No More Learning

What orders
were to be sent to Torrington? The safety of the State might depend
on his judgment and presence of mind; and some of Mary's advisers
apprehended that he would not be found equal to the occasion. Their
anxiety increased when news came that he had abandoned the coast of the
Isle of Wight to the French, and was retreating before them towards
the Straits of Dover. The sagacious Caermarthen and the enterprising
Monmouth agreed in blaming these cautious tactics. It was true that
Torrington had not so many vessels as Tourville; but Caermarthen thought
that, at such a time, it was advisable to fight, although against odds;
and Monmouth was, through life, for fighting at all times and against
all odds. Russell, who was indisputably one of the best seamen of the
age, held that the disparity of numbers was not such as ought to cause
any uneasiness to an officer who commanded English and Dutch sailors. He
therefore proposed to send to the Admiral a reprimand couched in terms
so severe that the Queen did not like to sign it. The language was much
softened; but, in the main, Russell's advice was followed. Torrington
was positively ordered to retreat no further, and to give battle
immediately. Devonshire, however, was still unsatisfied. "It is my duty,
Madam," he said, "to tell Your Majesty exactly what I think on a matter
of this importance; and I think that my Lord Torrington is not a man to
be trusted with the fate of three kingdoms. " Devonshire was right; but
his colleagues were unanimously of opinion that to supersede a commander
in sight of the enemy, and on the eve of a general action, would be a
course full of danger, and it is difficult to say that they were wrong.
"You must either," said Russell, "leave him where he is, or send for him
as a prisoner. " Several expedients were suggested. Caermarthen proposed
that Russell should be sent to assist Torrington. Monmouth passionately
implored permission to join the fleet in any capacity, as a captain, or
as a volunteer. "Only let me be once on board; and I pledge my life that
there shall be a battle. " After much discussion and hesitation, it was
resolved that both Russell and Monmouth should go down to the coast,
[668] They set out, but too late. The despatch which ordered Torrington
to fight had preceded them. It reached him when he was off Beachy Head.
He read it, and was in a great strait. Not to give battle was to be
guilty of direct disobedience. To give battle was, in his judgment, to
incur serious risk of defeat. He probably suspected,--for he was of a
captious and jealous temper,--that the instructions which placed him in
so painful a dilemma had been framed by enemies and rivals with a
design unfriendly to his fortune and his fame. He was exasperated by the
thought that he was ordered about and overruled by Russell, who, though
his inferior in professional rank, exercised, as one of the Council of
Nine, a supreme control over all the departments of the public service.
There seems to be no ground for charging Torrington with disaffection.
Still less can it be suspected that an officer, whose whole life had
been passed in confronting danger, and who had always borne himself
bravely, wanted the personal courage which hundreds of sailors on board
of every ship under his command possessed. But there is a higher
courage of which Torrington was wholly destitute. He shrank from all
responsibility, from the responsibility of fighting, and from the
responsibility of not fighting; and he succeeded in finding out a middle
way which united all the inconveniences which he wished to avoid. He
would conform to the letter of his instructions; yet he would not put
every thing to hazard. Some of his ships should skirmish with the enemy;
but the great body of his fleet should not be risked. It was evident
that the vessels which engaged the French would be placed in a most
dangerous situation, and would suffer much loss; and there is but too
good reason to believe that Torrington was base enough to lay his plans
in such a manner that the danger and loss might fall almost exclusively
to the share of the Dutch. He bore them no love; and in England they
were so unpopular that the destruction of their whole squadron was
likely to cause fewer murmurs than the capture of one of our own
frigates.

It was on the twenty-ninth of June that the Admiral received the order
to fight. The next day, at four in the morning, he bore down on the
French fleet, and formed his vessels in order of battle. He had not
sixty sail of the line, and the French had at least eighty; but his
ships were more strongly manned than those of the enemy. He placed the
Dutch in the van and gave them the signal to engage. That signal was
promptly obeyed. Evertsen and his countrymen fought with a courage to
which both their English allies and their French enemies, in spite of
national prejudices, did full justice. In none of Van Tromp's or De
Ruyter's battles had the honour of the Batavian flag been more gallantly
upheld. During many hours the van maintained the unequal contest with
very little assistance from any other part of the fleet. At length the
Dutch Admiral drew off, leaving one shattered and dismasted hull to
the enemy. His second in command and several officers of high rank had
fallen. To keep the sea against the French after this disastrous and
ignominious action was impossible. The Dutch ships which had come out of
the fight were in lamentable condition. Torrington ordered some of them
to be destroyed: the rest he took in tow: he then fled along the coast
of Kent, and sought a refuge in the Thames. As soon as he was in the
river, he ordered all the buoys to be pulled up, and thus made the
navigation so dangerous, that the pursuers could not venture to follow
him, [669]

It was, however, thought by many, and especially by the French
ministers, that, if Tourville had been more enterprising, the allied
fleet might have been destroyed. He seems to have borne, in one respect,
too much resemblance to his vanquished opponent. Though a brave man, he
was a timid commander. His life he exposed with careless gaiety; but it
was said that he was nervously anxious and pusillanimously cautious when
his professional reputation was in danger. He was so much annoyed by
these censures that he soon became, unfortunately for his country, bold
even to temerity, [670]

