Kings of the Boyne (10 page)

In the background they could hear the Jacobites boasting that they had killed him. William shrugged at the duke. It was a strange sensation to hear men celebrating his death.

‘I don’t think it is more than a scratch. The blood makes it appear worse.’

The duke wanted to be convinced by William’s words but he still looked nervous. ‘Well, perhaps we should visit with the physician.’

William shook his head at this, saying, ‘I’ll go later when I have more time. For now let us continue with the survey of the river.’

The duke opened his mouth to protest but he realised
that the king did indeed look better. William took a deep breath and did not struggle with it, and he sat up straighter in his saddle.

This was a test of his strength and courage and he was determined to pass it.

The group spent a further ninety minutes or so following the river and introducing themselves to the geography of the battlefield. Finally William felt their work was done and that a visit to the physician would be sensible. He was feeling light-headed and had ignored it for as long as he could, trying to convince himself that it was just the shock combined with the heat of the morning and the lack of a decent meal.

He led his men back to camp where he promptly slid from his horse to the ground. Meinhard and his father carried him between them to the physician’s tent. The wound was cleaned and discovered to be superficial but sometimes it is the smallest cuts that cause the greater bloodshed. The king was ordered to rest, which did not suit him at all, but he had to admit he could do little when he felt so sluggish. In the end, he took to his bed for a couple of hours, during which the Jacobites continued to boast of having killed him. Rumours of William’s death rampaged throughout the Boyne valley while he slept the sleep of the dead.

When he woke he found the Schombergs sitting at the
foot of his bed, both looking very much relieved.

‘How are you feeling, Your Majesty?’

William checked before replying truthfully, ‘Actually I feel very well! But I must eat before doing anything else. I rather think it was hunger that woke me up.’

After summoning food for the king, the duke made a tentative suggestion. ‘Sire, when you have eaten I think it would be wise to take a ride around the camp, if you feel up to it. It seems that the men need to be convinced that you are still alive.’

‘What?’ exclaimed William. ‘How could they think I am dead?’

‘Well, sire, the enemy have been boasting of your murder to our boys. Also some soldiers saw you being carried into the physician’s tent and they grow increasingly more worried that they have not seen you since.’

William shrugged. ‘But of course. Let us go right now. I will eat afterwards. I cannot have my army doubting me.’

‘Very good, sire. And I might also suggest that a letter be sent off to the queen. Just in case.’

William was immediately alarmed at the idea of Mary reading of his death. His secretary, Constantijn, was ordered to take down a brief letter explaining to her what had happened and to assure her that he was in good health. As he dictated the note his servant helped him to dress.

Meinhard appeared at the entrance to his cabin. The horses were outside, saddled, ready and waiting.

The king addressed the Duke of Schomberg. ‘You will accompany me, old friend. I think they should see us both looking confident and happy.’

The duke was in complete agreement. ‘Certainly, Your Majesty.’

The king exited the wooden cabin and already there were shouts of relief on sighting him which made William smile.

He and the duke mounted their horses and trotted on, intending to cover as much ground as possible. Their camp was sprawled across several miles and William meant for as many as possible to see him looking hale and hearty. Of course there were separate communities within the camp. The cavalry, those who could afford their own horses, had their own area, while the different infantries were spread around, only coming together to collect their rations of food and ale. The various nationalities were denoted by their flags proclaiming the battalion that would march behind it.

Within minutes of that first sighting, William learned exactly how popular he was amongst his English, Scottish, Dutch, Danish, Finnish and Prussian soldiers, and his French Huguenots. To his surprise, the men raced to stand either side of him, forming lines of welcome as he rode by,
clapping their hands and cheering loudly: ‘Long live King William!’

The Duke of Schomberg was amused at the expression of genuine emotion on the king’s face. He said, ‘You see how they cheer you, sire. Tomorrow they will seek revenge for that musket ball.’

They spent the best part of an hour meeting the men and then it was time to discuss the following day, with William enjoying a fresh boost in himself as a beloved leader and king.

A
fter a good dinner William summoned his men for a council of war. They included the ever-faithful Duke of Schomberg, his son Meinhard Schomberg, Count Solms, the Dutch commander of the Dutch foot-guards, James Douglas, a Scottish commander, a couple of English colonels and the commander of the Danish regiment, the German Duke of Würtemburg-Neustadt. William also had Constantijn, his secretary, present, to take down an account of the meeting.

