The Boy In The Lake

 The following is a short extract of a first draft event in the book I am writing called 'Ussher's Agents: God's Assassin.

This is based on a real even in 1649 when a foraging party from Cromwell's New Model Army arrived at Our Lady's Island in Wexford. A boy ran into the lake holding a crucifix from the church. He was shot by the soldiers and the crucifix was lost until 1887 when another kid found it. The relic can be viewed today in the local parish.

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The Boy In The Lake 

By Gary Boal

Horsemen used ropes to pull the roof from the church. Some had already begun to relieve their bladders over the church, in acts of desecration, as though the murder of its priests had not been desecration enough. The Dragoons cheered as wooden beams crashed to the ground and further jeered as one of them began ripping a Bible apart, its pages of Latin being thrown to the wind. A young boy, who Stafford estimated to be about thirteen, burst from the side door of the church holding a golden crucifix. Stafford watched as the boy ran through the Dragoons, bounding over the grass and running straight towards the lake. He tripped, feet tangled by the long grass at the water’s edge, pushing himself up he grabbed the crucifix, once more clutching it to his chest before he leapt into the lake where he waded forward hoping to escape the murderous soldiers.

Stafford was close enough to hear the child’s cries of panic and see tears rolling down his face and Stafford couldn’t help but feel for the child. He prayed to Saint Nicholas of Myra, the patron saint of children asking that he would watch over the boy. Then he turned to raise his pistol and took aim at a dragoon charging towards him. He had loaded the powder and ball while watching the child flee the church and now the flint sent a spark into the pan of black powder. His hand jerked back as smoke blocked his view of the dragoon’s whole body being snatched back as the bullet hit his throat.

The chanting man stopped his strange noises and snatched a musket from the ground, unlike Stafford’s expensive flintlock this weapon had a smouldering wick which would light the deadly powder beneath. Turning he barely took aim before pulling the trigger.

Stafford winced, expecting a flood of pain but realizing he had not been injured he turned to see the boy in the lake stumble. The projectile had entered his back and burst out of his chest, missing his heart but a wound that Stafford new would be fatal in a few moments.

A wail came from the boy’s mouth as he continued to cling to the crucifix, legs barely holding him as the draining blood sapped his energy. His head stooped as he determinedly forced his legs to hold him upright.

This morning had started so well, his mum had made him warm oats and goat’s milk for breakfast before sending him on his way with a kiss to his reading lessons from Father Simon. The other kids often made fun of him for not having a dad and he had heard rumours from some of the townsfolk suggesting that Father Simon was his dad, but his mum denied that. She loved her son and had wanted a good life for him, that’s why he was learning to read, so that he could make something of himself, a better life than the fishermen that lived around the lake. He hoped that someday he could travel to a city and become a secretary, that’s what Father Simon called it. You would keep records for important men and be paid for your reading and writing. Maybe someday he could afford to make a better life for his mum. He’d been busy, quill in hand, enjoying himself as he wrote some verses from Bel and the Dragon when he heard shots outside. He new of the protestants who were invading Ireland to destroy the Roman faith, the thought that they might have come here brought fear to his heart. He knew they would be here to steal and looking up his eyes had rested upon the most precious relic held within the church.

But now he barely had the strength to stand and so he wept, not just because of the pain in his chest, but because he knew he would never see his mother again and would never make her proud. He would never live that better life! Where was God, he considered, surely the Saints would heal him for his bravery. Surely the cross should have protected him!

Stafford had begun moving towards the water in desperation to help the child. He steered his horse carefully over to the boy calling out that he would help and not hurt. The boy turned to him, despair-filled eyes staring up to meet him. One hand reached out to accept help as the other still held the golden relic which was now crimson with the child’s blood. Then the resounding crack of another shot rang out across the lake as the child’s expression changed to confusion. He choked up blood, never taking his eyes from Stafford’s before falling lifelessly, his body disappeared as he carried the relic below the surface of the murky water.

The ensuing, bloodied ripples were the final marks of yet another young child snatched from the world. Red ripples that Stafford later considered, should cry like the blood of Abel, calling to the almighty for justice.

Stafford returned to the shore and drew his sword. Jacob was already fighting a few of the Dragoons, bodies on the ground a testament of the man’s deadly skill. Grief overwhelmed Stafford and as he slid from his horse, rather than charge to Jacob’s aid he fell to his knees and wept.