After breakfast Donald Ward led his party along the road up which
M’Cracken’s force must march to reach Antrim. At about noon he met the
advance guard of United Irishmen. Several of Donald’s companions were
recognised by these men, and his party were led back to where M’Cracken
himself marched with the central division of his army. It was then
that Neal first saw this leader--a tall, fair-haired, gentle-faced man,
dressed in a white and green uniform, armed with a sword. He spoke to
Donald Ward, and then calling Neal, questioned him about the condition
of the town of Antrim. Neal repeated all that Lord Dunseveric had said,
and told how he had been shown a copy of the proclamation.
“You will not tell anyone else what you have told me, Mr. Ward,” said
M’Cracken, “the news that our plans are known to the enemy might be
discouraging to the men. It does not alter my determination to take
Antrim to-day. Now I must give you your orders and your posts.” He
called Donald Ward to him. “You will take charge of our two pieces of
cannon,” he said. “They are at the rear of the force. Neal Ward, you
will join the first division of the army--the musketeers--and place
yourself under James Hope’s command. I think this is what both you and
he would wish. Felix Matier and James Bigger will do likewise. Moylin,
you and your two friends will march with the pikemen, whom I lead
myself. Some of the men have arms for you.”
The party had fallen somewhat to the rear of the column during this
conversation with M’Cracken. Neal and his two companions hurried forward
at once in order to reach the division of musketeers which was in the
van. They had opportunity as they passed along to admire the steady
march and the determined bearing of the men. Green flags were everywhere
displayed. The long pikes, iron spear-heads fastened on stout poles,
were formidable weapons in the hands of strong men. An almost unbroken
silence was preserved in the ranks. The northern Irishmen are not great
talkers at any time. Set to work of deadly earnest, they become very
silent, very grim.
There were men in the little army belonging to some of the finest
fighting stocks in the world. There were descendants of the fiery Celtic
tribes to whom Owen Roe O’Neill taught patience and discipline; who,
under him, if he had lived, might well have broken even Cromwell’s
Ironsides and sent the mighty Puritan back to his England a beaten man.
Despised, degraded, enslaved for more than a century, these had yet in
them the capacity for fighting. There were also the great-grandsons of
the citizen soldiers of Derry--of the men who stood at bay so doggedly
behind their walls, whom neither French military art nor Celtic valour,
nor the long suffering of famine and disease, could cow into surrender.
There were others--newcomers to the soil of Ireland--who brought with
them to Ulster the traditions of the Scottish Covenantors, memories
of many a fierce struggle against persecution, of conflict with the
dragoons of Claverhouse. All these, whose grandfathers had stood in arms
for widely different causes, marched together on Antrim, an embodiment
of Wolfe Tone’s dream of a united Ireland. Their flags were green,
vividly symbolic of the blending of the Protestant orange with the
ancient Irish blue. M’Cracken, with such troops behind him, might march
hopefully, even though he knew that the cavalry, infantry, and artillery
were hurrying against him along the banks of the Six Mile Water, from
Blaris Camp and Carrickfergus.
James Hope greeted Neal warmly.
“There is a musket for you,” he said, “and your own share of the
cartridges you helped to save. There’s a lad here, a slip of a boy, who
is carrying them for you.”
He looked round and pointed out the boy to Neal.
“There he is; you may march in the ranks along with him.”
Neal took his place beside a boy with bright red hair and a pleasant
smiling face, who handed him a musket and a pouch of cartridges.
“Them’s yours, Neal Ward. Jemmy Hope bid me bring them for you.”
“But what are you to do?” said Neal. “You have no musket for yourself.”
“Faith I couldn’t use it if I had. I never shot off one of them guns
in my life. I’d be as like to hit myself as any one. I’ll just go along
with you, I have a sword, and I’ll be able to use that if I get the
chance.”
Neal looked at the lad beside him, noted his smooth face and sparkling
eyes.
“You must be very young,” he said, “too young for this work.”
“I might be older than you now, young as I look. But is thon Mr. Matier
coming till us? Go you and talk to him if you want. I won’t have him
here, marching along with me.”
At about half-past one Hope halted his musketeers. He was in sight of
Antrim, and he waited for orders. It was clear that the town was held
by English troops. Their red coats were visible in the main street,
but, without that, the houses which burnt here and there gave sufficient
evidence of the presence of a ravishing army.