There has scarcely ever been so sad a day in London as that on which the
news of the Battle of Beachy Head arrived. The shame was insupportable;
the peril was imminent. What if the victorious enemy should do what
De Ruyter had done? What if the dockyards of Chatham should again be
destroyed? What if the Tower itself should be bombarded? What if the
vast wood of masts and yardarms below London Bridge should be in ablaze?
Nor was this all. Evil tidings had just arrived from the Low Countries.
The allied forces under Waldeck had, in the neighbourhood of Fleurus,
encountered the French commanded by the Duke of Luxemburg. The day
had been long and fiercely disputed. At length the skill of the French
general and the impetuous valour of the French cavalry had prevailed,
[671] Thus at the same moment the army of Lewis was victorious in
Flanders, and his navy was in undisputed possession of the Channel.
Marshal Humieres with a considerable force lay not far from the Straits
of Dover. It had been given out that he was about to join Luxemburg. But
the information which the English government received from able military
men in the Netherlands and from spies who mixed with the Jacobites, and
which to so great a master of the art of war as Marlborough seemed
to deserve serious attention, was, that the army of Humieres would
instantly march to Dunkirk and would there be taken on board of the
fleet of Tourville, [672] Between the coast of Artois and the Nore not a
single ship bearing the red cross of Saint George could venture to show
herself. The embarkation would be the business of a few hours. A few
hours more might suffice for the voyage. At any moment London might be
appalled by the news that thirty thousand French veterans were in Kent,
and that the Jacobites of half the counties of the kingdom were in arms.
All the regular troops who could be assembled for the defence of the
island did not amount to more than ten thousand men. It may be doubted
whether our country has ever passed through a more alarming crisis than
that of the first week of July 1690.

But the evil brought with it its own remedy. Those little knew England
who imagined that she could be in danger at once of rebellion and
invasion; for in truth the danger of invasion was the best security
against the danger of rebellion. The cause of James was the cause of
France; and, though to superficial observers the French alliance seemed
to be his chief support, it really was the obstacle which made his
restoration impossible. In the patriotism, the too often unamiable
and unsocial patriotism of our forefathers, lay the secret at once of
William's weakness and of his strength. They were jealous of his love
for Holland; but they cordially sympathized with his hatred of Lewis.
To their strong sentiment of nationality are to be ascribed almost all
those petty annoyances which made the throne of the Deliverer, from his
accession to his death, so uneasy a seat. But to the same sentiment it
is to be ascribed that his throne, constantly menaced and frequently
shaken, was never subverted. For, much as his people detested his
foreign favourites, they detested his foreign adversaries still more.
The Dutch were Protestants; the French were Papists. The Dutch were
regarded as selfseeking, grasping overreaching allies; the French were
mortal enemies. The worst that could be apprehended from the Dutch was
that they might obtain too large a share of the patronage of the Crown,
that they might throw on us too large a part of the burdens of the war,
that they might obtain commercial advantages at our expense. But the
French would conquer us; the French would enslave us; the French would
inflict on us calamities such as those which had turned the fair fields
and cities of the Palatinate into a desert. The hopgrounds of Kent would
be as the vineyards of the Neckar. The High Street of Oxford and the
close of Salisbury would be piled with ruins such as those which covered
the spots where the palaces and churches of Heidelberg and Mannheim had
once stood. The parsonage overshadowed by the old steeple, the farmhouse
peeping from among beehives and appleblossoms, the manorial hall
embosomed in elms, would be given up to a soldiery which knew not what
it was to pity old men or delicate women or sticking children. The
words, "The French are coming," like a spell, quelled at once all
murmur about taxes and abuses, about William's ungracious manners
and Portland's lucrative places, and raised a spirit as high and
unconquerable as had pervaded, a hundred years before, the ranks which
Elizabeth reviewed at Tilbury. Had the army of Humieres landed, it would
assuredly have been withstood by almost every male capable of bearing
arms. Not only the muskets and pikes but the scythes and pitchforks
would have been too few for the hundreds of thousands who, forgetting
all distinction of sect or faction, would have risen up like one man to
defend the English soil.

The immediate effect therefore of the disasters in the Channel and in
Flanders was to unite for a moment the great body of the people. The
national antipathy to the Dutch seemed to be suspended. Their gallant
conduct in the fight off Beachy Head was loudly applauded. The inaction
of Torrington was loudly condemned. London set the example of concert
and of exertion. The irritation produced by the late election at once
subsided. All distinctions of party disappeared. The Lord Mayor was
summoned to attend the Queen. She requested him to ascertain as soon
as possible what the capital would undertake to do if the enemy should
venture to make a descent. He called together the representatives of
the wards, conferred with them, and returned to Whitehall to report that
they had unanimously bound themselves to stand by the government with
life and fortune; that a hundred thousand pounds were ready to be
paid into the Exchequer; that ten thousand Londoners, well armed and
appointed, were prepared to march at an hour's notice; and that an
additional force, consisting of six regiments of foot, a strong regiment
of horse, and a thousand dragoons, should be instantly raised without
costing the Crown a farthing. Of Her Majesty the City had nothing to
ask, but that she would be pleased to set over these troops officers in
whom she could confide. The same spirit was shown in every part of the
country. Though in the southern counties the harvest was at hand,
the rustics repaired with unusual cheerfulness to the musters of the
militia. The Jacobite country gentlemen, who had, during several months,
been making preparations for the general rising which was to take place
as soon as William was gone and as help arrived from France, now that
William was gone, now that a French invasion was hourly expected, burned
their commissions signed by James, and hid their arms behind wainscots
or in haystacks. The Jacobites in the towns were insulted wherever they
appeared, and were forced to shut themselves up in their houses from the
exasperated populace, [673]

Nothing is more interesting to those who love to study the intricacies
of the human heart than the effect which the public danger produced
on Shrewsbury. For a moment he was again the Shrewsbury of 1688. His
nature, lamentably unstable, was not ignoble; and the thought, that, by
standing foremost in the defence of his country at so perilous a crisis,
he might repair his great fault and regain his own esteem, gave new
energy to his body and his mind. He had retired to Epsom, in the hope
that quiet and pure air would produce a salutary effect on his shattered
frame and wounded spirit. But a few hours after the news of the Battle
of Beachy Head had arrived, he was at Whitehall, and had offered his
purse and sword to the Queen. It had been in contemplation to put the
fleet under the command of some great nobleman with two experienced
naval officers to advise him. Shrewsbury begged that, if such an
arrangement were made, he might be appointed. It concerned, he said, the
interest and the honour of every man in the kingdom not to let the enemy
ride victorious in the Channel; and he would gladly risk his life to
retrieve the lost fame of the English flag, [674]

