Kings of the Boyne (9 page)

O
n a sunny Monday morning, William sat in his carriage and watched the lush, green fields of Ireland slowly roll by his window. Curious about this little island that sat next door to his adopted country, he had asked his wife and James’s daughter, Mary, about it. ‘There must be something special about the place since your ancestors sought to colonise it as soon as they could?’

She was of little help, only saying that she thought it was to do with the fertile land. ‘One hears that anything can be grown in it.’

Well, William was pleasantly struck by the place. It was rather quaint compared to London and The Hague, but when he looked upon such scenes of mottled greenery,
with its jagged coastline and miles upon miles of forest, he felt awed.
Perhaps I will return after this is all over
. He had been told that the forests were full of deer and the most gigantic of stags. There had once been a dangerous population of snakes too, but a saint, who had herded goats, had managed to rid the island of them, which was, William thought, quite an achievement for any man.

The travelling was taking its toll on the king, though he did his best to hide it from his men. Long hours on horseback had him struggling to breathe properly – his lungs ever his weakness. He had promised Mary not to be foolish, but he knew well that his popularity depended on his being the fearless leader that rode out in front. In any case, once the battle commenced, he would forego his promise to his wife and be damned.

Only the previous evening, he had decided to start a diary, imagining that it would make a keepsake for his as yet unborn son. It struck him that his diary would be a sort of instruction book on how to be a king.

Amongst the massive throng following his carriage were the artists who bore the responsibility of painting the battle scenes, thus capturing the events forever in paint and making all who took part immortal.

Amidst the jostling of the coach, William, being careful not to spill ink on his cloak, wrote:

William read over what he had written and smiled. Something shifted within him and he truly believed that he was embarking on something tremendous. Between the covers of his diary he was free to explore his feelings and explain himself properly in his own language.

He continued writing:

Somewhere behind his carriage was the king’s wooden house in which he camped out in the midst of his men. As far as he was concerned it was important to show his soldiers
that he would only ask of them what he was prepared to do himself. That, in his mind, was the mark of a good and fair leader. Loyalty and respect had to be earned.

His army was made up of a variety of nations. It was a joy to listen to the different voices and languages: Dutch, French, Finnish, Danish, Prussian, English and Irish. William was determined to treat every battalion fairly in order to install unity in the ranks; he felt this was his special responsibility because if these men were not prepared to risk their lives for him personally then what was the point of all of this?

According to his spies, his father-in-law was taking the opposite approach. William had remarked his surprise to the Duke of Schomberg. ‘How foolish of him. No doubt this is his way of acting like a king.’

The duke had sighed. ‘Indeed, My Lord. I hear that he keeps himself completely isolated from his own soldiers. In fact they complain to one another about never seeing him.’

William laughed. ‘And how loyal will those soldiers feel when they have to choose between James and themselves? Does he not realise the importance of developing a good rapport with his own men? That is why I eat with my soldiers and pitch my cabin alongside their tents.’

William was not impressed by what he knew about the enemy. He had received colourful reports of drunkenness
and quarrelling amongst the Irish soldiers who, when they weren’t fighting each other over who drank whose brandy, were picking fights with their French colleagues; and with James ruling this most unruly army from a distance that he had himself created, well there could not be much to fear now, could there?

Then there was the appalling way the rival army treated the landscape. His soldiers had come across starving peasants, reduced to eating grass because the Jacobites had stripped their fields of barley and corn and burned any remains, before herding off their cows and goats – ensuring that the people had absolutely nothing to eat and so could not give any food to the Williamites.
Really, what was James thinking? This would only serve to turn the country against him while I play the king with the friendly face.

After travelling through the night, the carriage finally came to a stop at nine o’clock in the morning. William’s secretary, Constantijn Huygens, informed him that they had reached what was judged to be the best place for His Majesty to establish his headquarters.

Eager to stretch his legs after the long journey, William jumped down from the carriage and took a look around; he found himself standing in front of a group of rather impressive ruins.

Around him the orders were shouted along, to break
formation and set up camp. Firewood needed to be gathered in order for dinner to be cooked. The horses had to be unsaddled, watered and fed. Tents had to be quickly assembled, while the men’s weapons and uniforms both had to pass inspection. This was an army of mostly professional soldiers and, as such, they needed to look the part before they fired a single bullet.

The scouts, who had reached the area earlier, had spied the enemy camp and informed William of the Jacobite position across the River Boyne. They had also learned a valuable piece of information in that the water level dropped, for a little while, at around ten o’clock in the morning.

‘Good work!’ said William. ‘I should like to see it myself. Have my horse brought to me and we will go immediately.’

He was in a hurry to get started on his task of subduing his father-in-law’s army.

Later on, he would write:

Assembling his staff around him, William informed them that they would be accompanying him on a reconnaissance exercise.

‘I want to study the river for myself and make a note of exactly where it would be easiest to cross. We need to ascertain if it will prove to be our friend or foe.’

The group started out with William in the lead, showing off that he was not afraid to be seen by the enemy.

Accordingly, the Williamite convoy calmly ignored the sight of the Jacobite tents in the distance. William kept his horse at a stroll as he surveyed the landscape, commenting to his men, ‘How beautiful it is.’

‘Yes,’ said the Duke of Schomberg by the king’s side. ‘It is certainly a land worth fighting for.’