M’Cracken made a speech to his men--an eloquent speech. Now-a-days
we are inclined to look with some contempt on men who make eloquent
speeches. We are so accustomed to the perpetual flow of our Sunday
oratory that we have come to think of speeches as mere preliminaries
to copious draughts of porter in public-houses--a sort of grace before
drink, to which no sensible man attaches any particular importance.
But the orators of M’Cracken’s day spoke seriously, with a sense of
responsibility, because all of them--Flood, Grattan, and the rest--spoke
to armed men, who might at any time draw swords to give effect to the
speaker’s words. M’Cracken spoke to men with swords already drawn and
muskets loaded. Therefore, he had some right to be eloquent, and his
hearers had some right to cheer.
Felix Matier had somehow laid hands on Phelim, the blind piper, and set
him playing. A hundred voices, voices of marching men, caught the tune,
whistled, and sang it. Matier’s own voice rang out clearest and loudest
of all. It was, the “Marseillaise” they sang--a not inappropriate anthem
for soldiers about to fight for the liberty of man. But James Hope had
something else in his mind besides the storming of a French Bastille
and the guillotining of a French aristocracy. He believed that he was
fighting: for Ireland, and the foreign tune was not to his mind. Laying
his hand on Matier’s shoulder he commanded silence. Then whispering to
Phelim, he set a fresh tune going on the pipes. An ancient Irish war
march shrilled through the ranks--a tune with a rush in it--a tune which
sends the battle fever through men’s veins. Now and then the passion of
it reaches a climax, and the listeners, almost in spite of themselves,
must shout aloud. It is called “Brian Boroimhe’s March,” and it may be
that his warriors shouted when the pipers played it marching on Clontarf
against the Danes. Hope’s musketeers heard it, whistled it as the piper
played, hummed it in deep voices, and always, when the moment came,
shouted aloud.
The musketeers halted, and the pikemen passed them by. The broad,
straight street lay before them, and at the end of it, half sheltered by
the market house, were the English infantry. Behind them, blocking the
end of the street, splitting it as it were into two roads, which run to
the right and left, was the wall of Lord Massereene’s demesne. Across
the bridge the English cannon, almost too late, were being hurried by
an escort of sweating dragoons. There was work with them for Hope’s
musketeers and Donald Ward’s two brass six-pounders. But between the
infantry and M’Cracken’s men was a body of cavalry, sitting in shelter
behind the wall which surrounded the church. These would cut the
musketeers to pieces. The pikemen must face them first.
The horsemen wheeled from their shelter and charged. The long pikes
were lowered, steadied, held in bristling line. There was trampling,
shouting, cursing, torn horses, wounded men, dust, and confusion. Then
the horsemen turned back, musket bullets followed them, men reeled from
the saddles, horses stumbled, the pikemen at the lower end of the street
shook themselves and cheered. They had tasted victory. A louder cheer
followed. Another body of pikemen, true almost to the moment of their
time, marched in along the Carrickfergus Road and joined M’Cracken.
The whole body moved forward together. Down the street to meet them
thundered the dragoons who had brought the cannon in across the bridge.
Hope’s musketeers fired again, but no bullets could stop the furious
charge. The dragoons were on the pikes--among the pike men, There was
stabbing and cutting, pike and sabre clashed. Again the cavalry were
driven back, again the musket bullets followed them--musket bullets
fired by marksmen. M’Cracken, at the head of his men, pushed forward.
The dragoons took shelter, the English artillery and infantry opened
fire. The street was swept with grape-shot and bullets.
Neal, in the front rank of Hope’s men, was loading and firing rapidly.
He heard a shout behind him.
“Way there, make way!”
He turned. Donald Ward and two men with him had got one of their
six-pounders mounted on a country cart. They dragged the gun to the
middle of the road. Donald, sweating and dusty, but calm and alert, with
a grim smile on his face, laid the gun, loaded, fired. Again he fired.
The gun was well aimed. His shot ploughed its way among the men who
served the English guns, but at the second discharge a round shot flung
it from its carriage and laid it useless on the road. The man who stood
beside it cursed and flung his hands up in despair. Donald Ward turned
quickly.
“Back,” he said, “get the other gun.”
