Behind the Walls (21 page)

He was surprised at the scowls on the brothers’ faces and added, ‘Why would we give up now that help is almost here?’

Robert replied before Daniel could name his own feelings. ‘He doesn’t know what he means.’

It wasn’t kind, but then again it wasn’t meant to be.

Robert felt as prickly as if it was his father standing in front of him. He felt keenly that his younger brother was trying to provoke him, wanting to make the point that everything they had gone through, everything they were going through and everyone they had lost had been for nothing. Well, Robert was not prepared to play along or act the least bit guilty. After all, he missed Horace too.

In any case, it was James who persisted with Daniel. ‘Have you lost your faith in us?’

Daniel hesitated. His head hurt, and the questions in his mind were too big and too many.

Both brothers were startled when James suddenly leapt to the front of the bastion, collected as much spit as he could inside his mouth and spat it over the wall, watching it fall, fall until he could no longer see it. James breathed
heavily, with the effort, and bent over slightly to steady himself. Hunger had reduced his strength considerably. He glanced from one Sherrard to the other. When he was able, he said, ‘It’s easier to just make a decision and stick with it, no matter what.’ He thought for a moment before saying, ‘This whole thing will be something to tell our grandchildren!’

Robert smirked, not unkindly. ‘You do know that you have to find a girl who will marry you before you can start dreaming about having grandchildren.’

In spite of everything, Robert and Daniel laughed at the expression on James’s face.

Their friend just winked and tapped his index finger against his nose. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, boys. I just have to decide which one I want.’

Daniel added, ‘You mean which one will have you.’

James shrugged. ‘Ach, same thing!’

Chapter Twenty-Six

R
obert and Daniel were on the wall when they heard shouting from the Jacobite camp. To their horror they could see that the Jacobites had hastily constructed a gallows from which a sodden body dangled. The enemy soldiers were doing their damnedest to get the attention of the city’s guards, hollering and pointing at the corpse, while also taking the opportunity to make coarse, rude signs with their fingers. They put on quite a show complete with lots of laughter, as if mocking the dead man.

Appalled, Daniel barely waited for Robert to focus the telescope on the scene, before demanding to know, ‘Who is it? Do we know him?’

Meanwhile, Henry Campsie had raced to their side and lifted his rifle to fire at the soldiers. It was Robert who snarled at him not to waste time or precious bullets. Despite the state of the body, Robert recognised him as the plucky McGimpsey, a Derry man who had bravely volunteered to swim up the Foyle, past the Jacobites, all the way to the Williamite fleet, carrying letters from the
governors describing the state of Derry and urging Major-General Kirke to come to their rescue before it was too late. Robert shook his head in sorrow. McGimpsey had been a favourite of his; he’d always had a joke ready to cheer up his fellow guardsmen.

‘Oh my God!’ was Henry’s response. ‘Do you mean to say that they have actually murdered him?’

Robert passed him the telescope saying slowly, ‘No. I think the poor fellow drowned, judging from his pallor. They must have found his body and decided to have their fun by taunting us.’

‘Fun,’ gasped Daniel.

Robert shrugged an apology while Henry growled, ‘Yes, the curs are signalling that he drowned. They keep pointing at the river.’ He offered Daniel the telescope but he refused it.

The Sherrard boys alerted both governors and Adam Murray. The mood on the wall was sombre.

Adam Murray offered, ‘It would have been a hard swim for any man under any circumstances.’

He longed to say more, to curse Kirke for his stubbornness and stupid fear.
Derry is dying and still that fool will not come. What does he imagine the city to be living on at this point?

Governor Baker stated the obvious. ‘Well, now the enemy has our letters they know how badly off we are, just how little food and bullets we possess to get us through
the next few weeks, if even that.’

The situation was alarming and depressing to say the least. Even as the miserable group stood there, the bombs began to fly over the walls once more.

A few nights later about two hundred Jacobite soldiers followed their commander to the outskirts of Butchers’ Gate and proceeded to throw bombs into the trenches built by the Williamites.

Governor Baker, who was suffering from shortness of breath and overwhelming fatigue, determined to lead the counter-attack. ‘They are daring to do this because they know how vulnerable we are. We must put up a fight as a show of strength, if nothing else.’

Even as his soldiers began to prepare to exit Derry, they could hear, much to their horror, Jacobites just outside Butchers’ Gate; one man was clearly heard calling for a torch. ‘Let’s set fire to the gate!’

Meanwhile, someone on the wall shouted out that there were Jacobites approaching the Gunner’s Bastion, mere yards from Butchers’ Gate, with spades and picks in their hands.

Governor Baker was appalled. ‘They’re going to try to collapse the wall!’