His offer was not accepted. Indeed, the plan of dividing the naval
command between a man of quality who did not know the points of the
compass, and two weatherbeaten old seamen who had risen from being cabin
boys to be Admirals, was very wisely laid aside. Active exertions were
made to prepare the allied squadrons for service. Nothing was omitted
which could assuage the natural resentment of the Dutch. The Queen
sent a Privy Councillor, charged with a special mission to the States
General. He was the bearer of a letter to them in which she extolled the
valour of Evertsen's gallant squadron. She assured them that their
ships should be repaired in the English dockyards, and that the wounded
Dutchmen should be as carefully tended as wounded Englishmen. It was
announced that a strict inquiry would be instituted into the causes of
the late disaster; and Torrington, who indeed could not at that moment
have appeared in public without risk of being torn in pieces, was sent
to the Tower, [675]

During the three days which followed the arrival of the disastrous
tidings from Beachy Head the aspect of London was gloomy and agitated.
But on the fourth day all was changed. Bells were pealing: flags were
flying: candles were arranged in the windows for an illumination; men
were eagerly shaking hands with each other in the streets. A courier had
that morning arrived at Whitehall with great news from Ireland.




CHAPTER XVI

William lands at Carrickfergus, and proceeds to Belfast--State of
Dublin; William's military Arrangements--William marches southward--The
Irish Army retreats--The Irish make a Stand at the Boyne--The Army of
James--The Army of William--Walker, now Bishop of Derry, accompanies
the Army--William reconnoitres the Irish Position; William is
wounded--Battle of the Boyne--Flight of James--Loss of the two
Armies--Fall of Drogheda; State of Dublin--James flies to France;
Dublin evacuated by the French and Irish Troops--Entry of William into
Dublin--Effect produced in France by the News from Ireland--Effect
produced at Rome by the News from Ireland--Effect produced in London
by the News from Ireland--James arrives in France; his Reception
there--Tourville attempts a Descent on England--Teignmouth
destroyed--Excitement of the English Nation against the French--The
Jacobite Press--The Jacobite Form of Prayer and Humiliation--Clamour
against the nonjuring Bishops--Military Operations in Ireland; Waterford
taken--The Irish Army collected at Limerick; Lauzun pronounces that
the Place cannot be defended--The Irish insist on defending
Limerick--Tyrconnel is against defending Limerick; Limerick defended by
the Irish alone--Sarsfield surprises the English Artillery--Arrival
of Baldearg O'Donnel at Limerick--The Besiegers suffer from the
Rains--Unsuccessful Assault on Limerick; The Siege raised--Tyrconnel and
Lauzun go to France; William returns to England; Reception of William
in England--Expedition to the South of Ireland--Marlborough takes
Cork--Marlborough takes Kinsale--Affairs of Scotland; Intrigues of
Montgomery with the Jacobites--War in the Highlands--Fort William built;
Meeting of the Scottish Parliament--Melville Lord High Commissioner; the
Government obtains a Majority--Ecclesiastical Legislation--The Coalition
between the Club and the Jacobites dissolved--The Chiefs of the Club
betray each other--General Acquiescence in the new Ecclesiastical
Polity--Complaints of the Episcopalians--The Presbyterian
Conjurors--William dissatisfied with the Ecclesiastical Arrangements
in Scotland--Meeting of the General Assembly of the Church of
Scotland--State of Affairs on the Continent--The Duke of Savoy joins
the Coalition--Supplies voted; Ways and Means--Proceedings against
Torrington--Torrington's Trial and Acquittal--Animosity of the
Whigs against Caermarthen--Jacobite Plot--Meeting of the leading
Conspirators--The Conspirators determine to send Preston to Saint
Germains--Papers entrusted to Preston--Information of the Plot given to
Caermarthen--Arrest of Preston and his Companions

WILLIAM had been, during the whole spring, impatiently expected in
Ulster. The Protestant settlements along the coast of that province had,
in the course of the month of May, been repeatedly agitated by false
reports of his arrival. It was not, however, till the afternoon of the
fourteenth of June that he landed at Carrickfergus. The inhabitants of
the town crowded the main street and greeted him with loud acclamations:
but they caught only a glimpse of him. As soon as he was on dry ground
he mounted and set off for Belfast. On the road he was met by Schomberg.
The meeting took place close to a white house, the only human dwelling
then visible, in the space of many miles, on the dreary strand of the
estuary of the Laggan. A village and a cotton mill now rise where the
white house then stood alone; and all the shore is adorned by a gay
succession of country houses, shrubberies and flower beds. Belfast has
become one of the greatest and most flourishing seats of industry in the
British isles. A busy population of eighty thousand souls is collected
there. The duties annually paid at the Custom House exceed the duties
annually paid at the Custom House of London in the most prosperous years
of the reign of Charles the Second. Other Irish towns may present more
picturesque forms to the eye. But Belfast is the only large Irish town
in which the traveller is not disgusted by the loathsome aspect
and odour of long lines of human dens far inferior in comfort and
cleanliness to the dwellings which, in happier countries, are provided
for cattle. No other large Irish town is so well cleaned, so well paved,
so brilliantly lighted. The place of domes and spires is supplied
by edifices, less pleasing to the taste, but not less indicative of
prosperity, huge factories, towering many stories above the chimneys of
the houses, and resounding with the roar of machinery. The Belfast which
William entered was a small English settlement of about three hundred
houses, commanded by a stately castle which has long disappeared, the
seat of the noble family of Chichester. In this mansion, which is said
to have borne some resemblance to the palace of Whitehall, and which was
celebrated for its terraces and orchards stretching down to the river
side, preparations had been made for the King's reception. He was
welcomed at the Northern Gate by the magistrates and burgesses in their
robes of office. The multitude pressed on his carriage with shouts of
"God save the Protestant King. " For the town was one of the strongholds
of the Reformed Faith, and, when, two generations later, the inhabitants
were, for the first time, numbered, it was found that the Roman
Catholics were not more than one in fifteen, [676]

