Behind the Walls (15 page)

Robert longed to sit down. In the old days the two lads might simply have made a run for it.

Then Henry’s next words surprised them all. ‘I must get home to Mother!’

One of the men was so taken aback he actually said, ‘Pardon?’

Henry obliged him. ‘I need to get home to Mother now that Father is dead.’

A couple of onlookers nodded sagely while someone explained, ‘He’s Mayor Campsie’s lad; he was a good man!’

Robert was fairly astonished to see genuine pity in some of the expressions.

A second person felt it appropriate to add, ‘And the other one’s the physician’s son.’

Robert was obliged to bow his head to acknowledge a woman who said, ‘Aye. Mr Sherrard, he’s another fine gentleman!’

Robert was wondering should he say something like, ‘My thanks to you, Madam!’ when there was a squeal,
‘Ooh, look, here is he now! Mr Sherrard, sir, over here!’

The soldiers looked as uncomfortable as Robert when the physician was welcomed into the centre of the disorderly circle. Mr Sherrard hid his surprise at finding his son and Henry Campsie standing in front of him. Guessing that he had arrived at a good time, Robert’s father ignored the scruffy soldiers and greeted the two boys. ‘There you are. I was looking for you.’

It didn’t occur to Henry that this was his cue to play along, so he just looked surprised and asked, ‘Why?’

Mr Sherrard just turned and asked a general question of the gathering. ‘Well, what is the news today?’

One of the women answered, ‘The walls need repairing at Bishop’s Gate!’

The physician stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Indeed!’

Meanwhile, four of the five soldiers were making faces at one another, all suggesting that they should leave without any further ado. However, the ringleader was stubborn, believing they had been seconds away from getting their hands on the boys’ rations and coin. But he found himself at a loss when Mr Sherrard addressed him directly. ‘So, what are you men up to?’

Instead of being grateful for his father’s timely arrival, Robert wanted to stamp his feet and bawl, ‘Leave me alone! I’m not a child. I can handle this!’

The ringleader glanced at Robert and seemed to
sympathise with him. We all have parents at the end of the day, and he was not much older than the Sherrard boy. He went on to affect a swagger. ‘We were just conversing soldier to soldier!’

Mr Sherrard nodded agreeably while hinting the opposite. ‘Don’t you mean five soldiers to two?’

Robert hardly knew why but he felt he had to explain for the five soldiers. ‘They told us that only Governor Walker’s soldiers are receiving daily rations.’ This statement was a sort of challenge. Robert waited for his father to make a perfect reply. It would seem that the people here already believed he was some sort of saint.
Well, then, let him prove himself.

Mr Sherrard issued his own challenge in return. ‘And you five gentlemen thought you’d repair your situation by lightening the load of my son and his friend.’

Henry nodded his agreement at the polite but accurate summing up of the situation.
How clever of Mr Sherrard to guess as much!

Robert stared at the sky over the Markethouse, wishing he was a million miles away.

The ringleader shrugged. ‘Well, yes. What else are we to do? We’re carrying out the same work in defending the city.’

Mr Sherrard sighed. ‘Go and plead your case with Governor Walker.’

Robert sniffed. ‘We’ve already had that conversation!’

The five soldiers finally turned to leave.

‘What about us?’ asked one of the women.

‘Yes,’ said a man, who might have been her husband. ‘We’re hungry too!’

Mr Sherrard looked around the crowd and took in the troubling signs: greyness of pallor, dry and cracked lips, laboured breathing, while some were coughing every few seconds. Suddenly he understood what would happen. The old would succumb first, along with those of imperfect health. Chills would be nurtured by the cold and wet weather; they would spread like fire and quickly wheedle out the weak for certain death. Lack of food would go hand in hand with disease. The physician knew it as sure as he knew what day it was. Derry was going to lose hundreds, if not more. And there wouldn’t be a thing he could do about it.