Just before his men arrived, William wrote in his diary:

Across the river James was undoubtedly doing the same thing with his commanders.

‘Well, my friends,’ began William, ‘you have all had a chance to scout our location. What do you make of it?’

Typically the Duke of Schomberg got to his feet before anyone else. He was the most experienced of them all and he also claimed a closer relationship to William over anyone else. When he spoke, William always listened, the younger man appreciating the duke’s wisdom and expertise in military matters. The duke believed that over the years the king had come to regard him as a sort of a father figure, his actual father having died when William was a baby.

So, the duke stood and spoke as the second-in-command of the Williamites: ‘Your Majesty, I suggest that we use the river to entrap the enemy. We stage a sizeable attack at the nearby village of Oldbridge, which is less than two miles from Drogheda, thus fooling James into sending his entire army to meet what will appear to be the bulk of ours. Then, as the Jacobites approach Oldbridge, we let loose the rest of our battalions, who will have secretly followed the Jacobite to attack them in the side and the rear. Those battalions should be moved into position tonight, about four or five
miles upstream, when it is dark.’

There, he had given his presentation and it was a sound one. All the nodding heads around him testified to its merits. All but one. It took a moment for the duke to notice that one head was not nodding away like it usually did. In fact, the head seemed disinclined to move at all.

‘Mmm,’ said William.

This was peculiar. The duke quickly recounted to himself what he had said and could find no fault in it. Perhaps His Majesty had not heard him properly or maybe he was still suffering the effects from his narrow escape today. Yes, that would be it. Undaunted, the duke repeated his plan but in a simpler fashion.

‘You see, we fool the enemy into meeting us at Oldbridge. They’ll not expect to be attacked from behind and that way we catch them off guard. It means splitting our army in two, but we knew that was going to be the case as soon as we heard there was a river. We saw today, sire, how the river loops around the village so it seems logical to use that to trap the Jacobites within it, in one fell swoop … as it were.’

Nobody nodded now, preferring to wait for William to give them the go-ahead, only he didn’t. He merely rubbed his nose and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes.

Meinhard Schomberg was stumped. He had never seen
his father treated like this and was confused, trying to decipher what was wrong with the plan. Wanting to support his father and take an active part in the proceedings, he stood up and offered: ‘The plan is a risky one but if it is carried out just as my father says then we cannot lose. Our army is bigger and better equipped. I hear some of the Irish soldiers are still carrying scythes instead of muskets.’

He took his seat again, feeling pleased with himself, both as a dutiful son and contributing voice to the discussion. However, his words held no sway with the king.

Count Solms was pleased to see the old duke being sidelined like this. He was the oldest soldier there, and as a fellow Dutchman he felt he understood William better than anyone else. Surely it was time for William to listen to a new advisor and why shouldn’t he step into the number one role? Feeling that William wanted him to say something, he rose to make his suggestion: ‘My Lord, I commend the Duke of Schomberg on his grand plan but perhaps we should seek out a less complicated approach. What if something unforeseeable was to occur and we ourselves were caught in the loop while divided of our maximum strength?’

William gazed over their heads to think on this, while the duke blinked heavily at the pompous so-and-so referring to his plan as ‘complicated’. He barely managed to sound civil as he addressed Count Solms, ‘Well, sir, what
would you suggest then?’

The Dutchman licked his lips and, without a hint of friendliness, replied, ‘Why, sir, if you would hear me out, I was just about to tell you.’

‘My apologies,’ lied the duke.

William ignored the tension.

‘I think, instead, we should keep the army together and make an all-out frontal attack at Oldbridge. I can’t help feeling that it would be unwise to divide the army in two.’

None of his listeners looked impressed with his idea, leaving the count muttering somewhat huffily, ‘That is my humble opinion, sire.’

William flicked some dust from his sleeve. He was biding his time, wanting to digest the two opposing ideas while searching for a way to put his own spin on them. Thanks to his ride through the camp his ego was stirred up, which was not a helpful factor when one is searching for the best battle plan. William was falling into a trap of his own, only this one was called ‘vanity’.

Those English colonels are probably reporting my every move back to the parliament in London. How they gazed in awe at the Duke of Schomberg as he presented his plan. Well, I won’t have it said that we won thanks to the duke. I am king and this victory must be mine alone.

