot be seen to encourage resistance to His Majesty.

  Like Lord Mountjoy, he was duty bound to be a loyal servant to the throne and, therefore, to the lord lieutenant in Dublin.

  Yet, precisely because he was an army man, he began to draw up plans on how best to fortify Derry, should she come under attack. The state of the artillery store and the walls could not be ignored no matter who was king. The city needed improvements, anyway, regarding its military defences, and as such the lieutenant-colonel felt it was his duty to improve them. He was not a man to stand idle and only God knew how long this stand-off between Derry and the Jacobite Army would continue. At best it would keep his men busy.

  It was a peculiar situation but both the lieutenant-colonel and Lord Mountjoy agreed that because they were professional soldiers they had no business taking sides. As far as they were concerned whoever sat on the throne was king and that was that. They also worried that if Derry continued to keep her gates locked against the army outside it was only a matter of time before the city would be invaded.

  Neither man was surprised when Lord Mountjoy received a summons from Richard Talbot to report back to him in Dublin. They knew that the lord lieutenant would be bewildered if not absolutely outraged to hear of Lundy helping the city to improve its defences. All Lord Mountjoy could offer was that having his man, Lundy, installed as governor of Derry was better than having him stuck outside the walls along with everyone else. Surely, it was better than nothing at all.

  Of course he knew the lord lieutenant would have wanted a Catholic in charge or, at the very least, Catholic soldiers strewn throughout Lundy’s two companies of men. But, as Lord Mountjoy told himself, I’m only human. What Talbot needs is some sort of miracle worker.

  Lord Mountjoy told the lieutenant-colonel that some of his friends had advised him to stay in Derry. However, Lundy understood that his commander could not refuse to obey an order; it was what made him such a good soldier. They had a sombre goodbye, with Robert Lundy wondering if he would ever see his lordship again.

  When the bell of St Columb’s Cathedral rang out its goodbye to 1688 and welcomed 1689 in its stead, the lieutenant-colonel was not alone in wondering what the new year would bring.

  The bell sounded jubilant as its clanging punctured the quiet that had fallen over the population. Cold weather and the lack of anything definite happening, one way or the other, made it feel like a sort of hibernation was taking place both behind and outside the walls. A silent agreement was reached in that the best thing was not to dwell on the past nor think too far ahead. Just concentrate on each day as it fell, on each moment at hand.

  Of course there were those who refused to be dulled by weeks of inactivity. Just as Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Lundy was discreetly readying the city, for what he wasn’t sure, others were making their own preparations.

  The news from England had warranted celebration. James II, along with his wife and baby son, had left for France. Well, that was good news, wasn’t it? Most people in Derry certainly agreed that it was. James had done the sensible, no, the right thing in vacating the throne and country, making way for his Protestant daughter, Mary Stuart, and her husband, Prince William of Orange. Hurrah!

  Only it wasn’t as simple as that.

  The less impressionable of the population didn’t miss the important part of the story. James II had fled to France, to King Louis XIV, the war-mongering Catholic who wanted to rule all of Europe, especially the parts favoured by the Dutch Prince of Orange. ‘Mark my words,’ said the likes of the Reverend Gordon and Mr Sherrard, ‘a ferocious clash of arms is on the horizon!’

  Robert Lundy attended city council meetings throughout January. Money was the big concern. Gunpowder and ammunition could be brought from England but it had to be bought first. William Cairnes’s uncle, the lawyer, was despatched to London to present a plea for material help to the soon-to-be-crowned king and queen.

  Meanwhile, most of the city’s Catholic residents finall
y decided to pack up and leave their homes behind.

  Daniel and Horace still walked the streets together, though not as often now.

  One day, as usual, Horace was ignoring Daniel’s pleas to stay by his side. The town was so packed and busy that Daniel worried Horace would be lost or run over by a cart. Suddenly Horace’s head snapped upwards and his ears stood up as he let out an exultant bark. Daniel heard the mischief in it and, once more, hollered for his dog to return to heel. He was not the least bit surprised when he was thoroughly ignored and instead obliged to break into a run as Horace led them down a long, narrow street that was already too full without a large, over-excited dog bounding through it.