Well, the only thing he could do now was reach into his pockets for his loose change. He chose one of the healthier looking women. ‘I want you to take this money and get what you can with it.’ It was a tiny amount but it was all he had on him. ‘Look for milk and oats, stuff you can stretch out amongst as many as possible.’

The woman bared her broken teeth in gratitude, informing him, ‘You’re a good man, sir!’ Before she could waste another second she was duly escorted away in search of food.

The sound of shooting and cannon fire dominated once more as the square cleared. The Sherrards didn’t even notice Henry leaving.

Father looked at son, waiting for something.

‘You didn’t need to do that!’ was Robert’s response, followed immediately by ‘Will you come back tomorrow to hand out more money?’

His father sighed to himself. Perhaps he had been foolish, passing himself off as the kindly physician who could fix everything.

They started walking towards Bishop Gate Street. It was this part of the wall, between Bishop’s Gate and Butchers’ Gate, that always received the worst of the attack.
How peculiar it is
, thought Mr Sherrard,
to stand here in the middle of a city that is being bombed
. He said aloud, ‘I suppose the walls can take it?’

Robert was still annoyed. ‘I was taking care of the situation before you arrived.’

Mr Sherrard took a moment to stamp down his own irritation, before asking, ‘And what were you going to do?’

Robert answered, ‘Give them everything I had … just like you did.’

His father could make no reply to this.

Chapter Nineteen

G
abriel Murray stood in his doorway, a mug of ale in his hand, to observe a summer’s torrential downpour. This was not typical weather for this time of the year. The navy clouds appeared swollen with still darker clouds. They hung so low in the sky that Gabriel felt he might touch them if only he had the strength to climb up onto his roof.

His dog sat down beside him, letting it be known that he would not be crossing the threshold until it stopped raining.

‘Wonder how Adam is,’ said Gabriel. The dog yawned, but this didn’t deter the old man from trying to get a conversation going. ‘The fields will be sodden all the way through.’ Taking a sip of ale, he added, ‘Well, no matter, at least we have a roof to shelter us. Those poor Jacobites camped out in this weather.’

The dog whined, possibly begging his master to be quiet so he could sleep. What else was there to do on such a morning as this?

The rain was heavy and loud so neither Gabriel nor his
dog heard the soldiers approach. Both animal and owner glanced at one another in surprise at the sight of four Jacobite soldiers on horseback, doing their best to ignore the inclement weather. Gabriel only just had time to put his mug down on the stool behind the door. It was uncharitable, he knew, but he felt he shouldn’t have to share his home-made ale with anyone he didn’t expressly invite to do so. Neither would he invite them in, if he could help it.

He called out a cheery greeting. ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’

Only one of the men answered him.

Gabriel saw how the group peered into his cottage, probably thinking about dismounting and going inside to dry off. The old man’s stubbornness was legendary. Filling his own doorway, to block their view, Gabriel waited for an explanation. Were they just passing through or were they paying a visit?

‘Am I speaking with Gabriel Murray?’ The soldier was obliged to repeat himself as the old man struggled to hear him over the sweeping sheets of rain.

Gabriel nodded. ‘You have the pleasure!’

Pushing his drenched hair from his face, the soldier asked a second question. ‘Are you the father of Adam Murray?’

Gabriel experienced a sudden pinch in his gut. Determined not to reveal his anxiety to the Jacobites, he merely answered, ‘Yes, that’s right!’
What has the boy done now?
Have
they taken him … or worse?

‘Mr Murray,’ said the soldier, ‘my orders are to bring you to Colonel Hamilton. He wishes to speak with you right away.’

Gabriel shrugged as if he had been expecting this imposition for some time.

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Just let me get my coat. Would one of you boys care to lead that old mare to my cart?’

Two of the soldiers jumped to the ground, obviously thinking the faster they got the old man to Hamilton, the faster they could get back inside their tents.

The dog reluctantly climbed to his feet, presuming he was going to have to come along too.