William was caught in a bind of his own creation, not
wanting to outline a plan of his own in case it was flawed.
I must be careful. My kingship rests on not just beating my uncle but on how I beat him. It is essential that I impress those English colonels from the outset.

Stuck for a better alternative, he brought the council to an end, saying, ‘Very well, gentlemen. Let us retire for now. I will dictate your orders to my secretary and you will receive them within the hour. Good evening!’

The Duke of Schomberg was not the only one who looked momentarily stunned, but William’s tone did not encourage any questions. They all stood up slowly, fixing their clothes and making sure they had not left anything behind, instinctively delaying leaving just in case William had a change of heart.

William left first, with his secretary at his heel. There was no need for the others to hang around any longer.

Willing the others to walk ahead of him, the Duke of Schomberg paused as if lost in thought. Meinhard stood beside him and felt uneasy about … well, everything. For the first time ever, his father looked properly old to him. He totted up the years in his head and thought,
My God, can he really be seventy-five years old
?

Meinhard was simultaneously shocked and proud. His father had been a soldier for all of his life and was a hero to both himself and his own young son, Charles, who idolised
his grandfather and could be relied upon to make the great man smile no matter what. Tonight, however, the duke looked weary and not simply tired and in need of a good night’s sleep but sort of … finished in a way. Right on cue, his father stumbled and Meinhard grabbed his arm to steady him. The duke gently shook his son away, explaining his confused state by saying, ‘This has never happened before, to be dismissed along with everyone else until further notice.’

Father and son returned to their respective tents in silence, with Meinhard unable to find the right words, hardly knowing what he wanted to say, only thinking:
After tomorrow’s battle, I will talk to him about giving up army life. If he won’t for my sake, then perhaps he might for his grandson.

J
acques was nowhere to be seen.
He must be with Nancy
, thought Gerald, not a little enviously.
It must be nice to have someone waiting for you to come back from battle
.

Gerald was surprised by the large volume of extra people that were gathering between their camp and Drogheda. Lord knows that if he had any more coins he could have had his pick of foodstuff, weapons, clothing and even animals. Dozens of hawkers had set up their stalls on the outskirts of the soldiers’ tents. They kept the walls of Drogheda in sight just in case they needed to escape the Williamite guns and cannon. In the meantime, they appeared to be doing great business altogether.

A surprising amount of the new arrivals were women.
Gerald wondered if his mother or Cait might surprise him but the more he thought about it the more he realised that visiting him on the eve of battle would no more have occurred to his mother or sister than it would have occurred to him to invite them along. As far as they were concerned war was the business of the men but only because they were too busy to bother with it. He smiled as he considered the fact that the O’Connor women were tougher than any man he had ever met. That’s what his father always said and Gerald was inclined to agree.

No doubt Cait was caring for the sick and the poor, while his mother ran the household and worked the family plot, in between helping Father Nicholas with his work in the village. They schooled the village children in the religion and history of their country. Would either mother or sister even stop long enough to worry about him? No, probably not. Of course they had no idea that tomorrow was the big day. Nevertheless, they were too practical and sensible to waste precious time on something like worrying, preferring to hand over their cares to God and get on with the things that they could control.

Their lives were continuing on in the same way as they always did when he was a boy in Offaly and would presumably continue to do so whether or not he managed to return to them again. That was the wonder of it all – that
no matter what happened to him tomorrow, the sun would continue to rise and fall, just the same as always.

His mother’s favourite quote was ‘This life is but a vale of tears’, which was far from cheerful but it meant that she generally did not expect to be any happier than she was and, thus, could never be really disappointed. Not that Gerald could swear that she was happy, although he would admit that she never looked actually
unhappy
, which perhaps amounted to the same thing.

Briefly he wondered how his father was getting on in Flanders and if he knew that the battle was to be fought the next day. James would surely have had to let the French king know. According to Jacques, King James would not shake his right foot without first consulting with King Louis, though how Jacques knew this fascinating fact, Gerald had no idea.

It was hard to relax or settle down to anything. Unsure about what to do, Gerald had written a letter to his parents – in case, well, let’s just say it was a letter of fond farewell – of which the wording had taken the best part of an hour but it did not look as if he had spent more than five minutes scribbling it down. It was hard to put his feelings about particulars on paper since he found it difficult to believe that he might actually die. Now, was that a good thing or bad thing? In any case, it seemed too incredible and unnatural to think of himself being dead.

