1649

WALTER SMITH moved slowly round the side of the great mound. It was a blustery day at the start of September, and it seemed that the winds might turn into gales. Along the low ridge, the huge, grassy tombs lay grimly under the cloudy sky. At his feet, the scattered shards of white quartz took their tone from the dullness of the day, like so many bleached bones. Below, gusts of wind angrily ruffled the slate-grey water of the River Boyne.

It was said, he knew, that the legendary inhabitants of the island long ago, the Tuatha De Danaan, still lived and feasted in their bright halls under the magic mounds. Perhaps it was the weather, but to him the old sacred site seemed cold and vaguely threatening. He continued to ride eastwards.

A month had passed since he departed Rathconan. Why had he left so abruptly? Perhaps it was ingrained in his nature that he must finish any task he had begun. Having committed himself to fight, he had to look for the battle. He had found Ormond and the remains of the forces of the crown and rested with them in camp for three weeks. During that time, his wound had nearly healed, although his leg still hurt him and he walked with a slight limp.

After Cromwell’s arrival in Dublin, the news of his preparations had come quickly. He had picked the best men of the garrison and added them to his army. He had also imposed his usual iron discipline. His troops were quartered on the city, but they were forbidden to give any trouble. There was no looting, on pain of instant death. He had even insisted that all provisions from the surrounding countryside, from Catholic and Protestant farmers alike, were to be fully paid for. Not only was this unheard of, it was also very clever. So far at least, not a hand had been raised against him or his men.

Presumably, Walter thought, Orlando was being fully paid for his grain. More than once, he had felt the urge to visit the estate in Fingal, but he knew it was impossible. Even if he were not arrested, it would only cause trouble. He must stay away until this business was over.

It was not long before a rider came with definite news.

“Cromwell’s preparing to move north.” This made sense. If he could take back the Ulster garrisons held by the Royalists and smash Owen Roe O’Neill, then he would have broken the backbone of the opposition. But it was also a strategy with risk. The garrisons were strong, and before entering Ulster, he must take the greatest stronghold of them all.

Drogheda. Tredagh, the English were calling it, as their best approximation to the way the Irish pronounced the name. Soon after the news came, Ormond had strengthened the garrison with some of his best troops, under the command of Aston, a veteran commander. Walter, as an unskilled volunteer, had not been chosen to go. So he had quietly slipped away from Ormond’s camp the previous day. Once he arrived there, he considered, they would hardly turn away an extra man.

He had only to ride a few miles along the northern bank of the River Boyne before he came in sight of his object.

It was a grim old place. Occupying two hills on each side of the river, Drogheda’s medieval walls towered up in massive masonry that was almost impregnable. As the second great port after Dublin in that region, its importance was obvious, and it was the guardian of the coastal gateway into Ulster. Like most Irish towns, its citizens had been both Catholic and Protestant, but when forced to choose, it had closed its gates firmly against Sir Phelim and his Catholic rebels, who had besieged it for months and got nowhere. As a stronghold loyal to the government, it had recently been garrisoned by Ormond’s Royalist forces. Today, under a sullen, windy sky, its grim defences and grey steeples seemed to say: “We did not yield to Sir Phelim and his Catholics, and we shall not yield to Cromwell, either.”

As Walter got near, he encountered a little stream of townspeople leaving, some on foot, others with carts. Evidently, Cromwell was expected soon. Entering through a gateway in the north-western wall, he passed into the town.

Soon after making himself known to one of the officers, he was summoned to the commander’s headquarters, where, to his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with the commander himself. He knew a little about Sir Arthur Aston. A short, fiery man who had lost a leg in action, he had been one of the few Catholic officers in King Charles’s army. The men respected him. He was also wealthy. “They say his wooden leg is filled with gold,” Walter had been told. Hearing that Walter had come from Ormond’s camp, Aston was eager to talk to him.

“I had hoped you were bringing ammunition,” he told the merchant. “Lord Ormond has promised to send me both powder and shot.” He shook his head. “Owen Roe O’Neill has promised me troops. They haven’t arrived either.” He gave Walter a quick look. “Don’t worry. The walls here would protect us if we never fired a shot.”

