A Writing History

He held his breath and waited; enjoying the silence but knowing it would not last. The strident trumpeting of reveille brought movement and noise in its train as the world outside came awake, all at once. The sergeants shouted and he heard the tents around him empty men out, yawning and growling. He knelt on the earthen floor and prayed.

‘Almighty Lord, preserve me this day. Give me the courage to do your will. Watch over me in the coming battle. Help me fight as a true-born Frenchman.’

He paused and closing his eyes tighter, whispered, ‘Help me kill all the Papists you require. Let vengeance be mine on this field.’

‘Guillaume.’

The kneeling man did not respond, his mind not on earthly matters.

‘Guillaume!’

He stood up slowly and bowed his head to avoid the canvas roof. Pulling back the flap, Guillaume emerged into the day.

Grey smoke from the cooking fires pierced the brightness of the white rows of tents in front of him. Some of his men saw him and saluted as best they could. He nodded in their general direction and looked for his valet. To no avail.

‘Guillaume! Guillaume! The messenger from headquarters has come to the Colonel and now here’s the ordre de bataille. The generale is about to sound.’

As his subaltern said it, the regiment's trumpets blared the generale. Guillaume Beausang stared at the younger man before him.

‘Stop grinning at me and give it here. And for the last time, stop calling me Guillaume.’

‘Yes sir!’

Rocmadou Boursiquot continued beaming at his Captain as he passed him the letter. In truth there was little his commanding officer could have said that would have dented his excitement. He could not wait to fight the Papists. He’d make the filthy Irish and their idolatrous French allies pay for their sins.

‘We’ll soon put them to flight.’

‘What did you say Boursiquot?’

Guillaume pursed his lips in the resulting silence, and went back to the letter; muttering and moving his lips as he read the orders.

His troop had spent the previous evening shadowing Jacobite dragoons, ordered to obstruct them if they should try to cross. Night had finally brought those tiring exercises to a halt. The campfire scuttlebutt had it that the enemy had used the darkness to strike their tents; some even swore that they had seen the Jacobite baggage retreating slowly towards Dublin. With their own eyes apparently. And now finally the orders had come. Everyone with sense knew that they would attack in a pincer movement, combining in the centre to destroy the Jacobite enemy. There were no secrets in this camp. Not with the loose-tongued English.

‘We're to cross at Drybridge.’

He handed the letter back to Boursiquot who immediately started to read it.

‘Get the men moving. Now if you please.’

‘Yes sir.’

Lieutenant Boursiquot saluted smartly, his fat cherubic features lit up with anticipation as he bounced towards the rest of the troop. The unnatural stillness that had accompanied the officers’ conversation was followed by a low buzz of repressed agitation as he approached the sergeants. The troopers hushed again while they listened for the order.

‘Troop, prepare to mount up.’

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