  Daniel lost sight of Horace as the dog charged around yet another corner. Then he heard barking, only it wasn’t his dog, but it sounded familiar all the same. Oh no! Trust him!

  Out of an entire city that was crammed with thousands of extra people, Horace had managed to find one of ‘those’ dogs from ‘that’ particular street. Daniel made it just in time to witness the two animals trading insults from about three feet away from one another.

  It turned out that the other dog was part of a procession. Daniel recognised the young girl who had been scrubbing the door. He felt his cheeks redden and hoped she wouldn’t notice him, which given the size of the street, would have been impossible. Most of the people in the procession trudged by, too depressed and worried to be interested in barking dogs. Daniel took a step against the wall of a house to give them room to pass. Both men and women carried bundles of clothes, pots, plates and children.

  Daniel was mortified, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. However, a man, who Daniel assumed to be the girl’s father, soon put him right. Pointing at the boy, he said, ‘I know you!’

  Reaching for Horace, who kept trying to dodge his grasp, Daniel decided it was best to come clean. ‘Well, yes. I’ve sometimes walked my dog around … er … your street.’

  The girl glanced at Daniel and looked away again. Daniel felt she was afraid he would act like they knew one another. In any case, he was immediately distracted by her father who was demanding, ‘Aren’t you one of them that locked the gates against the Redshanks?’

  Daniel saw deep anxiety in the girl’s eyes. She had a baby in her arms, no bigger than Alice, and a jumble of clothes were strapped to her back. At her side were two, no three young children who watched Horace with great interest. Doing her best to bring this uncomfortable interview to an end, the girl said quietly, ‘Papa dear, we’re holding up everyone behind us.’

  Her father was determined however to have his answer and asked again, ‘Well?’

  Daniel felt dizzy as he said yes, though he couldn’t resist playing down his own contribution by adding, ‘There were thirteen of us in all!’

  ‘Pah!’ spat the man. ‘That makes no difference to us now. And I’ll tell you why, shall I?’

  Daniel hadn’t asked for an explanation nor did he want one. He made a mistake by trying to escape. ‘I have to get home …’

  It was as if he had lit a fuse on one of the cannons.

  ‘”Home” did you say?’

  Daniel was helpless to make a response. The man spat again, narrowly missing Daniel’s foot.

  ‘Let me tell you about home! My home!’ He pointed at his daughter. ‘Her home!’ And at the younger children. ‘Their home!’

  The dogs had stopped their barking, their attention on the man who was shouting at Daniel.

  ‘I have lived in this city all my life. All my life! I was born here and my parents were born here. It’s all I’ve known, all I ever wanted to know. And that’s what a home is, boy!’

  Daniel nodded fast, hoping his cooperation might calm the man somewhat.

  ‘But today I’ve had to empty my home into sacks, only as many as we can carry, and tell my children that we have to leave Derry.’

  It was only now that the younger ones understood what was going on. The littlest girl, who was maybe five or six years old, was horrified. ‘But I don’t want to leave Derry!’

  Her father asked her, ‘Well, my love, where do you want to go?’

  She replied, ‘I want to go back to our house.’

  ‘See that!’ said her father to Daniel. ‘My little girl just wants to go home!’

  Her two siblings chimed in, ‘Me too! Me too!’

  To everyone’s surprise, the man’s rage disappeared and tears sprang instead. He wiped them away but there were too many of them. It was nothing short of a miracle that his daughter managed to retrieve a handkerchief from one of her bundles. It floated out of her hand and Daniel, glad to do something, dived to pick it from the ground. To his relief, the man accepted it from him.

  The girl spoke neither unkindly nor kindly, ‘My mother is buried here. We’ve to leave her behind too.’

  Why did she feel she had to explain this awfulness to him? Daniel could think of nothing to say, only wanting to beg her forgiveness but not even sure how to go about doing that.

  As if to help him out, she added, ‘We should have left ages ago. Derry stopped being our home the moment the gates were closed.’

  With that, the girl ordered the children to move, patted her father on the arm and bid him to lead the way. Not another word was said. The family resumed their journey while Daniel put his head down and continued up the street, keeping a firm grip on Horace. Rightly or wrongly, the Sherrard boy felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.