Aston quickly gave orders that Walter should be attached to a small mounted company, whom he found lodged at an inn that lay in the northern half of the town. Though Ormond’s coalition contained both Catholics and Protestants, most of Aston’s men were Catholic, and the little company Walter joined was entirely so. The innkeeper was an English Protestant who had genially informed them that he had no particular preference between themselves and Cromwell’s men. “But I’d sooner stay here and be paid for my ale than have you gentlemen drink it for nothing when I’m gone.” He’d been widowed the year before and had a three-year-old daughter with golden curls, with whom the soldiers played to pass the time. Amused to find themselves with a comrade who was so much older, the soldiers immediately called Walter “Granddad.” When the little girl asked why, they informed her: “Didn’t you know, Mary, that this is your granddad? He’s everybody’s granddad.” And when she turned to her father, the innkeeper genially answered: “Most children only have two grandfathers, Mary, but you are so lucky—you have three.” The child insisted on sitting on Walter’s knee all evening after that.

Cromwell’s army appeared from the south the following day. Walter watched their movements from the city walls. As they pitched their tents on the slopes opposite, the watchers estimated that Cromwell had brought about twelve thousand men. By the next morning, it was also clear that his artillery had not yet arrived.

“He’s probably sent it by sea,” Aston told them. With the continuing winds, the coastal waters were treacherous. “With luck,” the one-legged commander remarked, “his transports will have been sunk.” Faced with the high walls of Drogheda, and without an artillery bombardment, there would be nothing Cromwell could do.

The succeeding days were strangely quiet. Walter’s comrades tried to teach him some of the rudiments of swordplay and military tactics, though without much success. He spent the rest of his time wandering about the town.

The two sections of the town, on each side of the river, were completely self-contained and walled. The river between them was deep, and could only be crossed by a stout drawbridge on the northern side, which could be quickly raised. In the southern sector, which was somewhat smaller, there was a high mound with a small fortification on top, and a church with a high steeple which had commanding views. The sector on the northern bank, with its medieval streets and neatly walled and hedged gardens, was agreeable. Sometimes Walter would put little Mary on his shoulders and take her with him on his walks.

During these days, Aston sent a number of raiding parties out to harass the enemy. One day, Walter was ordered to go on an errand for the commander, only to find that his company had been out on a raid in his absence. Nothing was said, but he realised that they had wanted to spare him, and felt humiliated, especially after several of his comrades failed to return. Another day, a large party went out, but they were ambushed by Cromwell’s men and annihilated. There were fewer raids after that. But Aston remained confident. Meeting Walter and some of his comrades on the wall one afternoon, he surveyed the tents opposite thoughtfully, then turned to them briskly.

“They can’t breach the walls, and winter is coming. After that, gentlemen, I have two allies who will surely defeat them.” He smiled. “Colonel Hunger and Major Disease. They will attack Cromwell for me, I assure you, while he sits out there in the rain. That is what always happens, sooner or later, with a siege in Ireland.”

Meanwhile, life within the walls of Drogheda was surprisingly calm. Cromwell was on the south side of the river, and there was no easy crossing place nearby. Many of the remaining townspeople now left, which meant that the food supplies, which were still being brought in through the gates on the northern side, would last much longer. Aston had brought several Catholic priests with him, and they celebrated Mass for the Catholic troops in the big church. It was good, Walter thought, to see the old medieval church being used by the true faith again.

On the seventh day, the transport ships with Cromwell’s cannon sailed into the Boyne. Walter watched the lumbering pieces being dragged into position—some on the slopes overlooking the town, some on the lower ground facing the southern walls. The next morning, a horseman came down from Cromwell’s camp with a message.

It was brief and to the point. To prevent what the Puritan general called “the effusion of blood,” he invited the garrison to surrender. If they refused, “You will have no cause to blame me.”

There was no mistaking the meaning of this message. The rules of war were ancient and cruel. If a besieged town accepted the chance to surrender, its garrison could save their lives. If they refused and the town fell, no quarter need be given. The attacking general had the right to kill all combatants. Usually, the two sides cut a deal during the proceedings; but the defenders knew they ran the risk that if they refused the first offer, they might all lose their lives.

But Aston was confident. The walls of Drogheda had not been breached before. Soon they all heard:

“The offer has been rejected.”