With every breath in his feeble body, he summoned his soldiers back to the wall. ‘Take your position and fire on my command!’

Fear was no longer an option. There was no time to think so the various leaders spurred their soldiers into action.

Adam Murray led about sixty men out of Bishop’s Gate, ignoring the weakness in his legs as he kept up a tremendous pace, praying to God for help and strength. As soon as he and his men got close enough to the Jacobite party that was posted to protect the diggers at Gunner’s Bastion, they fired on them, sending them running.

‘Re-load! Re-load,’ roared Adam needlessly since his men were already doing just that. No one was going to allow a single moment to pass without attempting to blast a hole through a Jacobite soldier.

Shots rained down from the walls as the two governors and the rest of the soldiers, as well as civilians who could use a rifle, fired at the Jacobite soldiers. The noise was tremendous, while Governor Walker forbade himself to think about all the musket balls that were being used up.

He saw his co-governor sprint along the wall, urging everyone to keep firing as fast as possible.

To the city’s immense relief, the Jacobites fled, the volume of rifle fire being unexpected. Once the danger was removed, the Williamites’ adrenalin evaporated, leaving a lot of men quite literally leaning against the wall to stop themselves folding to the ground from the exertion and stress.

It had been so close, so close. Women who had once cheered their men now cried openly in shock. Children were too stunned to do much other than cling to their mothers.

Governor Baker found it necessary to bend forward, willing his heart to return to normal. His face was covered in sweat and his vision was blurred. He realised now just how ill he was but, nevertheless, he congratulated those around him, in between painful gulps of breath, saying, ‘Well done, well done!’

It was this generosity and determination that George Walker alluded to in his homily, just two days later, on Sunday, 30 June, at Governor Baker’s funeral, saying ‘His death is a terrible loss for Derry. His courage and good humour will be missed.’

Mr Sherrard had done all he could for the governor, but they both knew it was useless though, typically, even as he was dying, Baker had thought to thank the physician for his attention and care.

Furthermore the governor wanted to leave Derry in good hands and had, therefore, nominated Colonel John Mitchelburne to be his successor. And so Mitchelburne’s first sad task as co-governor, with George Walker, was to help to carry his predecessor’s coffin, not at all embarrassed by the tears that ran down his face.

The second thing he did was to have a red flag flown
from the tower at St Columb’s, which served both to show the city’s defiance in the face of the Jacobites and to signal to Major-General Kirke and the Williamite fleet just how perilous the city’s state was.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

M
rs Sherrard made her way to the cathedral. It had recently become a habit of hers to spend ten or fifteen minutes a day praying to God that all this would come to an end.

She had become used to stepping over the bodies in the street. The trick was not to look too closely. If it was dark enough some of them looked like bundles or clothes or logs. Of course she had heard the stories of bodies being cut up for food. She was quite sure she couldn’t eat a human body; oh yes, quite, quite sure.

God must have meant this to happen. There was no other way to explain it. ‘No other way!’ Sometimes she spoke out loud to herself, taking comfort from the sound of her own voice. There were fewer and fewer people left to talk to. So many of her friends and neighbours were lying dead in the basements of their houses. Their families couldn’t squeeze them into the graveyards and wouldn’t have them out on the streets, so into the basements they went, accidentally infecting the atmosphere with the poisonous stench that would not go away.

She was forced to stop every few steps to catch her breath. Her heart thumped in her chest from the least bit of movement and she had to keep catching the front of her dress so that she wouldn’t trip herself up. Now that she was so thin her dresses were too long. She put a hand to her mouth to try and stop the smell. What kept her going was the fright that she might fall down here and not be found. What if she fainted and somebody looking for a tasty morsel thought she was dead? No, she mustn’t think about that. She simply mustn’t fall down.

The dirt was everywhere. Filth clung to her shoes, while sludgy puddles splashed up her calves. It was too much.
No, I can’t think about that either. I’m only one person. God can’t mean for me to clean up this whole mess. It’s absurd
.

Meanwhile her own house was spotless. Well, what else was there for her to do? If she couldn’t make meals for her family, she could scrub the furniture, brush the floors and wash the walls. The house was her domain, her world, no matter what king sat on the throne.

Dirt was evil. She believed that more than ever. Dirt represented the city’s misfortunes, a city in peril. Oh, she knew that Derry had been built out of the earth. What city hasn’t?

Her lips curled as she turned a corner and the onslaught of urine and vomit made her gag. She imagined the air was thick with bitterness and this is what caught at her throat.

When the city was born back then, well, it was only a mound, covered with lots of oak trees. That’s what attracted St Colmcille’s attention. When he looked at those trees he saw a home. So, he gave birth to a settlement which was to become the city she was today.