The night came; but the Protestant counties were awake and up. A royal
salute had been fired from the castle of Belfast. It had been echoed and
reechoed by guns which Schomberg had placed at wide intervals for the
purpose of conveying signals from post to post. Wherever the peal was
heard, it was known that King William was come. Before midnight all the
heights of Antrim and Down were blazing with bonfires. The light was
seen across the bays of Carlingford and Dundalk, and gave notice to
the outposts of the enemy that the decisive hour was at hand. Within
forty-eight hours after William had landed, James set out from Dublin
for the Irish camp, which was pitched near the northern frontier of
Leinster, [677]

In Dublin the agitation was fearful. None could doubt that the decisive
crisis was approaching; and the agony of suspense stimulated to the
highest point the passions of both the hostile castes. The majority
could easily detect, in the looks and tones of the oppressed minority,
signs which indicated the hope of a speedy deliverance and of a terrible
revenge. Simon Luttrell, to whom the care of the capital was entrusted,
hastened to take such precautions as fear and hatred dictated. A
proclamation appeared, enjoining all Protestants to remain in their
houses from nightfall to dawn, and prohibiting them, on pain of death,
from assembling in any place or for any purpose to the number of more
than five. No indulgence was granted even to those divines of the
Established Church who had never ceased to teach the doctrine of non
resistance. Doctor William King, who had, after long holding out, lately
begun to waver in his political creed, was committed to custody. There
was no gaol large enough to hold one half of those whom the governor
suspected of evil designs. The College and several parish churches were
used as prisons; and into those buildings men accused of no crime but
their religion were crowded in such numbers that they could hardly
breathe, [678]

The two rival princes meanwhile were busied in collecting their forces.
Loughbrickland was the place appointed by William for the rendezvous of
the scattered divisions of his army. While his troops were assembling,
he exerted himself indefatigably to improve their discipline and to
provide for their subsistence. He had brought from England two hundred
thousand pounds in money and a great quantity of ammunition and
provisions. Pillaging was prohibited under severe penalties. At the
same time supplies were liberally dispensed; and all the paymasters
of regiments were directed to send in their accounts without delay, in
order that there might be no arrears, [679] Thomas Coningsby, Member of
Parliament for Leominster, a busy and unscrupulous Whig, accompanied the
King, and acted as Paymaster General. It deserves to be mentioned that
William, at this time, authorised the Collector of Customs at Belfast
to pay every year twelve hundred pounds into the hands of some of
the principal dissenting ministers of Down and Antrim, who were to be
trustees for their brethren. The King declared that he bestowed this
sum on the nonconformist divines, partly as a reward for their eminent
loyalty to him, and partly as a compensation for their recent losses.
Such was the origin of that donation which is still annually bestowed by
the government on the Presbyterian clergy of Ulster, [680]

William was all himself again. His spirits, depressed by eighteen months
passed in dull state, amidst factions and intrigues which he but
half understood, rose high as soon as he was surrounded by tents
and standards, [681] It was strange to see how rapidly this man, so
unpopular at Westminster, obtained a complete mastery over the hearts of
his brethren in arms. They observed with delight that, infirm as he
was, he took his share of every hardship which they underwent; that
he thought more of their comfort than of his own, that he sharply
reprimanded some officers, who were so anxious to procure luxuries for
his table as to forget the wants of the common soldiers; that he never
once, from the day on which he took the field, lodged in a house, but,
even in the neighbourhood of cities and palaces, slept in his small
moveable hut of wood; that no solicitations could induce him, on a hot
day and in a high wind, to move out of the choking cloud of dust, which
overhung the line of march, and which severely tried lungs less delicate
than his. Every man under his command became familiar with his looks and
with his voice; for there was not a regiment which he did not inspect
with minute attention. His pleasant looks and sayings were long
remembered. One brave soldier has recorded in his journal the kind and
courteous manner in which a basket of the first cherries of the year
was accepted from him by the King, and the sprightliness with which His
Majesty conversed at supper with those who stood round the table, [682]

On the twenty-fourth of June, the tenth day after William's landing, he
marched southward from Loughbrickland with all his forces. He was fully
determined to take the first opportunity of fighting. Schomberg and some
other officers recommended caution and delay. But the King answered that
he had not come to Ireland to let the grass grow under his feet. The
event seems to prove that he judged rightly as a general. That he judged
rightly as a statesman cannot be doubted. He knew that the English
nation was discontented with the way in which the war had hitherto been
conducted; that nothing but rapid and splendid success could revive the
enthusiasm of his friends and quell the spirit of his enemies; and
that a defeat could scarcely be more injurious to his fame and to his
interests than a languid and indecisive campaign.