Walter was up on the wall, gazing at the gun emplacements, when the first cannon shot roared out. He felt a little rush of fear and excitement as he heard the cannonball hiss past. To his surprise, it did not hit the wall at all but smashed into the tall steeple of the church behind, sending down a little shower of masonry. A few moments later came another roar, and the same thing happened again. They seemed to be using the steeple for target practice.

“They’ll bring down the church tower first,” an old soldier beside him calmly remarked. “They’ll not want any musketeers shooting at them from up there.” He sniffed. “But those cannon won’t make so much impression on the walls.”

For a short time there was silence. Then they heard another roar. But this one was different. It was louder and ended with a deep, harsh growl. There was a great crash, and a gaping hole appeared in the lower part of the spire.

“What was that?” asked Walter.

“I’m not sure,” the soldier replied. “It may have been a thirtypounder.” He shook his head and fell silent. Another roar was heard.

There were two types of siege artillery in Europe at this time. There were mortars, which lobbed a large iron shell filled with gunpowder in a high trajectory, and which exploded with horrible effect. And there were the cannon, which fired a solid cannonball that knocked down masonry. The largest cannon seen in Ireland usually fired a twelve- or fourteen-pound ball. The great walls of Drogheda, though they’d be damaged, could withstand a pounding from shot of this size. But there were greater beasts than these. The demicannon, whole cannon, and cannon royal fired balls several times larger.

Lord Ormond and his commanders had not realised that Cromwell would bring some of the great cannon of Europe to Ireland. And the artillerymen aiming them were experts.

All morning the cannon continued their surly sound. The steeple began to look as if some unseen raven had been savagely pecking at it. Then, suddenly, it came down with a crash.

The cannon did not even pause, but pounded the church tower below instead. By noon it looked like a jagged, broken tooth, and the cannon began to bombard the nearby bastion at the corner of the city wall. This was a sturdier structure by far. But the cannon kept up their steady work, hour after hour, never pausing, all afternoon and into the evening. As the acrid smoke drifted across from the battery towards the city, Drogheda’s mighty corner tower, which had withstood every assault for centuries, slowly crumbled down. Shortly before dusk, the gunners turned their attention to the walls and made two breaches high up in them.

That night, Aston had parties of men repair the breaches in the walls, replacing the stones and pouring on extra mortar. At dawn, however, a much larger work began in which half the garrison joined in with urgency. The men dug three big lines of trenches a little way back from the wall that had been breached. Behind each trench, the earth thrown up was formed into a parapet, behind which the musketeers could take cover.

Though such work was normally done by the infantry, Walter joined in and nobody stopped him. Spade in hand, working alongside men who were mostly half his age, his portly form unused to such exertion, the early morning found him red-faced and sweating, but happy that he could make himself useful. The trenches ran to the walled churchyard. Behind the lines rose the steep, high mound, topped with its little fort.

Early in the morning came news that a small group of aristocrats had urged Aston to surrender. He had thrown them out of the town by one of the northern gates.

“How can he surrender?” one of the officers cried. “If mighty Drogheda gives up, what other town would stand and fight?”

At that moment, the thunder of a cannon was heard and the first salvo of the day thudded into the wall.

All morning, as grey clouds crowded into the sky above, and the crash of cannonballs sent small showers of masonry down from the wall, they dug the trenches and raised the parapets.

The walls of Drogheda did not come down easily. In places they were six feet thick. But the medieval mix of stone, rubble, and mortar, strong though it was, could not rebuff the steady pounding of the cannonballs—hundreds of them—that went on hour after hour. Gradually, they crumbled into great, untidy heaps at the base. By midafternoon, the men at the trenches could see through the big, jagged chasm to the enemy camp on the slopes opposite.

Shortly before five o’clock, Aston came down amongst the diggers, hobbling about on his wooden leg and telling them to prepare.

“They’ll make their assault through the gap,” he announced, “but they’ll have to climb across the rubble on foot. It’s too high for cavalry. You’ll shoot them down easily enough. Mark my words.”

Behind the trenches, Walter’s cavalry troop had appeared. Cleaning the mud off his face and clothes as best he could, he went back to join them. As he did so, he realised that the cannon had ceased to fire. A strange quiet hung in the air. Aston was behind the trenches now, placing the men.

