Kings of the Boyne (16 page)

Suddenly remembering the absent king, he said to the fellow beside him, ‘Get a messenger to James and tell him what has happened.’

Then he called out again, ‘I want all cavalry to ready their horses and stand by them until I give the order to mount. Now everybody MOVE!’

The crowd scattered to follow his orders. Trumpets rang out as any infantryman that was not already in place behind Oldbridge collected his weapons from his tent, before tearing down to join their colleagues.

Jacques led the race towards the horses that were already stamping their feet with impatience to be let out. Those who were rich enough to employ groomsman had only to shout for their animals and they appeared already saddled. There were plenty of young boys, from Drogheda, to help out too, getting involved in leading the horses out, without colliding with one another in their excitement. One young lad, under Jacques’ terse instructions, led Paris and Troy over to their masters.

Gerald and Jacques quickly saddled their horses, Jacques irritating Gerald by checking he had pulled and buckled his straps correctly. He was not taking any chances that Gerald, in his haste, would end up toppling from Troy in front of the enemy. The order went round that the French and Irish cavalry would descend upon the Williamites from the hill behind Oldbridge. Everyone was to assemble there but were not to mount their horses until the last moment, in order to keep them fresh.

Jacques told the boy to follow behind with the horses and he gratefully complied. This was the most excitement the lad had ever witnessed and he did not want to be dismissed just yet.

Naturally the cavalry wanted to see how their infantry was faring. Jacques and Gerald were just two of hundreds who, keeping low, headed uphill on foot to watch the action.
The horses were kept a short distance away by the groomsmen and the local boys that were almost overwhelmed by the temptation to climb the hill after the horsemen and see what was going on at Oldbridge.

Down below, Michael, Joseph and the others prepared to charge the first of the Williamites climbing out of the water. It was only now that Michael was horrified at the fact that he did not own a gun. Up to this point, he had not questioned his weaponry – his knife and his scythe –believing they would be enough along with his courage and rage, but looking out across the Boyne at that mighty army, whose guns and swords seem to glow in the sun, he immediately lamented his naivety and, yes, utter stupidity.

As usual, Joseph was gazing at him for guidance while the Jacobites who owned muskets started shooting, picking out unlucky individuals for a watery grave.

‘What do we do?’ Joseph’s voice rose in panic.

Somehow Michael had assumed leadership of the group in the trench but had no time to appreciate how or why. Scanning the area around him, he instinctively made a lunge towards a large rock, scooped it up and then stood and took aim, flinging it with his might. The others immediately imitated him for this was something they had learnt to do as soon as they could walk, throw stones, and the ground was full of them.

‘We’re going to have to fight them when they come up on the bank!’

The others nodded at Michael. Well, this was the kind of fighting they had expected. The noise of the booming cannons and long-range muskets had been unexpected, but to get a chance to fight with one’s fists, daggers and scythes, now that was more like it. Nevertheless, it was difficult to ignore the superior numbers of the enemy. From the corner of his eye Michael saw Joseph wipe sweat, or tears, from his face. He kept his own eyes on the ground as if to stop himself thinking about numbers. In any case, Joseph was not the only one who was frightened. Plenty of fellows were blessing themselves and mouthing off anxious prayers to God above.

Briefly Michael wondered about his family. He had not told his wife that he was joining the army. How could he have behaved so badly to those who depended on him? He had sneaked away just like his brothers and just like his parents who had gone and died on him when he was still a child.

He had been unable to admit in the tavern that day, that he had run off on Kathleen and the boys while they were sleeping, not that it was anyone’s business. In any case, any money he received was being sent back to them and, please God, this would be over soon.
I’ll make it up to them, I swear.
Just get me through today, God, for their sake if not mine.

They numbered about five thousand, those brave Irish infantrymen who would provide the front-line that day while their French and Irish colleagues watched from the hill behind them.

Gerald scanned the backs of the infantry, asking Jacques, ‘Can you see them, Michael and Joseph?’

Jacques didn’t even bother trying to find them; he just shook his head. Brandy rations had been speedily doled out to fortify the cavalry with fire and courage. Gerald did not like the taste but at least it proved a bit of a distraction when it burned his mouth, throat and then stomach.

‘Why must we wait here? Why can’t we go down and help them?’

It was an obvious question.

Jacques replied quickly, ‘There is no use in us riding down there while the Williamites are still in the river. The only way we can make a difference is to wait until they have lined themselves up on the bank and then our job is to sprint our horses down this hill and smash them back into the water.’

He made it sound so easy.

He pointed out someone to Gerald. ‘See that fellow on the horse in the river, that’s the famous Duke of Schomberg!’