‘No,’ said Gabriel. ‘You stay here and look after things.’

The dog made no complaint beyond a dutiful whine.

Gabriel moved slower than usual, unable to dodge the worry that Adam might be hurt or even killed. He had been half expecting to be told he didn’t need his cart, just his horse, but there were the two soldiers backing old Sally into the cart’s reins.
Am I collecting my son’s body?

The old man’s dog-eared bible was on the shelf. He picked it up and shoved it into his bag, just in case. Next, he grabbed the freshly baked loaf that was cooling on the table and lastly he filled his pouch with the rest of the ale from the jug.

‘Mr Murray, are you coming?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m coming now!’

As he pulled his door closed, he decided it was pointless to mourn until he was given a reason to.

One of the men roughly helped him up into his cart, having first checked to see he wasn’t carrying any weapons in his bag.

Gabriel bent to fetch the reins and succumbed to a moment of panic. Could an ominous fate be awaiting him in the Jacobite camp?
Am I coming back? Am I to be murdered or taken hostage? The dog will starve. Maybe I should put the bread back?

The soldiers had run out of patience. ‘Mr Murray, move your horse, now!’

The old man waved and lightly flicked the reins against Sally’s broad back. He did, however, make a quick inspection of his home. It had never looked so precious to him. He tossed his head in an effort to lose fearful thoughts. Then he could have almost sworn he heard his wife say, ‘Don’t worry. What will be, will be.’ Gabriel had no choice but to take comfort in this.

The rain had petered off by the time Gabriel and the soldiers reached the Jacobite camp. Derry was just a few short miles away. Gabriel’s back and neck were stiff from sitting absolutely still for the entire journey. He kept watch for his son, hoping he might spot him in the distance, alive and well, perched on Pegasus’s back. But neither Adam nor
his white steed was to be seen. Gabriel was surprised at the depth of his anxiety. How naïve he had been to think he was beyond worry, just because he was old. He was still a father, whether he was in his forties or in his eighties.

The Jacobite camp was as miserable as he had pictured it. Hundreds of mucky tents sucked into the saturated ground. None of the inhabitants looked particularly cheerful. For the most part, the soldiers were a sorry-looking bunch. Some of them seemed far too young to be this far from their mother’s skirts.

Uniforms were tatty and torn. Not everyone had the luxury of good boots, and Gabriel was surprised by the lack of rifles and swords. Maybe the weapons were in the tents to keep them dry or maybe the truth was that some of these soldiers didn’t possess so much as a carving knife.

As far as Gabriel was concerned, the tumbledown appearance of the Jacobites only made their presence here even more ridiculous.
What was the point of all of this?

One of his escorts stood next to Sally. Gabriel asked him, ‘Is King James here?’

The soldier forgot himself and snorted, ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? King James here?’

This was interesting. The man’s disdain for his supposed king must be a common enough attitude. Why else was it so immediate in reply to an innocent question?

A disturbance behind the old man caused both him and
the guard to turn around. A figure moved through the Jacobite soldiers, a most pathetic figure indeed. Her hair was grey and filthy with stray strands plastered across her face. Her waist was no wider than the scrawny trunk of a sapling tree, while her clothes were mud-coloured rags that barely covered her. Every part of her suggested a terrible hunger.

Gabriel recognised the woman but he didn’t know her name; nobody actually did. She was just part of the area for as long as anyone could remember. She lived off whatever she could scrounge, and from the state of her she clearly hadn’t had much luck lately. On a dark night she could have passed for a ghost. Rumour had it she once fought a starving dog for a chicken bone, not that Gabriel believed everything he heard. Still, looking at her now, it wasn’t hard to be convinced. She had no home and no family that he knew of.

The soldiers were irritated by her presence. That much was clear to him. The old woman was begging for food, making the strangest noises and gestures with her claw-like hands. She only wanted some food, that’s all. Her eyes constantly searched for something edible. Gabriel imagined she could be related to a cat. She seemed hardly human at all. But she could have found a friendlier place than this.