He placed musketeers behind the two back parapets and in the churchyard. In the first line were the men with pikes. It took a powerful man to handle a pike, which was sixteen feet long, with a heavy shaft and a fearsome steel spike. Walter had once asked a burly pike-man to let him try one, and had almost fallen over with the weight of the thing. But in the hands of an expert, it was a terrible weapon to encounter. As the enemy troops clambered up to the first parapet and were stopped by the pikes, they’d either be gouged by the spikes or cut down by musket fire from the churchyard and the two parapets behind. And that fire would be deadly. Even with their cumbersome matchlocks and flintlocks, each trained musketeer could fire three times a minute.

The silence continued. As he waited, Walter could feel his heart beating. To his own surprise, he found he was almost too excited to be frightened.

There were shouts outside the wall. He saw the metal helmets of the Roundheads coming into the breach and over the mound of rubble. A hundred, two hundred—he was not sure. He heard Aston’s voice cut through the air.

“Wait, musketeers. Wait.” The first wave was over the rubble; the second was in the breach now. He saw their officer, a handsome, grey-haired man. “Fire.”

It was well done. The first salvo caught them and brought fifty men down. The grey-haired officer fell as a musket ball shattered his head.

“Fire.” Another salvo from the third parapet, and another mass of men going down. There were screams and cries everywhere. He saw half a dozen men horribly caught on the pikes. No wonder the advance guard of an attack like this was known as “the Forlorn Hope.” The soldiers coming over the breach now and seeing the carnage before them seemed to be hesitating.

“At the breach. Fire.” Another deadly salvo caught them. And now, suddenly, the Roundheads were turning back. The men in the breach were already scrambling to safety, but the musketeers in the churchyard, firing freely, were picking them off. A cheer went up from the Royalists. The Roundheads were on the run.

“Reload. They’ll come again. Cavalry, load your pistols.” Aston’s voice, clear and precise.

Like most of the mounted men, Walter had been given two pistols, which sat in holsters on each side of his saddle. He primed them now, and kept one in his hand. Several minutes passed before the Roundheads came again. They came faster this time, and there were more of them. The first wave came right up to the line of pikes before Aston called out: “Fire.” And again they were caught in the withering hail of musket balls. “Cavalry, fire at will. Aim for your man.”

Walter rested the long barrel of his pistol on his spare arm to steady it. In practice with his comrades, he had discovered he had an aptitude for this. He saw a fellow who had just reached the pikes, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. He had aimed at the chest but struck the head. With a surge of triumph, he saw the man go down. I wish, he thought proudly, that my family could see me now. Moments later, another cheer went up. The Roundheads had been broken again.

“Reload,” called Aston. But this time there was a lengthening silence. Perhaps the Roundheads, having been mauled twice, had given up for the day.

There were two batteries opposite the breach. One lay on the level ground and had been directing its fire up at the walls. The other was on the slopes behind and looked down towards the breach. From this battery Walter now saw a puff of smoke.

A tremendous hissing. A jolt as his horse was struck. Ripping sounds, terrible screams. Then he was falling. As he hit the ground, he heard another terrible hiss. More screams. Horses were rearing.

Cromwell’s cannon on the slopes had been filled with half-pound shot, and they were pouring it through the breach into the cavalry. Walter had hardly got to his feet before he saw a mass of men rushing through the breach. Clearly, they meant to overwhelm the trenches by sheer force of numbers. The muskets rang out, but in the confusion now, their volley sounded more ragged. He looked down. His poor horse was already dead. All around him were writhing horses and men. There was blood everywhere. He felt light-headed, though he was sure he hadn’t been hit. A hand was pulling on his arm.

“Come on, Granddad. We’re falling back.”

He understood, but for a moment he stood there stupidly. And as he did so, he saw on top of the breach a single officer in a leather coat, sword in hand, his long, greying hair blowing in the wind. And he knew at once who this must be.

Oliver Cromwell himself had got off his horse and come to lead his men in person through the deadly breach of Drogheda.

His pistol. It was still in the holster by his saddle. He dived down to where his horse lay and retrieved it. Then, with the pistol grasped in his hand, he rose again. Cromwell was still there, waving his men forward with his sword. Walter took aim.