Gerald watched the duke ride back and forth, his sword in hand as he urged his men to keep going forward. There were a few more dead bodies now, and the duke called for some men to jump into the water to drag the corpses back to the northern bank and out of their neighbours’ way. Only for one body it was too late. Gerald saw how the dead soldier was taken by the water and carried downstream. Goodness knows where he’d end up, a stranger in a strange land.

The moment finally arrived when those Williamites reached the other side and the Boyne began spewing them up in threes, fives, tens, twenties and more and more, exactly as if a dam had burst and, instead of water, there were only enemy soldiers.

A roar sounded out from the Jacobites and while there were still navy coats busy with getting onto dry ground, the red-coated Irish infantry sprang at them. The cannon had eased up in case they killed their own but the Dutch Blue Guards would start shooting as soon as they had the opportunity to take aim and fire.

Born fighters such as Michael recognised that they had to prevent this from happening, even if it meant using their own bodies to block them. The air crackled with gunfire and smoke. Sunlight found a multiple of mirrors in the blades of the silver swords and daggers, while screams of
pain mingled with the cries of triumph.

Gerald tried not to be reminded about that night outside Derry when his trench had been attacked and the Jacobites had been ordered to flee. He’d had to block out the moans of the wounded comrades that he climbed over in his haste to save his own skin. Watching the carnage below, he found it bizarre to think that he would soon be amongst it and hated himself for feeling so suddenly afraid.

A
few miles south of Oldbridge, Rossnaree was easily fordable, that much was true, though in order to reach it Meinhard and his men had had to first deal with a steep descent. Really, the only problem was the Irish regiment that was waiting for them on the other side of the river.

‘What shall we do, sir?’

Meinhard gave the man a scornful look. ‘Is that a serious question, sergeant?’

‘No, sir, I mean, well, are we going to cross or would you prefer that we wait for the cannon which is still a mile or two behind us?’

Meinhard did his best to size up their opponents from where he was. Well, unless they were hiding men elsewhere, the Jacobite regiment was pitifully small, maybe
no more than five or six hundred. They all appeared to be armed with muskets but Meinhard was prepared to take his chances. The river was wide but the tide was low and he ordered his dragoons and grenadiers into the river, warning them to be prepared for coming under fire.

The Jacobites lined up on the southern bank and aimed their muskets at the Williamite riders approaching the water. Their commander, who Meinhard did not know, told his men to hold their fire until the first batch of Williamites went into the Boyne. Meinhard urged his men to steady their horses. They had to reach the south bank as quickly as possible in order to overcome the much smaller regiment. Until they reached the bank, however, it was going to be tricky.

Shots rang out immediately, the unholy noise puncturing the air, shocking even those who were prepared for it. Within moments, there was a second mist over the Boyne, but this one was created by the muskets and the gunpowder while the heavy smell of sulphur clogged up nostrils and irritated the backs of throats.

Just like his father, Meinhard needed his men out of the water as fast as possible, but Sir Neil O’Neill and his five hundred dragoons were not going to make it easy.

Back at Oldbridge, the Duke of Schomberg was more
than a little surprised by the ferocity of the Jacobites defending their southern bank. The Dutch Blue Guards had managed to cross the river but had been immediately set upon by the Irish infantry. Fighting was up close and fierce. Bodies were down on both sides as soldiers were shot at, stabbed or stunned from rocks to the chin. If there wasn’t time to reload a musket, it was turned upside down and used to try and bash out the brains of the on-coming assailant. The more modern muskets of the Williamites allowed their owners to shove the bayonet’s spear head into unprotected chests and necks.

The duke signalled for reinforcements; that is, the second wave of battalions now approaching the Boyne: the French Huguenots and the Irish Protestants. He spied the Reverend George Walker in the mix but did not pay him any heed. The duke found it odd that a clergyman wanted to go out and kill. Besides, the fiery reverend was not a favourite of the king’s, but the duke could not deny the man’s courage and passion for William’s cause.

The beat of the Lambeg drums accompanied the Derry men, though they could hardly hear it. Daniel Sherrard wondered if the guns could be heard back in Derry. His feet thoroughly soaked through, he kept in step behind Robert and reckoned that Henry Campsie had never looked as happy as he did now in storming the river to attack the
Papists. He and Henry sported a few bruises as proof of their fight, but that was all forgotten about now. Now they united against the Jacobites. Daniel briefly wondered whether he, Robert and Henry had caused all of this since it was they and their friends who had closed and locked the city gates against Richard Talbot’s Catholic army.