  Chapter Ten

  Reverend Gordon was once again the bearer of good news. From the pulpit of St Columb’s Cathedral, he bellowed, ‘My dear brothers and sisters, today is a wonderful day for us, for today William of Orange and his lady wife, Mary, have been crowned king and queen of England!’

  All in all, 1689 was shaping up to be a very good year indeed.

  After the sermon, people stood outside to chew over this latest piece of information. Henry Campsie, whose father had recently been named Mayor of Derry once more, shook the hands of his friends. Robert couldn’t help thinking that Henry would make a fine politician one day. His arm was just about healed yet Henry found it necessary to keep it bandaged. Daniel suspected that the bandage was like a badge of honour and Henry didn’t want it to be forgotten that he had been shot for protecting the city.

  ‘King William! Ha! Doesn’t it sound much better than King James?’ Henry must have said this line twelve times now, but each time he repeated it his audience heartily agreed.

  William Cairnes didn’t like to boast but had to add, ‘Of course, my uncle met him in London!’

  Just before William had been named king, he wrote a letter to the elders of Derry, thanking them for their loyalty to his wife and himself. He also promised to furnish the towns with supplies. As soon as the weather improved, a ship called Deliverance was going to live up to her name and deliver food and ammunition to the city.

  Robert said, ‘I suppose there is no rush now that William is king. Richard Talbot will surely call off his soldiers.’

  He gave Henry a quizzical look and was relieved when his friend nodded and said, ‘Yes, I was just thinking that. He’ll probably offer his services to William now.’

  Samuel Hunt crossed his arms over his stomach and scoffed, ‘I hope that King Billy tells him to take himself and his services elsewhere! You couldn’t trust a man like that.’

  He scowled as he pronounced the last word and Daniel assumed ‘that’ to mean Papist.

  ‘King Billy?’ repeated Robert. He winked at Samuel, saying, ‘I like that!’

  William Cairnes looked dubious. He pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes and said, far too quickly, ‘Hmm … I think I prefer William.’

  He should have kept his mouth shut. A chorus immediately sang out: ‘Alright, Billy? What did you say, Billy? Billy, Billy!’

  William pouted, but really he was delighted to be the centre of their attention. ‘You’re worse than children!’

  Henry raised his eyebrows, indicating that they should be careful. They fell
quiet immediately while Daniel was one of a few who swung their heads about to see what Henry meant. Lieutenant-Colonel Lundy was nearby. The boys decided to move away from the cathedral.

  Henry said what most of them were thinking. ‘There is something about that man that makes me uneasy.’

  Robert was first to agree. ‘I don’t trust him!’

  This was followed by a smattering of ‘Nor I!’

  Only Daniel held his peace, feeling slightly out of his depth. The others seemed to know so much more than he did. Henry was lucky his father was mayor. He and William Cairnes usually heard the news before the rest of them, although Daniel couldn’t help feeling that their opinions sometimes sounded rehearsed.

  As the group prepared to break up and return to their various chores and houses, Henry said, ‘I wonder whose side he’s on now.’

  This line carried more weight when it was immediately followed by Henry bidding everyone farewell. When asked for an explanation, he only winked and said he had to go.

  Robert and Daniel said their goodbyes too and left with him.

  As if the three of them were already engaged in a discussion, Robert said, ‘Lundy surely follows whoever is sitting on the throne.’

  Daniel thought this sounded right and felt a shiver of impatience when Henry smiled at them as if they were ignorant children. ‘Ah, but wasn’t it James who gave Lundy the leadership of Derry, through Lord Mountjoy who represents Richard Talbot? Doesn’t that make him a Jacobite?’

  Daniel refused to be impressed. ‘Well then, what does Talbot say about Robert Lundy? Does he call him friend or foe?’

  To his intense pleasure, Henry didn’t have an answer to this question. All the mayor’s son could say, rather vaguely, was, ‘I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before everything comes out in the wash.’

  The rain was getting heavier. They might have stood under one of the various porches only there was no room. Plenty of people were ahead of them, some of them with no roofs to call their own, their houses being elsewhere.