The country through which he advanced had, during eighteen months, been
fearfully wasted both by soldiers and by Rapparees. The cattle had been
slaughtered: the plantations had been cut down: the fences and houses
were in ruins. Not a human being was to be found near the road, except a
few naked and meagre wretches who had no food but the husks of oats, and
who were seen picking those husks, like chickens, from amidst dust and
cinders, [683] Yet, even under such disadvantages, the natural fertility
of the country, the rich green of the earth, the bays and rivers so
admirably fitted for trade, could not but strike the King's observant
eye. Perhaps he thought how different an aspect that unhappy region
would have presented if it had been blessed with such a government and
such a religion as had made his native Holland the wonder of the world;
how endless a succession of pleasure houses, tulip gardens and dairy
farms would have lined the road from Lisburn to Belfast; how many
hundreds of barges would have been constantly passing up and down the
Laggan; what a forest of masts would have bristled in the desolate
port of Newry; and what vast warehouses and stately mansions would
have covered the space occupied by the noisome alleys of Dundalk. "The
country," he was heard to say, "is worth fighting for. "

The original intention of James seems to have been to try the chances
of a pitched field on the border between Leinster and Ulster. But this
design was abandoned, in consequence, apparently, of the representations
of Lauzun, who, though very little disposed and very little qualified to
conduct a campaign on the Fabian system, had the admonitions of Louvois
still in his ears, [684] James, though resolved not to give up Dublin
without a battle, consented to retreat till he should reach some spot
where he might have the vantage of ground. When therefore William's
advanced guard reached Dundalk, nothing was to be seen of the Irish
Army, except a great cloud of dust which was slowly rolling southwards
towards Ardee. The English halted one night near the ground on which
Schomberg's camp had been pitched in the preceding year; and many sad
recollections were awakened by the sight of that dreary marsh, the
sepulchre of thousands of brave men, [685]

Still William continued to push forward, and still the Irish receded
before him, till, on the morning of Monday the thirtieth of June, his
army, marching in three columns, reached the summit of a rising ground
near the southern frontier of the county of Louth. Beneath lay a valley,
now so rich and so cheerful that the Englishman who gazes on it may
imagine himself to be in one of the most highly favoured parts of his
own highly favoured country. Fields of wheat, woodlands, meadows bright
with daisies and clover, slope gently down to the edge of the Boyne.
That bright and tranquil stream, the boundary of Louth and Meath, having
flowed many miles between verdant banks crowned by modern palaces, and
by the ruined keeps of old Norman barons of the pale, is here about
to mingle with the sea. Five miles to the west of the place from which
William looked down on the river, now stands, on a verdant bank, amidst
noble woods, Slane Castle, the mansion of the Marquess of Conyngham.
Two miles to the east, a cloud of smoke from factories and steam vessels
overhangs the busy town and port of Drogheda. On the Meath side of the
Boyne, the ground, still all corn, grass, flowers, and foliage, rises
with a gentle swell to an eminence surmounted by a conspicuous tuft of
ash trees which overshades the ruined church and desolate graveyard of
Donore, [686]

In the seventeenth century the landscape presented a very different
aspect. The traces of art and industry were few. Scarcely a vessel was
on the river except those rude coracles of wickerwork covered with the
skins of horses, in which the Celtic peasantry fished for trout
and salmon. Drogheda, now peopled by twenty thousand industrious
inhabitants, was a small knot of narrow, crooked and filthy lanes,
encircled by a ditch and a mound. The houses were built of wood with
high gables and projecting upper stories. Without the walls of the town,
scarcely a dwelling was to be seen except at a place called Oldbridge.
At Oldbridge the river was fordable; and on the south of the ford were a
few mud cabins, and a single house built of more solid materials.

When William caught sight of the valley of the Boyne, he could
not suppress an exclamation and a gesture of delight. He had been
apprehensive that the enemy would avoid a decisive action, and would
protract the war till the autumnal rains should return with pestilence
in their train. He was now at ease. It was plain that the contest would
be sharp and short. The pavilion of James was pitched on the eminence
of Donore. The flags of the House of Stuart and of the House of Bourbon
waved together in defiance on the walls of Drogheda. All the southern
bank of the river was lined by the camp and batteries of the hostile
army.
Thousands of armed men were moving about among the tents; and
every one, horse soldier or foot soldier, French or Irish, had a white
badge in his hat. That colour had been chosen in compliment to the House
of Bourbon. "I am glad to see you, gentlemen," said the King, as his
keen eye surveyed the Irish lines. "If you escape me now, the fault will
be mine. " [687]

Each of the contending princes had some advantages over his rival.
James, standing on the defensive, behind entrenchments, with a river
before him, had the stronger position; [688] but his troops were inferior
both in number and in quality to those which were opposed to him. He
probably had thirty thousand men. About a third part of this force
consisted of excellent French infantry and excellent Irish cavalry. But
the rest of his army was the scoff of all Europe. The Irish dragoons
were bad; the Irish infantry worse. It was said that their ordinary way
of fighting was to discharge their pieces once, and then to run away
bawling "Quarter" and "Murder. " Their inefficiency was, in that age,
commonly imputed, both by their enemies and by their allies, to natural
poltroonery. How little ground there was for such an imputation has
since been signally proved by many heroic achievements in every part of
the globe. It ought, indeed, even in the seventeenth century, to have
occurred to reasonable men, that a race which furnished some of the best
horse soldiers in the world would certainly, with judicious training,
furnish good foot soldiers. But the Irish foot soldiers had not merely
not been well trained; they had been elaborately ill trained. The
greatest of our generals repeatedly and emphatically declared that even
the admirable army which fought its way, under his command, from Torres
Vedras to Toulouse, would, if he had suffered it to contract habits of
pillage, have become, in a few weeks, unfit for all military purposes.
What then was likely to be the character of troops who, from the day on
which they enlisted, were not merely permitted, but invited, to supply
the deficiencies of pay by marauding? They were, as might have been
expected, a mere mob, furious indeed and clamorous in their zeal for
the cause which they had espoused, but incapable of opposing a stedfast
resistance to a well ordered force. In truth, all that the discipline,
if it is to be so called, of James's army had done for the Celtic kerne
had been to debase and enervate him. After eighteen months of nominal
soldiership, he was positively farther from being a soldier than on the
day on which he quilted his hovel for the camp.