And, as though in a dream, he stood paralysed. His finger was pulling the trigger, but nothing seemed to be happening. How could that be? He tried again. Something in the simple mechanism had jammed.

“Granddad. Come quickly.” The fellow pulled him so hard, he almost lost his balance, and as he did so, the pistol went off, sending a ball high into the air. He cursed, and staggered to where he was being led. Some of the rest of his troop had gathered on foot. As soon as he reached them, they took him in charge and started to leave. The first parapet was being overrun. The musketeers were discharging their weapons and then falling back. As he was hurried away from the scene, Walter saw Aston hobbling on his wooden leg with a company of his men back towards the high mound with its little fort. He wondered if he should join him, but two of his comrades dragged him on. They were hurrying up the street towards the river. The drawbridge was ahead.

“We’d better get across the drawbridge before they raise it, Granddad,” one of his companions cried. Once that was up, those left behind would have to fight as best they could, but Cromwell’s men would be unable to follow them. The river was deep and the walls of the northern town were stout. It would be a safe refuge, for a while at least. As they reached the drawbridge, however, a great crowd of musketeers and pikemen caught up with them, and glancing backwards, Walter could see the leather jerkins and metal helmets of Cromwell’s troops close on their heels. They thundered across the drawbridge pell-mell.

Only as he ran into the main street of the northern town did Walter realise. No one had raised the drawbridge. As the defenders fled over the River Boyne, into the northern sector, Cromwell’s men were crossing, too. He turned and cried out, “Raise the drawbridge,” but nobody took any notice, and the press of men made it impossible to do anything as he was swept along.

Some way ahead rose the big church of Saint Peter. His companions swung left into the cross-street that led to the western of the northern sector’s two gates. A short way along this street lay a turning down to the inn where they had lodged. Two of his companions had left money at the inn, so they hurried to reach it. “At least we’ll have the money if we have to run,” they told him. The innkeeper, having heard the commotion but unaware of exactly what was happening, was busy closing the shutters. When Walter quickly told him, the fellow cried: “I must get Mary.” She was at a neighbour’s house down the same street.

“Close up your inn,” Walter told him. “I’ll get the child.” And he hurried away.

It only took a minute or two to extract little Mary from the neighbour’s house. Holding her hand firmly, he started back the short distance towards the inn. He had almost forgotten that he still had a sword banging at his side until he realised that it had nearly banged against the child; so, scooping her up, he carried her towards her home.

The mass of the soldiers were still in the main street. They had not come that way as yet. His companions were standing with the innkeeper by the door. He was fifty yards away when the party of Roundheads in their heavy leathers came bursting from the street into the lane. Seeing the Royalist soldiers, they set up a roar and rushed towards them, so that his friends only just had time to draw their swords. He heard one of the Roundheads yell, “Papist dogs,” and heard the innkeeper swear a curse before the Roundheads fell upon them. There was a ringing crash and bang of swords, more bangs, shouts, a terrible cry, and a scream. It happened so fast, he could scarcely believe it. He saw his friends go down, and the innkeeper, too. No doubt they thought he was one of the soldiers.

Instinctively, as the soldiers appeared, he pulled back into a doorway and held little Mary close, with her face to his chest, so that she should not see. He waited there for several moments, wondering if the Roundheads would come that way, but they did not. At last, carefully looking out, he saw that they had gone. But he could hear shouting from the street from which they’d come. Her father’s body lay with the others in front of the inn. He could hardly leave her there, then. He began to retrace his steps towards the neighbours where he had found her. No doubt they would take her in. But now he could see Roundhead uniforms in the street at the end of the lane near the neighbours. He dared not go that way. There was an empty alley beside him that led westwards. He stepped into it and began to make his way along. The only thing to do was to keep the child with him until he could find a place of safety for her.

Perhaps it would still be possible to get out of the western gate. Had Cromwell’s men reached that yet? Or had he now managed to send troops across the deep waters of the Boyne to encircle the town and cut off such retreats? He did not know.

“Your granddad’s taking you for a little walk,” he whispered to little Mary. “Then we’ll meet your father.” And he forced himself to smile.

Cautiously, he went along the alley, wondering where it led.