Mrs Sherrard was mortified to discover that she could not remember the name Colmcille had bestowed on the city.
How could I have forgotten it? Can the lack of food rid my head of knowledge, and such basic knowledge as this
?

She struggled to focus her mind on the problem. Derry’s other name, it was something to do with the trees; yes, it was the Irish for oak tree. Oak trees. The answer was nearby if she could only forget about being hungry and feeling weak. Half-closing her eyes in order to concentrate, she suddenly seized upon it and yelped the name aloud in triumph: ‘
Doire
.’ She blushed as she walked,
Oh, thank goodness, I will not forget that again in a hurry. How foolish of me
!
Doire
begot Derry.

Years later, her grandfather arrived from London to help build the cathedral, the very cathedral she was heading towards. Derry was the only home she knew. Everything that had ever happened to her had happened within the city’s walls. For instance, this path with the broken stones, still wet from the morning’s rain, she remembered bursting her lip in a fall here when she was about six years old. How funny that she should think of that now.

‘Mrs Sherrard? Good morning to you.’

She hadn’t noticed the soldier until he addressed her which was peculiar since he was directly in front of her, sitting on a grubby white horse whose ribs she could plainly see.

‘Oh, Mr Murray. You’ve still got your horse; I thought they had all been eaten.’

There was no malice in the woman’s words yet they shocked Adam just the same. He patted Pegasus as if to make up for her tactlessness.

Forcing a smile through, he said, ‘Yes, I’ve still got her. There are a few more about the city. It’s mostly the Jacobite horses we’ve been eating.’

Mrs Sherrard nodded but seemed distracted already.

He offered her another titbit of information. ‘There are still some cattle left too, though I think they will be slaughtered soon.’

She thought about this. ‘That will mean an end to the milk supply.’

Adam blushed a little, feeling awkward. ‘The Jacobites have some cattle. I hope to make an attempt to grab them.’

‘An attempt?’ Mrs Sherrard repeated carefully.

He couldn’t think of what to say to this. She reminded him of his old teacher who never allowed him to be vague in answer to her questions. Her response to any ambiguity, on his part, was to immediately follow with a second
question, usually repeating his words back to him, just as Mrs Sherrard had done.

He was doing his best to provide conversation but was quite unable to affect determination and positivity at this particular moment. Some days his confidence was strong and then there were days like this when he dithered about, unable to convince himself of anything.

‘I’m going to the cathedral.’ Adam hadn’t actually asked her where she was going but Mrs Sherrard thought he should know.

There was an explosion somewhere behind them; not even Pegasus bothered to be frightened by it. The Jacobite cannons were fired day and night; the only option was to become used to them. Adam was perplexed at how the guns were aimed to fire over the walls instead of being used to blast a hole through them. It was such a waste of their artillery. He found himself wondering if the Jacobites had not, in fact, lost some of their determination, or else their leaders were lacking in basic military intelligence. He became aware that Mrs Sherrard had fixed her gaze on him.

How long had she been staring at his face? For the want of something to say he exclaimed, ‘But, where are my manners? Please allow me to accompany you to the cathedral.’

He was half-hoping that she might refuse his offer since
he felt a little shy in her presence and briefly wondered what on earth they might talk about as they walked to St Columb’s. He was unused to being alone with a married woman – or any other woman for that matter.

As if to confirm his own awkwardness, she misunderstood his intention. ‘No, I’m not getting up on your horse. It doesn’t have the strength to take two.’

Adam got down from Pegasus and followed the woman’s sharp glance at his horse’s flank; he could see the ribs too. Sounding both defensive and guilty, he said, ‘She has a strong heart.’

He had only climbed into the saddle to prove that Pegasus was still a working horse that was needed for skirmishes with the enemy. Although there was another reason too, something he hadn’t told anyone else. For some reason he decided to confide in Mrs Sherrard, despite the fact that her eyes bore no warmth. He struggled to find, in her pinched face, the kind and gentle woman he remembered from previous meetings, before all this trouble began. She scared him a little now; she seemed so shrunken, inside and out.

‘Some weeks ago, I had, I think, a vision.’

To his relief, she tipped her head to one side as she considered his confession. ‘A vision? Whatever do you mean?’

A smirk played upon her lips. He hadn’t expected that. Would she think he had lost his mind? In any case it was
too late to stop and he hadn’t the imagination to make up anything else.

So, he continued, ‘It was the middle of the night. No, wait, it was just before midnight …’

But it was too late, the woman’s attention had wandered, and she started her own confession. ‘Sometimes I cannot remember why we’re doing this.’