William had under his command near thirty-six thousand men, born in
many lands, and speaking many tongues. Scarcely one Protestant Church,
scarcely one Protestant nation, was unrepresented in the army which
a strange series of events had brought to fight for the Protestant
religion in the remotest island of the west. About half the troops were
natives of England. Ormond was there with the Life Guards, and Oxford
with the Blues. Sir John Lanier, an officer who had acquired military
experience on the Continent, and whose prudence was held in high esteem,
was at the head of the Queen's regiment of horse, now the First Dragoon
Guards. There were Beaumont's foot, who had, in defiance of the mandate
of James, refused to admit Irish papists among them, and Hastings's
foot, who had, on the disastrous day of Killiecrankie, maintained
the military reputation of the Saxon race. There were the two Tangier
battalions, hitherto known only by deeds of violence and rapine, but
destined to begin on the following morning a long career of glory.
The Scotch Guards marched under the command of their countryman James
Douglas. Two fine British regiments, which had been in the service
of the States General, and had often looked death in the face under
William's leading, followed him in this campaign, not only as their
general, but as their native King. They now rank as the fifth and sixth
of the line. The former was led by an officer who had no skill in the
higher parts of military science, but whom the whole army allowed to be
the bravest of all the brave, John Cutts. Conspicuous among the Dutch
troops were Portland's and Ginkell's Horse, and Solmes's Blue regiment,
consisting of two thousand of the finest infantry in Europe. Germany had
sent to the field some warriors, sprung from her noblest houses.
Prince George of Hesse Darmstadt, a gallant youth who was serving his
apprenticeship in the military art, rode near the King. A strong
brigade of Danish mercenaries was commanded by Duke Charles Frederic of
Wirtemberg, a near kinsman of the head of his illustrious family. It was
reported that of all the soldiers of William these were most dreaded
by the Irish. For centuries of Saxon domination had not effaced the
recollection of the violence and cruelty of the Scandinavian sea
kings; and an ancient prophecy that the Danes would one day destroy the
children of the soil was still repeated with superstitious horror, [689]
Among the foreign auxiliaries were a Brandenburg regiment and a Finland
regiment. But in that great array, so variously composed, were two
bodies of men animated by a spirit peculiarly fierce and implacable,
the Huguenots of France thirsting for the blood of the French, and the
Englishry of Ireland impatient to trample down the Irish. The ranks of
the refugees had been effectually purged of spies and traitors, and were
made up of men such as had contended in the preceding century against
the power of the House of Valois and the genius of the House of
Lorraine. All the boldest spirits of the unconquerable colony had
repaired to William's camp. Mitchelburne was there with the stubborn
defenders of Londonderry, and Wolseley with the warriors who had raised
the unanimous shout of "Advance" on the day of Newton Butler. Sir Albert
Conyngham, the ancestor of the noble family whose seat now overlooks
the Boyne, had brought from the neighbourhood of Lough Erne a gallant
regiment of dragoons which still glories in the name of Enniskillen, and
which has proved on the shores of the Euxine that it has not degenerated
since the day of the Boyne, [690]

Walker, notwithstanding his advanced age and his peaceful profession,
accompanied the men of Londonderry, and tried to animate their zeal by
exhortation and by example. He was now a great prelate. Ezekiel Hopkins
had taken refuge from Popish persecutors and Presbyterian rebels in
the city of London, had brought himself to swear allegiance to the
government, had obtained a cure, and had died in the performance of the
humble duties of a parish priest, [691] William, on his march through
Louth, learned that the rich see of Derry was at his disposal. He
instantly made choice of Walker to be the new Bishop. The brave old man,
during the few hours of life which remained to him, was overwhelmed with
salutations and congratulations. Unhappily he had, during the siege in
which he had so highly distinguished himself, contracted a passion for
war; and he easily persuaded himself that, in indulging this passion, he
was discharging a duty to his country and his religion. He ought to have
remembered that the peculiar circumstances which had justified him in
becoming a combatant had ceased to exist, and that, in a disciplined
army led by generals of long experience and great fame a fighting
divine was likely to give less help than scandal. The Bishop elect was
determined to be wherever danger was; and the way in which he exposed
himself excited the extreme disgust of his royal patron, who hated a
meddler almost as much as a coward. A soldier who ran away from a battle
and a gownsman who pushed himself into a battle were the two objects
which most strongly excited William's spleen.

It was still early in the day. The King rode slowly along the northern
bank of the river, and closely examined the position of the Irish, from
whom he was sometimes separated by an interval of little more than two
hundred feet. He was accompanied by Schomberg, Ormond, Sidney, Solmes,
Prince George of Hesse, Coningsby, and others. "Their army is but
small;" said one of the Dutch officers. Indeed it did not appear to
consist of more than sixteen thousand men. But it was well known, from
the reports brought by deserters, that many regiments were concealed
from view by the undulations of the ground. "They may be stronger than
they look," said William; "but, weak or strong, I will soon know all
about them. " [692]

At length he alighted at a spot nearly opposite to Oldbridge, sate
down on the turf to rest himself, and called for breakfast. The sumpter
horses were unloaded: the canteens were opened; and a tablecloth was
spread on the grass. The place is marked by an obelisk, built while
many veterans who could well remember the events of that day were still
living.

While William was at his repast, a group of horsemen appeared close to
the water on the opposite shore. Among them his attendants could discern
some who had once been conspicuous at reviews in Hyde Park and at balls
in the gallery of Whitehall, the youthful Berwick, the small, fairhaired
Lauzun, Tyrconnel, once admired by maids of honour as the model of manly
vigour and beauty, but now bent down by years and crippled by gout, and,
overtopping all, the stately head of Sarsfield.