Barnaby Budge pulled up before the breach. He was not afraid. Why should he be? Yet again, God’s general was carrying all before him. A day of victory for the Lord.

He knew who lay behind Drogheda’s dark walls. The barbarous, bloodthirsty Irish, the papists and their lackeys. Three hundred thousand they had murdered: Protestants, godly folk, men, women, and children, without mercy or distinction. But the day of reckoning had come at last. Justice would be done. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. And the army of saints was the Lord’s right hand. Had not the Saviour Himself declared: I come not to send peace, but a sword.

And when it was over, and the papist Irish were scattered and driven out, then the soldiers of Christ should receive their recompense and inherit the earth. The five hundred pounds that, seven long years ago, he had ventured in the cause would be repaid with Irish land; and upon that land he’d build his portion of the holy city, and take a godly wife, and settle down, and look after his uncle in his old age. His sword, his wealth, his life: he had offered all. He was a soldier for Christ, an adventurer for God. If, as he dared to hope, he had been chosen as one of the Elect, he had also paid for his salvation. It was knowing all this, as he did, that Barnaby Budge with a courageous heart approached the breach in the dark walls of Drogheda.

He felt a faint tap of wind on his cheek and glanced upwards. The wind seemed to be changing. The grey clouds were churning in the sky, as if they might fly apart.

Cavalry forward, the order had come. Cromwell himself had summoned them. And who could refuse when the leader himself showed no fear? Twice his men had been driven back from that breach. The dead were lying in heaps. But Cromwell had dismounted, unsheathed his sword, and led the third charge himself. Cromwell, valiant for God.

“Will we follow him?” Barnaby shouted to his men.

“Into the mouth of hell!” they roared.

There was only one way to get over the pile of rubble that was the breach, however.

“Dismount,” he ordered quietly. And taking his horse’s reins, he led them across on foot. A couple of musket balls hissed by, but he ignored them.

The scene before him on the other side was terrible. The fighting had moved past the trenches to the high mound behind. He walked his troop through the churchyard, which was strewn with bodies. Coming to the foot of the mound, he paused. Aston and a company of men had gone up into the little fort at the top but, seeing their position was hopeless, had decided to give up. If they had hoped to save their lives, however, they were mistaken. The Roundhead troops were in the tower already, and a series of furious shouts were coming from above.

“They want his wooden leg,” the officer standing at the base explained. “It’s supposed to be full of gold.”

Now there were cries of rage from above, followed by a series of sickening cracks. It sounded to Barnaby as if the troops were beating Aston’s brains out with the wooden leg.

“They didn’t find the gold,” the officer remarked drily.

At this moment, from the other side of the mound, Cromwell himself appeared. He nodded to Barnaby.

“Take your men across the drawbridge and secure the northern gates,” he ordered. He gave him a stern look. “We have the main enemy force trapped in the town, Captain Budge. Break Drogheda and we break all Ireland. Let none escape. Do you understand?”

“I do, Sir.”

“No quarter, Captain Budge. They have deserved none; they shall receive none.” He paused, glanced up at the tower, and looked thoughtful for a moment before gazing hard at Barnaby again. “It is the Lord who has brought us here and delivered to us this town. Victory belongs to Him alone.”

“God’s will be done,” answered Barnaby firmly. And as his troops clattered over the drawbridge a few moments later, he gave the order: “Draw your swords.”

The onslaught of the Roundheads across the drawbridge had been so sudden that the defenders had no time to regroup. There were street battles going on all over the northern section of the town.

And the scattered Royalist troops were being cut down like grass. Riding up the main street, he had to pick his way over the fallen bodies. Coming to an open yard which gave onto a little garden, he found a young officer and his company. They had captured a dozen of the Royalists, who had surrendered their weapons.

“No quarter,” he told the young fellow. “General Cromwell’s orders.” And when the officer started to protest, “I gave them my word,” Barnaby said, and shook his head. “Remember what they have done to Protestant women and children. Kill them all.” And he stayed there a few moments while the Roundheads went to work with their swords, to ensure that it was quickly done.