Jacques was under orders to get his body back to Offaly if the worst should happen. That was a conversation that they had had months ago when there had been no battle in sight. Gerald had then asked his friend what he wanted him to do with his body if he died. Jacques’ answer was typical – a disinterested shrug accompanied by the unhelpful words: ‘Surprise me!’

Gerald had persisted. ‘What about your family?’

‘They are all dead.’

And that was that.

It was something that needed to be discussed since the usual practice when soldiers died in battle was to dig a deep trench for all the bodies to be piled into. If there were no friends or relatives present to alert families back home, parents and wives would simply have to assume that a death had occurred when they did not hear from their loved one again.

Worse than that was the knowledge that if a dead body was not claimed quickly enough by its fellow soldiers it was in danger of being stripped by the enemy. This explained why Gerald would not be carrying anything important on his person in the morning, aside from his sword and pistol. He would just have to trust that his belongings would be safe in his tent until they could be collected by himself or Jacques.

Gerald shook his head to rid himself of these depressing thoughts and dragged himself and his knapsack outside the tent to sit on the ground. In his hand was the book he had bought for Cait, already opened to his favourite page containing those lines about not being afraid of anything. All around him his fellow soldiers were trying to affect an air of relaxation or downright fearlessness. There was a lot of loud laugher at jokes that Gerald did not catch, but he could not fail to notice that the laughter sounded forced and hollow. Fellows talked too loudly and needlessly threw their arms about to make a point.

Fires were lit, though it was a warm evening. In fact, the fires had an important part to play in the preparations as it was up to the men to make their own bullets. Lead would be melted down by the heat of the campfires before being fashioned into round bullets while countless sheets of paper needed to be rolled up to hold the precious gunpowder. There was plenty to do, but Gerald made sure to appreciate that it was a most lovely evening too. The sun was beginning its descent to the other side of the world, its light sliding across the fields like butter melting on freshly baked bread. The men did their best to ignore the unmistakable fact that this last day of calm was slowly reaching its end.

The grass beneath Gerald’s hand felt like velvet, and he found himself noticing little things of no importance, like
strangely coloured beetles that were new to him and birds, miles above his head, journeying home. Their squawking, being carried unevenly in the summer breeze, had a ghostly quality to them. At such a height the birds must be able to see how the two armies were whiling away these last hours. Not for the first time Gerald wished he could fly.

Someone began to play a fiddle, the sorrowful tune barely competing against the raucous laughter and bad jokes. Gerald raised an eyebrow in surprise; normally the music did not begin until after sundown. Then again, there was nothing normal about this evening. Yes, the brandy rations would be supped, the ballads would be sung and those snooty French soldiers, who refused to mix with their Irish counterparts, would play their chess and their card games. However, no matter what pastime they indulged in, it was not for enjoyment’s sake or even out of genuine choice, it was all about getting through the next few hours and avoiding any futile dwelling on possible consequences.

The one thing that each of these soldiers – Irish, French, rich, poor, infantry, cavalry – had in common was that they wanted to survive what was coming. The alternative was not to be borne. Gerald sniffed, thinking that exactly the same was true in the Williamite camp. They all had to fight but nobody wanted to die. Yet tomorrow was going to bring death – that much could be depended upon.

Just for a second, Gerald had a flash of foreboding and, in his mind’s eye, saw the field in front of him as it might look tomorrow, covered in writhing and dead bodies, the green grass soaking up the pools of freshly spilled blood.

Enough!

He gazed around him and couldn’t help but wonder who might already be marked out by God to die in his name. Would anyone be given a hint? Would anyone foresee their end in nightmares tonight?

Gerald O’Connor, this is silly
! He chided himself, thinking that right now he obviously had too much time on his hands.

There was no more training or drilling to be done since they were trying to hide their numbers and questionable standards from the enemy spies who could be anywhere at all, although it was too late to worry about spies now since they could do no more damage. Unfortunately it was also too dangerous to go swimming in the Boyne.

He thought about checking on the horses but felt too lazy to make the trek to the pens. Instead, he preferred to enjoy the lingering warmth of the day and the last remnants of a peaceful existence. Later on he would go to see them. Later on he would make time to pray like he had never prayed before. For the moment he leant back and closed his eyes, pretending he was at home, sunning himself by the
lake while waiting for his mother to call him for dinner.

‘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.’