The chiefs of the Irish army soon discovered that the person who,
surrounded by a splendid circle, was breakfasting on the opposite bank,
was the Prince of Orange. They sent for artillery. Two field pieces,
screened from view by a troop of cavalry, were brought down almost to
the brink of the river, and placed behind a hedge. William, who had just
risen from his meal, and was again in the saddle, was the mark of both
guns. The first shot struck one of the holsters of Prince George of
Hesse, and brought his horse to the ground. "Ah! " cried the King; "the
poor Prince is killed. " As the words passed his lips, he was himself
hit by a second ball, a sixpounder. It merely tore his coat, grazed his
shoulder, and drew two or three ounces of blood. Both armies saw that
the shot had taken effect; for the King sank down for a moment on his
horse's neck. A yell of exultation rose from the Irish camp. The English
and their allies were in dismay. Solmes flung himself prostrate on the
earth, and burst into tears. But William's deportment soon reassured his
friends. "There is no harm done," he said: "but the bullet came quite
near enough. " Coningsby put his handkerchief to the wound: a surgeon was
sent for: a plaster was applied; and the King, as soon as the dressing
was finished, rode round all the posts of his army amidst loud
acclamations. Such was the energy of his spirit that, in spite of his
feeble health, in spite of his recent hurt, he was that day nineteen
hours on horseback, [693]

A cannonade was kept up on both sides till the evening. William observed
with especial attention the effect produced by the Irish shots on the
English regiments which had never been in action, and declared himself
satisfied with the result. "All is right," he said; "they stand fire
well. " Long after sunset he made a final inspection of his forces by
torchlight, and gave orders that every thing should be ready for forcing
a passage across the river on the morrow. Every soldier was to put a
green bough in his hat. The baggage and great coats were to be left
under a guard. The word was Westminster.

The King's resolution to attack the Irish was not approved by all his
lieutenants. Schomberg, in particular, pronounced the experiment too
hazardous, and, when his opinion was overruled, retired to his tent in
no very good humour. When the order of battle was delivered to him, he
muttered that he had been more used to give such orders than to receive
them. For this little fit of sullenness, very pardonable in a general
who had won great victories when his master was still a child, the brave
veteran made, on the following morning, a noble atonement.

The first of July dawned, a day which has never since returned without
exciting strong emotions of very different kinds in the two populations
which divide Ireland. The sun rose bright and cloudless. Soon after four
both armies were in motion. William ordered his right wing, under the
command of Meinhart Schomberg, one of the Duke's sons, to march to the
bridge of Slane, some miles up the river, to cross there, and to turn
the left flank of the Irish army. Meinhart Schomberg was assisted by
Portland and Douglas. James, anticipating some such design, had already
sent to the bridge a regiment of dragoons, commanded by Sir Neil O'Neil.
O'Neil behaved himself like a brave gentleman: but he soon received a
mortal wound; his men fled; and the English right wing passed the river.

This move made Lauzun uneasy. What if the English right wing should get
into the rear of the army of James? About four miles south of the Boyne
was a place called Duleek, where the road to Dublin was so narrow, that
two cars could not pass each other, and where on both sides of the
road lay a morass which afforded no firm footing. If Meinhart Schomberg
should occupy this spot, it would be impossible for the Irish to
retreat. They must either conquer, or be cut off to a man. Disturbed by
this apprehension, the French general marched with his countrymen and
with Sarsfield's horse in the direction of Slane Bridge. Thus the fords
near Oldbridge were left to be defended by the Irish alone.

It was now near ten o'clock. William put himself at the head of his left
wing, which was composed exclusively of cavalry, and prepared to
pass the river not far above Drogheda. The centre of his army, which
consisted almost exclusively of foot, was entrusted to the command of
Schomberg, and was marshalled opposite to Oldbridge. At Oldbridge the
whole Irish infantry had been collected. The Meath bank bristled with
pikes and bayonets. A fortification had been made by French engineers
out of the hedges and buildings; and a breastwork had been thrown up
close to the water side, [694] Tyrconnel was there; and under him were
Richard Hamilton and Antrim.

Schomberg gave the word. Solmes's Blues were the first to move. They
marched gallantly, with drums beating, to the brink of the Boyne. Then
the drums stopped; and the men, ten abreast, descended into the water.
Next plunged Londonderry and Enniskillen. A little to the left of
Londonderry and Enniskillen, Caillemot crossed, at the head of a long
column of French refugees. A little to the left of Caillemot and his
refugees, the main body of the English infantry struggled through the
river, up to their armpits in water. Still further down the stream the
Danes found another ford. In a few minutes the Boyne, for a quarter of a
mile, was alive with muskets and green boughs.

It was not till the assailants had reached the middle of the channel
that they became aware of the whole difficulty and danger of the service
in which they were engaged. They had as yet seen little more than half
the hostile army. Now whole regiments of foot and horse seemed to start
out of the earth. A wild shout of defiance rose from the whole shore:
during one moment the event seemed doubtful: but the Protestants pressed
resolutely forward; and in another moment the whole Irish line gave
way. Tyrconnel looked on in helpless despair. He did not want personal
courage; but his military skill was so small that he hardly ever
reviewed his regiment in the Phoenix Park without committing some
blunder; and to rally the ranks which were breaking all round him was
no task for a general who had survived the energy of his body and of
his mind, and yet had still the rudiments of his profession to learn.
Several of his best officers fell while vainly endeavouring to prevail
on their soldiers to look the Dutch Blues in the face. Richard Hamilton
ordered a body of foot to fall on the French refugees, who were still
deep in water. He led the way, and, accompanied by several courageous
gentlemen, advanced, sword in hand, into the river. But neither
his commands nor his example could infuse courage into that mob of
cowstealers. He was left almost alone, and retired from the bank in
despair. Further down the river Antrim's division ran like sheep at the
approach of the English column. Whole regiments flung away arms, colours
and cloaks, and scampered off to the hills without striking a blow or
firing a shot, [695]