The bad weather, the constant rain and biting winds,
had sanded down the soldiers’ optimism and curiosity about their surroundings and task. Most of them wished they had never heard of Derry. How much longer would they be kept here, with poor rations and the constant threat of being ambushed by the rebels? And now this mewing old crone was annoying them and getting in their way. It was too much.

At first, they just turned their backs on her, pretending they could neither see nor hear her. She kept moving, all the while, not giving up on her belief that one of them would give her a crust of bread.

Hunger is a fierce taskmaster. It will not let you rest while there is the flimsiest of possibilities that there is food to be had.

Gabriel wished the old woman would give up and take herself out of the camp. But she didn’t. Instead, he saw her stop sharply and sniff the air before shuffling towards a pile of horse manure. Bending down, she flattened out the dung, picking out what Gabriel guessed to be seeds. In any case, it was food even if it was sitting in dung, and the smell was making the woman’s eyes water.

Adam’s father shook his head and glanced at his escort as if to say,
Has it really come to this?

Suddenly there was an angry shout, followed by roars of outrage. Bewildered, Gabriel looked back again. What was wrong? Surely, they would allow her to eat in peace. And
then he heard the accusations.

One soldier bawled, ‘Witch!’ Others spat at the woman.

You see, it was believed that if a witch took the dung of an animal and burned it, the animal would sicken and die. The paranoid and stressed soldiers did not see a harmless, starving woman wanting only to feed herself. No, indeed. They saw a Williamite who intended to infect their horses with her sorcery so that their army would be left in chaos. In other words, they believed they were under attack.

Even as they surrounded her, she kept on shoving her ‘treasure’ into her mouth, oblivious to the danger she was in. Gabriel felt powerless to help her. All he could do was bear witness to her comeuppance.

It happened so fast.

Gabriel had seen little evidence of guns, but now, here were three or four soldiers pointing their pistols at her. Unable to understand why she had been dragged to her feet, away from her squalid meal, the woman screamed in protest. The sheer pitch of her scream confirmed for the soldiers that they were right in identifying her. ‘She’s a witch, a demon of some kind!’

Without further delay, one of the men shot her. Blood spurted from her shoulder and she flung her head backwards in fright. Gabriel didn’t believe that she understood what had happened. Perhaps it was nervousness that made the soldiers laugh. It was awful to watch, awful to hear. The
first shooting triggered a second one and then another. Three bullets, at close range, tore into her flesh and still she stood, accidentally baring her teeth as she tried to contain the pain and confusion.

The fact that she hadn’t fallen prompted a terrible idea as, one by one, the men took up the chant. ‘See! She won’t die! She’s truly a witch!’

One young soldier took a run at her. He didn’t have a gun only a knife that he used to slash at her raggedy excuse of a dress. That, at least, fell to the ground, exposing a shrivelled and far too skinny body covered in shiny sores. Perhaps it was her ugliness that spurred the final outrage. A soldier marched right up to her. Calling for his comrades to be quiet, he blessed himself before pressing the tip of his pistol against the woman’s throat. She spluttered and tried to get away. One final shot and she was dead. Released by her captors, her body folded over into the muck.

The soldiers stared. No longer was she an object of fear. Now they just saw a dead old woman. But it was too late.

Gabriel sent a prayer heavenwards for the safe delivery of her soul.

His escort felt obliged to offer some explanation for what had happened. ‘Look, Mr Murray, we are in a foreign land surrounded by foreign people. We haven’t seen our families in months.’

Gabriel felt impatient. ‘Why are you here?’

The soldier smirked. ‘For God and King, same as your son no doubt!’

Gabriel wished he had the courage to punch the man.
How dare he compare himself to Adam!
Shivering in his damp clothes, the old man said, ‘My son would never be scared of an old woman.’

Before the soldier could make a blustering reply to this, Colonel Hamilton sent for his visitor.