The pikemen pressed on against the storm of grape and cannister and
bullets. The guns ceased firing to let the dragoons charge. Again the
pikemen knelt to receive them, and flung them back. At last the wall of
the churchyard was reached. The pikemen leaped into the churchyard and
breathed in safety. A flag was raised above the wall, a green flag. A
wild cheer greeted it. Hope shouted an order to his men. They rushed
forward along the ground that had been so hardly won, and took their
places with their comrades behind the wall. Leaning over it, or finding
loopholes in the rough masonry, they opened fire on the infantry before
them. A large body of pikemen crossed the road and entered a lane. They
pressed along behind the houses of the street to turn the flank of the
English infantry who were drawn up against the demesne wall. The English
commander saw his danger, and sent dragoons charging down the street
again. But Hope’s musketeers were in the churchyard this time. They
fired at close range. The dragoons hesitated. The remaining pikemen
rushed out on them. The colonel reeled in his saddle, struck by a
bullet. His men wavered. In one instant the pikemen were among them.
Three horsemen shouted to the men to rally, and with the flats of their
swords struck at those who were retreating. But the dragoons had had too
much of the pikes. They turned and fled up the street. Sweeping to the
left they galloped in confusion from the battle. The three horsemen
who did not fly were surrounded. The main body of the pikemen pressed
forward; the flanking party joined them. The English infantry and
gunners were driven through the gates and took shelter behind the walls
of the demesne.
In the middle of the street the three horsemen fought for their lives
against a handful of men who had held back from the main charge. Neal
recognised two of them--saw with horror Lord Dun-severic and Maurice
cutting at the pikes with their swords. He leaped the wall and rushed
to their help. The third horseman--the unfortunate Lord O’Neill--was
separated far from them. He fell from his saddle, ripped by a pike
thrust. Lord Dunseveric’s horse was stabbed, and threw its rider to the
ground. Maurice leaped down and raised his father. The two stood back to
back while the pikemen pressed on them. Then Neal reached them. With his
musket clubbed he beat down two of the pikes. The men cursed him, and,
furious at his interference, thrust at him. A sword flashed suddenly
beside him, and a pike, which would have pierced him, was turned aside.
Neal saw that the red-haired boy who marched with him in the morning had
followed him from the churchyard and was fighting fiercely by his side.
The pikemen realised that they were attacking their friends. Leaving
Neal and his protector, they ran to join their comrades.
“Yield yourselves,” shouted Neal. “You are my prisoners. Yield and you
are safe.”
Lord Dunseveric bowed.
“Thank you, Neal,” he said, quietly, “we yield to you.”
A bullet struck the ground at their feet, and then another. The soldiers
behind the demesne wall were firing at them. The boy who had saved Neal
from the pike thrust gave a sudden cry and sank on the ground.
“I think,” said Lord Dunseveric, “you had better pick up that boy and
walk in front of us. It is possible that our men will cease firing when
they see that Maurice and I are between them and you.”
Neal stooped and raised the boy.
“I can walk fine,” he said, “if you let me put my arm round your neck.”
There was a pause in the fighting. The English infantry drawn up on the
terrace behind the wall would not fire on Lord Dunseveric and his son.
Hope’s musketeers in the churchyard watched in silence while the little
procession approached them. Neal, with his arm round the wounded boy,
walked first. Lord Dunseveric, following, drew his snuff-box from
his pocket, tapped it, and took a pinch, drawing the powder into his
nostrils with deliberate enjoyment.
“It seems, Maurice,” he said, with a slight smile, “that we are people
of considerable importance. Two armies are looking on while we march to
captivity, and yet we do not appear in a very heroic light. We are the
prisoners of one badly-armed young man and a wounded boy.”
“Neal saved us,” said Maurice.
“Yes,” said Lord Dunseveric, “that is, no doubt, the way to look at it.
We should certainly have been piked if it had not been for Neal.”
Neal lifted the wounded boy over the churchyard wall and knelt beside
him on the grass.
“Where are you hit?” he said.
“It’s my leg, the calf of my leg, but it’s no that bad, I could get
along a bit, yet.”