Oh well, no time to ponder that now.

‘Ha!’ roared Henry. ‘Now’s our chance to get them back for what they did to us.’

It was starting to get rather chaotic on the bank as the Dutch did their best to hold off the Irish infantry, while the French and Irish Williamite soldiers needed time to get themselves out of the water and space to fire their guns.

The Jacobite Irish were doing their damnedest not to allow the enemy to step any further beyond the Boyne. Apart from anything else, one had to be careful against accidentally harming or killing a friend due to the thick smoke that stung men’s eyes, blurring their vision. The Jacobites were the ones with white paper in their hats, while the Williamite regiments, who also wore red coats, dressed their hats with small sprigs of greenery. It was not, as you can imagine, the easiest distinction to appreciate during the hysteria of battle.

Behind him, on the northern bank, the duke knew that William was watching his progress through his telescope.
They had plenty more fighting men yet to cross, but William was biding his time, wanting to tire out the Jacobites, while drip feeding them even more soldiers to contend with.

William checked his pocket watch, a gift from his queen, and found that the fighting was into its fiftieth minute. Instinctively glancing to his far right, he wondered how Meinhard was getting on. It was obvious that James’s army were not all engaged on the far bank, holding off his guards.

So, where were they?

Four miles away, the Williamites had made little leeway and Meinhard had developed a hatred for the Boyne:
If we were in the middle of a field, there would be no contest between them and us. The river slows us down by demanding my men’s attention and allowing the enemy to open fire on them with as much time and care as they need.

Certainly these Jacobites seemed well armed with no shortage of bullets. Their young commander was everywhere, championing his men. At some point, he cried out an order and their horses were brought to them. Dragoons were mounted infantry, that is, they travelled on horseback but fought on foot. Meinhard was surprised at their change in tactic:
Why bring in the horses? Are they preparing to retreat?
He waited, but there was no sign of the Jacobites leaving. Mounting their horses gave them some height from which to fire down on the Williamites in the river. It also lent them speed to charge up and down the bank, lest Meinhard’s men thought they could avoid an immediate clash by crossing further down the Boyne. The Irish dragoons worked hard to cut off every conceivable part of the river bank.

Meinhard was conscious about time:
surely it has nearly been an hour now.
Furthermore, he did not want to lose any more men.

Turning his horse away from the Boyne, he galloped back the way they had come, suddenly knowing exactly what he needed to do.
By God, they had better be here by now or I will personally lash the drivers myself!

On the Jacobite side, it was Sir Neil O’Neill himself that first spotted the Williamite monster guns in the distance. How proud he was of his men who were putting on such a glorious show against God only knows how many Dutchmen. But where was the support that was promised to him? He had thought the plan was for his men to position themselves here overnight in case William tried to breach the ford, but he had been assured that another regiment would be sent out to help them.
I’m like Robin Hood here with his bunch of merry men, facing down the armoured legions of bold King John. We’ve got the heart, but it is they who have the might.

Even faced with the superior might of Williamite weaponry, he did not consider the possibility of retreat, and he knew that as long as he stayed not one of his men would leave either.

Nevertheless, within the next moment or two, everything was about to change.

Well, so be it,
he thought, as he re-loaded his pistol to fire again.

Perhaps it had been foolish to think they could have held off the bigger army as long as they had gunpowder. But hadn’t they done well?

The shocking blast of the cannon made the inexperienced horses rear up and attempt to flee. The lead ball smashed through his men and their terrified animals, battering the bank beneath their feet. Water, mud, rocks and torn limbs sprayed in all directions.
Maybe
, thought
O’Neill
,
it is time to go. I’ll not martyr my men for James; he is not worth that!

Alas, it was too late.

A second cannonball shot out across the river and caught him full on the leg, smashing his thigh wide open, before ripping the flesh from his horse’s side. His body crumpled helplessly over the horse’s neck as blood spurted from both of them. His dragoons were instantly weakened at the sight. Only his high saddle prevented the Irish commander from
toppling into the river. One of his men grabbed his reins, and they all turned and let their horses fly as fast as they could, leaving the cheering Williamites free to finish that all-important crossing in peace.

Meinhard Schomberg was feeling rather smug as he led his battalions on from Rossnaree. A messenger had been despatched to tell William the good news. The duke’s son lifted his face towards the sun and thought to himself:
it was a pity to lose a whole hour, but no matter, it is done now.

He sent his scouts on ahead and made sure that the wagons would be kept up to speed, hinting at dire punishments for those responsible. However, his men were eager to fight again, so relieved were they to be finally finished battling the Boyne.

Now, it was time to find James and his army.