‘Worth fighting for, yes,’ said William, ‘but not worth dying for.’

It was necessary to keep swiping away the tiny flies that gathered along the riverside, while the horses swished their tails and flexed their ears this way and that. It was also necessary to keep a firm grip on the horses in case they got any idea about stopping to sample the lush vegetation, though William allowed his horse to sup from the river.

The noise was tremendous and distracting due to the sheer volume of soldiers, animals and the hangers-on that traipsed after both armies. Maybe all of Ireland was converging on the area around the River Boyne while the waters simply continued to flow as they always did, regardless of what would come on the morrow.

‘Does it appear shallow enough to cross here?’ William asked his companions.

Meinhard, son of the duke of Schomberg, shrugged. ‘No doubt it depends on the time of day, sire, as the tide ebbs and flows. According to the scouts, this is the approximate time for an easy crossing.’

The men gazed at the water while Meinhard made an obvious suggestion. ‘Would Your Majesty consider sending over a regiment now to see how they might fare?’

William shook his head. ‘Mondays are unlucky for battles. We will just have to wait until tomorrow.’

The Duke of Schomberg cocked his head to the side and said, ‘Well, Your Majesty, it seems that you have been spotted.’

Rude shouts and whistles poured out from the far side, but King William paid them no heed, only saying, ‘They can consider this as my calling card to the Jacobite leader. Let them tell him that I am here.’

Pulling back from the riverside, the reconnaissance party moved in behind the trees and shrubs while keeping the water in sight. William needed to see how it curved and where it appeared shallow or, at least, shallow enough for his soldiers to cross on foot and on horseback.

Sniffing the air, he said, ‘They are baking their bread, a not altogether unpleasant smell.’

Meinhard smiled. ‘Indeed, Your Majesty. Perhaps you might like something to eat. It must be almost noon?’

William patted his horse’s neck and replied, ‘Yes, why not. I must admit that the smell from the Jacobite ovens is giving me an appetite.’

Taking in their immediate surroundings, the river with the sunlight flickering across it, he remarked, ‘And this is rather a pleasant spot to stop awhile.’

Only the duke glanced a little uneasily at the opposite bank, but he felt it was beneath him to point out the obvious danger of sitting in full view of their enemy. He had to admit that it was mischievous to taunt the Jacobites like this and admired his king’s arrogance.

Why not just dismount here and pass around their little cakes while their horses nibbled at the grass and weeds as if none of them had a single care in the world?

But then everything changed, and in an instant they were all brutally reminded that the scenic river was their ever-flowing battlefield.

The elderly duke had spied something ominous poking out on the far side, with flashes of red coats rustling through the bushes.

‘My Lord, I would suggest that perhaps we move on from here as …’

BOOM!

The duke did not manage to finish his sentence before there was a dreadful explosion, causing birds to squawk and take flight, while a puff of grey smoke spat up from behind those bushes that barely hid the snout of the cannon.

It had all happened so fast, and suddenly there was a second echoing explosion. Two of the Williamite horses lay dead while the king … the KING … was bent forward, blood pooling from his shoulder, his cake fallen to the ground.

‘Your Majesty!’

The duke heard his son’s cries and quickly grabbed the reins of William’s horse, who was preparing to turn and run. One of the dead horses had slammed back into her before crumpling to the ground. The frightened royal mount reared up and her eyes rolled back as the old man stubbornly held on, despite feeling that his arms were being wrenched from his body.

William was trying to talk but the duke was only interested in getting his king as far away from the river as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the Jacobites had realised that they had hit their mark and were cheering and whooping in celebration.

‘Blast this horse. Stand still, you brute!’

The duke got the horse to her master’s side and William was roughly shoved up onto her back. His face was white
and his breathing was forced but he was alive; his hand was clutching at the hole in his jacket from where the blood flowed. He tried to speak again but the duke shouted over him, ordering the group to ‘MOVE!’

The remainder of the horses were pulled away in case there was a third cannonball. The bodies of the fallen horses were kicked in the ribs to make sure that they were dead, a last parting shot before the Williamites made for the cover offered by the trees and hedges.

Only when they were out of sight from the river did the duke and the others clamber up onto their horses while the two men whose mounts had been killed sprinted behind for a couple of minutes until they were judged to be out of range of the cannon and muskets that were probably being loaded frantically by ambitious Jacobites.

Now it was time to see to the ailing king.

Meinhard was furious and a bit shaken.
What were we thinking, presenting ourselves as irresistible targets like that?
He rounded on his father, needing to dissolve his rage. ‘That was ridiculous! They could have killed him and maybe that’s what we deserved for our stupidity.’

The duke bit his lip. It would not do any good to argue with his son when he was like this nor would he bother reminding him that it was his idea to have cake. He loved his son but even he had to admit that he was difficult to get
along with. Ever since he was a little boy Meinhard seemed to thrive on making friends only to fall out with them. The duke had secretly blamed his wife for spoiling Meinhard when he was a child, encouraging him to believe that he was better than any of his peers.

Turning away from his son, the duke focused on William. ‘Your Majesty, is the wound serious? Shall I call for the physician or can you make it back to camp?’

The king was trying to calm his breathing. His hand was practically glued to his coat by his own blood and he was not ready to lift it away. It took him a minute or two to realise that he did not feel too badly after all, if only his breathing would return to normal.