The English infantry opened a furious fire on M’Cracken’s pikemen, who
stood around the cannon they captured. Hope’s musketeers replied, firing
rapidly. Many of them had fallen. There were muskets to spare, and the
wounded men, crawling round their comrades, loaded for them, and passed
the guns up to those who still could shoot. The whole churchyard was
full of smoke, and a heavy cloud of it hung in the still air before the
wall. It became impossible to see plainly what was happening. Neal was
aware that Felix Matier stood beside him, and that Lord Dunseveric was
somewhere behind him watching, with cool interest, the progress of the
fight. Suddenly Felix Matier shouted--
“We’re blinded with this smoke. We must see to shoot. We must see to
aim. Follow me who dare!”
He leaped into the street, and knelt down. The air was clearer there
than in the churchyard. He aimed steadily, fired, loaded, and fired
again. The bullets of the infantry splashed on the ground around him
like rain drops in a heavy shower. His clothes were cut by them. It
seemed a miracle that he did not fall. He began to sing, and this time
there was no one to forbid his “Marseillaise.” Then, while his
voice rose to its highest, while he seemed, out there alone in the
bullet-swept street, a very incarnation of the battle spirit--the end
came for him. He flung up his arms, rose, staggered towards the shelter
of the churchyard, turned half round in the direction of the men who
fired at him, and dropped dead.
Lord Dunseveric stepped forward and tapped Neal on the shoulder.
“Listen,” he said.
From the Belfast Road, along which the United Irishmen had marched in
the morning, came the sound of drums. Through the smoke it was possible
to discern dimly that a large body of troops was approaching the town.
There could be no doubt as to who they were. No reinforcements for
M’Cracken’s army could be looked for from the south. Neal grasped the
meaning of what he saw. Hope’s men in the graveyard, which they had held
so long, were caught between the soldiers in the demesne and these fresh
troops who marched on them. Others besides Neal saw what was happening.
The firing slackened. Here and there a man dropped his musket and
stared wildly around. At the top of the street the dragoons who had fled
appeared again. They attacked M’Cracken’s pike-men once more, and this
time victoriously. Shaken by the fire of the soldiers behind the wall,
disheartened by the appearance of the enemy in their rear, these men,
who had fought so well, could fight no more. Some fled, some, with their
leader, faced the dragoons and, their pikes still forming a bristling
hedge in front of them, retired sullenly eastwards from the town.
The musketeers were left alone. Their position seemed desperate. Neal
stopped firing, and looked round. Hope stood bare-headed, his sword in
his hand.
“We have fought a good fight, men, and we’ll fight again, but we must
get out of this now. Load and reserve your fire till I give the order.
Follow me.”
He stepped into the street. His men, gaining courage from the cool
confidence of his voice, loaded their muskets and went after him.
“Neal,” said Lord Dunseveric, “this is madness. Stay. There are at least
a thousand men in front of you. You can’t cut your way through them.”
But Neal did not listen. To him, for the moment, it was enough that Hope
was leading.
“Neal, Neal, don’t leave me.”
It was the voice of the boy who had stood by him in the street and
turned the pikes aside.
“See, I have bound up my leg. I can walk.”
Neal took him by the arm, and together they joined the remnant of Hope’s
musketeers in their march against the fresh troops who approached them.
Lord Dunseveric, heedless of the bullets which still swept the street
from the demesne, stood on the graveyard wall. He was excited at last.
“Maurice,” he cried, “these men are going to certain destruction, but,
by God, their courage is glorious. Look, they are out of the town. They
have halted. They fire. Now, if the English officer has any horse he can
cut them to pieces. He should advance, cavalry or no cavalry. A charge
with the bayonets would settle it. See, Maurice, the red coats have
halted. They are forming a square; they expect to be charged. The rebels
have turned. They are satisfied with having checked the advance. They
are making back into the town. Are they mad? No, by God, they wheel to
their right. They are off. They have escaped.”
The meaning of Hope’s manoeuvre broke suddenly on Lord Dunseveric. There
was a road at the end of the town leading north-east to Done-gore. By
going along it Hope could join M’Cracken and the remains of the
army. But to keep it open he had to check the advance of the English
reinforcements. He feinted against them, calculating that their
commander would not know how the fight had gone in Antrim, and must of
necessity move cautiously. He risked the utter destruction of his little
force in making his bid for safety. He reaped the reward of courage
and skill, extricating his musketeers from what seemed an impossible
position.