The Northern Iron

by George A. Birmingham

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.”