Two hundred yards ahead, a huge battle was in progress around the big church of Saint Peter. There were shouts, bangs, crashes, and the constant crack of musket fire. But Barnaby had his instructions, which were clear. He must secure the gates. There were two gates to the northern part of Drogheda, and he knew, from a map the officers had studied the previous week, exactly where they were. They lay at each end of a long cross-street, one in the eastern and one in the western wall. The eastern being closer, they rode quickly towards that. Here and there, he saw faces peering through half-closed shutters from the upper floors of the houses along the street. But they seemed to be ordinary townspeople who had remained behind. That could be checked later. The enemy, however, appeared to be all in the streets. Reaching the eastern gate, he found it was already secured, with a troop of infantry on guard. Instructing them on no account to open it, he turned back, therefore, towards the western side.

As they crossed the main axis of the town, he glanced up towards the big church where the battle was taking place. There were shouts and cries from that direction, but he did not hear the same sounds of battle as he had done before. Something had changed. Then, glancing down at the roadway, he realised that the open gutter that ran along the centre of the street was running with a shallow stream of blood. They were putting the Irish papists to the sword. He had seen streams of blood before on the battlefield, but never quite like this. They must have slaughtered several hundred already.

It was a bloody business, but he knew it must be carried through. And when he thought of the huge and bloody slaughter of innocents of which these accursed people were guilty themselves, he hardened his heart, knowing the Lord’s work was being done.

The western gate lay less than four hundred yards away. But the broad street that led to it was not empty. A band of infantry troops had just gathered there. There were pikemen and musketeers, and they were quickly getting into battle order. There looked to be a hundred men or more. From a side street now, half a dozen cavalry came out, making a screen in front of the troops. He glanced back. He had twenty men, mounted and armed like himself. And the enemy, who must realise what was being done up at the church, were doubtless determined to sell their lives dear. To one of his men he called back, “Find reinforcements.” The enemy might be desperate, but his troops were battle-hardened veterans, and soldiers of Christ besides. Cromwell himself had ordered him to secure the gate. God would protect them. He measured the enemy before him with a practised eye.

And just at that moment, a rift opened in the clouds and a great shaft of evening sunlight burst down upon the very place where the enemy horsemen were, flashing its sudden fire, blinding them for an instant. And seeing this, Barnaby knew with an utter certainty that this was a sign from God, lighting his way like a pillar of fire to the promised land.

“Not my arm, O Lord, but Thine,” he murmured, and raising his sword high in the air so that it caught the sun with an answering flash, he called his men to charge.

Then Barnaby Budge fought for the Lord, as his horse bounded forward and he crashed into the enemy, striking this way and that as the blood of the Irish beasts burst out. The horsemen were down, the footmen were falling, the papists were parting before him as he hacked, and slashed, and struck for the Lord.

Shouts behind him. He glanced back. Roundhead reinforcements had come. So be it. The enemies of the Lord were scattering. He spurred forward and cut them down as they ran.

They were fleeing into yards and alleys, running down the street. He could see the gate, a hundred yards ahead. It was open. He started towards it.

As he did so, he saw a papist soldier at the side of the street, dressed as a horseman but without any horse, cowering by the entrance to an alley. The villain had snatched up a little child and was clasping it across his chest, his round red face gazing up at him, seemingly transfixed. Did he think to escape justice by such means?

He wheeled his horse and struck him with a single, slashing blow that burst through the wretch’s collar and chest and carved through the child as well.

No doubt the child was a papist, too. No matter. He wheeled his horse again. There were still papist soldiers between him and the gate. There was still much work to be done.

And as he turned and raced at them, and struck again, and saw them fall, and felt the sun’s rays upon his face, Barnaby knew the glory of God, and that the strength of the Lord was in his arm, and that he should receive the promised land of which he was owed five hundred pounds.

So it was, that evening in Drogheda, that the Royalist garrison perished, English and Irish, Protestant and Catholic. Two thousand five hundred were put to the sword, many after surrendering their weapons.

Rumour was that the townspeople also were slaughtered, and doubtless some few of them were, though the evidence is dubious.

But who should say, even if it were true, that the slaughter was shocking? When kings and parliaments decided men’s faith, to differ meant bloodshed. It could not be otherwise. For a hundred years, since Luther and Calvin split Christendom, it had been the same; for generations to come, the bloodshed would continue. All over Europe, the faithful were falling, Catholic to Protestant, Protestant to Catholic. It was all one and the same.