To their right were bodies, some wrapped in blankets and some with just a couple of dried-up flowers on their chests. She focused on the smaller ones as they walked by. ‘Do you think that King William and King James would agree with those children dying for them?’ Her voice was strained. ‘I’m sure they would have preferred to live. After all, children don’t decide to be martyrs, do they? They probably didn’t even understand why they had to be hungry.’

Adam swallowed and felt the by now familiar trembling in his legs.

They continued to walk although perhaps it would be more accurate to describe it as shuffling. From a distance you would be forgiven for believing they were an elderly couple as they bent forward to protect themselves from the sharpness of the summer breeze.

Paying little heed to the explosions, the dead, the dying and the begging of the homeless, they eventually arrived at the cathedral which continued to stand strong, just like
the walls, the red flag of defiance waving gaily at their approach.

‘What time is it?’ Mrs Sherrard asked. ‘Though I don’t know why I should care. Time means nothing nowadays; it marches forward, leaving us behind, reminding us how stuck we are here.’

Adam took out his pocket watch. Mrs Sherrard peered at it, saying, ‘What an unusual piece.’

Adam found himself holding it up for her to inspect, turning it upside down so that she could see the engraving on its back, in black and red, of a bare-backed rider, on a horse, with his bow and arrow.

Mrs Sherrard asked, ‘Is that you?’

‘No, ma’am,’ he said, wondering how she could think that. The watch had belonged to Gabriel who had made a present of it to him, explaining that he no longer cared what time of the day it was.

Adam told Mrs Sherrard it was almost ten o’clock, showing her the clock’s face with its dainty hands and roman numerals as if afraid she might doubt him.

They were still some distance from the cathedral and, needing to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened, Adam tried to return to their earlier conversation. ‘My vision, it … well, it looked like … an angel.’ He found himself unable to say more than that.

‘An angel?’ Mrs Sherrard stared at the sky as if searching
for one of her own. ‘They are God’s messengers. Maybe it was telling you that we’re about to win … or we’re all going to die. I should imagine it’s too late for anything else.’

Adam knew she was referring to the cannonball that had recently been fired into the city. The massive ball of lead had landed in the middle of the street, inflicting no damage or wounds. Closer inspection revealed that it had been hollowed out to carry a sheet of paper with yet more terms of surrender penned by the Jacobites: if the city reopened her gates, nobody would be punished. Quite reasonable really, all things considered. Nevertheless, the cry of the people remained solid: NO SURRENDER!

Perhaps in an attempt to instil some positivity before she left him, Mrs Sherrard gestured to the cathedral. ‘Either way, I’m sure this will continue to stand here whether we survive or not.’

Adam smiled politely and watched her go through the door into the darkness beyond.

The very next day it was Henry Campsie’s turn to deliver shocking news. ‘Adam Murray has been shot!’

Robert gasped, ‘Is he dead?’

Henry shrugged. ‘No, I don’t think so. Last I heard the surgeon was working on him. It’s his legs, I think, both of them.’

Mr Sherrard went to visit Adam as soon as he heard.
He found him in bed, in his aunt’s house, looking frail and forlorn. His aunt was crying. It was Adam who explained her tears. James Murray, his cousin, had been killed.

‘I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs Murray, and you too, Adam.’

When the tearful woman left them alone, Adam whispered, ‘I think she blames me.’

Mr Sherrard checked the young colonel’s wounds; the surgeon had done a good job as usual. ‘Well, you’re looking a lot better than I expected. I feared we had lost you. Someone must have been watching over you.’

Adam shrugged. ‘It was my idea but I felt it was worth it, to make another attack on the trenches near Butchers’ Gate.’

Mr Sherrard sat down heavily on the side of the bed. Adam took this to mean he wished to hear more and obliged. ‘There were twelve of us, all armed. We got as close to the Jacobites as I am to you and we just kept firing our rifles until we had no more bullets left.’ He paused, to catch his breath.

‘Are you in much pain?’ asked Mr Sherrard.

Adam shook his head, but Mr Sherrard knew better than that. He also knew better than to air his opinion about what he thought of the whole adventure. Twelve men running out to attack goodness knows how many enemy soldiers.
What was he thinking? It was suicidal and a
miracle
that more of them weren’t killed!

Oblivious to the physician’s thoughts, Adam spoke slowly now, exhaustion beginning to claim him. ‘I didn’t see who shot James. I didn’t even see who shot me. It happened when we were falling back toward the wall.’

Mr Sherrard just nodded and listened, waiting for his patient to drift off to sleep. When the physician stood up and prepared to go, Adam stirred and murmured, ‘Tell your wife I’m sorry I didn’t get the cows for her.’