It required many years and many heroic exploits to take away the
reproach which that ignominious rout left on the Irish name. Yet, even
before the day closed, it was abundantly proved that the reproach was
unjust. Richard Hamilton put himself at the head of the cavalry, and,
under his command, they made a gallant, though an unsuccessful attempt
to retrieve the day. They maintained a desperate fight in the bed of the
river with Sulmes's Blues. They drove the Danish brigade back into the
stream. They fell impetuously on the Huguenot regiments, which, not
being provided with pikes, then ordinarily used by foot to repel horse,
began to give ground. Caillemot, while encouraging his fellow exiles,
received a mortal wound in the thigh. Four of his men carried him back
across the ford to his tent. As he passed, he continued to urge forward
the rear ranks which were still up to the breast in the water. "On;
on; my lads: to glory; to glory. " Schomberg, who had remained on the
northern bank, and who had thence watched the progress of his troops
with the eye of a general, now thought that the emergency required
from him the personal exertion of a soldier. Those who stood about him
besought him in vain to put on his cuirass. Without defensive armour
he rode through the river, and rallied the refugees whom the fall of
Caillemot had dismayed. "Come on," he cried in French, pointing to the
Popish squadrons; "come on, gentlemen; there are your persecutors. "
Those were his last words. As he spoke, a band of Irish horsemen rushed
upon him and encircled him for a moment. When they retired, he was on
the ground. His friends raised him; but he was already a corpse. Two
sabre wounds were on his head; and a bullet from a carbine was lodged
in his neck. Almost at the same moment Walker, while exhorting the
colonists of Ulster to play the men, was shot dead. During near half an
hour the battle continued to rage along the southern shore of the river.
All was smoke, dust and din. Old soldiers were heard to say that they
had seldom seen sharper work in the Low Countries. But, just at this
conjuncture, William came up with the left wing. He had found much
difficulty in crossing. The tide was running fast. His charger had been
forced to swim, and had been almost lost in the mud. As soon as the King
was on firm ground he took his sword in his left hand,--for his right
arm was stiff with his wound and his bandage,--and led his men to the
place where the fight was the hottest. His arrival decided the fate of
the day. Yet the Irish horse retired fighting obstinately. It was long
remembered among the Protestants of Ulster that, in the midst of the
tumult, William rode to the head of the Enniskilleners. "What will
you do for me? " he cried. He was not immediately recognised; and one
trooper, taking him for an enemy, was about to fire. William gently put
aside the carbine. "What," said he, "do you not know your friends? " "It
is His Majesty;" said the Colonel. The ranks of sturdy Protestant yeomen
set up a shout of joy. "Gentlemen," said William, "you shall be my
guards to day. I have heard much of you. Let me see something of you. "
One of the most remarkable peculiarities of this man, ordinarily so
saturnine and reserved, was that danger acted on him like wine,
opened his heart, loosened his tongue, and took away all appearance of
constraint from his manner. On this memorable day he was seen wherever
the peril was greatest. One ball struck the cap of his pistol: another
carried off the heel of his jackboot: but his lieutenants in vain
implored him to retire to some station from which he could give his
orders without exposing a life so valuable to Europe. His troops,
animated by his example, gained ground fast. The Irish cavalry made
their last stand at a house called Plottin Castle, about a mile and a
half south of Oldbridge. There the Enniskilleners were repelled with the
loss of fifty men, and were hotly pursued, till William rallied them and
turned the chase back. In this encounter Richard Hamilton, who had done
all that could be done by valour to retrieve a reputation forfeited by
perfidy, [696] was severely wounded, taken prisoner, and instantly brought,
through the smoke and over the carnage, before the prince whom he had
foully wronged. On no occasion did the character of William show itself
in a more striking manner. "Is this business over? " he said; "or will
your horse make more fight? " "On my honour, Sir," answered Hamilton, "I
believe that they will. " "Your honour! " muttered William; "your honour! "
That half suppressed exclamation was the only revenge which he
condescended to take for an injury for which many sovereigns, far more
affable and gracious in their ordinary deportment, would have exacted
a terrible retribution. Then, restraining himself, he ordered his own
surgeon to look to the hurts of the captive, [697]

And now the battle was over. Hamilton was mistaken in thinking that his
horse would continue to fight. Whole troops had been cut to pieces. One
fine regiment had only thirty unwounded men left. It was enough that
these gallant soldiers had disputed the field till they were left
without support, or hope, or guidance, till their bravest leader was a
captive, and till their King had fled.

Whether James had owed his early reputation for valour to accident and
flattery, or whether, as he advanced in life, his character underwent
a change, may be doubted. But it is certain that, in his youth, he
was generally believed to possess, not merely that average measure of
fortitude which qualifies a soldier to go through a campaign without
disgrace, but that high and serene intrepidity which is the virtue of
great commanders, [698] It is equally certain that, in his later years,
he repeatedly, at conjunctures such as have often inspired timorous and
delicate women with heroic courage, showed a pusillanimous anxiety about
his personal safety. Of the most powerful motives which can induce human
beings to encounter peril none was wanting to him on the day of the
Boyne. The eyes of his contemporaries and of posterity, of friends
devoted to his cause and of enemies eager to witness his humiliation,
were fixed upon him. He had, in his own opinion, sacred rights to
maintain and cruel wrongs to revenge. He was a King come to fight for
three kingdoms. He was a father come to fight for the birthright of his
child. He was a zealous Roman Catholic, come to fight in the holiest of
crusades. If all this was not enough, he saw, from the secure position
which he occupied on the height of Donore, a sight which, it might have
been thought, would have roused the most torpid of mankind to emulation.
He saw his rival, weak, sickly, wounded, swimming the river, struggling
through the mud, leading the charge, stopping the flight, grasping the
sword with the left hand, managing the bridle with a bandaged arm. But
none of these things moved that sluggish and ignoble nature.