P REFACE
DURING A VISIT to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards museum in Edinburgh Castle, I saw a small item on display referring to Mother Ross, a woman who had enlisted as a soldier in order to search for her press-ganged husband. Subsequently, she was wounded three times while serving as a soldier before her sex was discovered, and that set my mind ticking story. Further research included reading a book in Oxfords Bodleian Library, originally published in 1740 and purportedly written by Mother Ross (Kit Cavenaugh) herself. Here indeed was a story of adventure, danger, villainy; jealousy, love, human frailty and heartbreak, and it provides the main source for this book.
During the course of my research, I have visited the site of the Battle of the Boyne a few times, sailed to Williamstadt (where Kit landed), and retraced the full 250 miles of the Long March across the Low Countries, over the Rhine and Moselle, through the mountains, on to the Danube and the little village of Blenheim (Blindheim); although driving along the autobahn in a thunderstorm, lashing rain, lightning and intimidating juggernauts left me thinking the march, from dawn till 9 a.m. each day, then free time, was almost more attractive.
This was back in the 1990s when I inveigled a friend, Sue, to join me. At Hochstadt we were given a private viewing of a detailed model reconstruction of the battle, and at Tapfheim we climbed the church tower from where Marlborough and Prince Eugene had viewed the field of the impending battle. We also visited the battle sites of Ramillies, Oudenarde and Malplaquet, most of them now, like Blenheim itself, just farmland. I also visited Blenheim Palace, where the tapestries convey contemporary pictorial records of the battle; old ships at Portsmouth; the archives of the National Army Museum, London; and the Victoria & Albert Museum in London.
Some reports say Mother Ross was interred in the burial ground of Londons Chelsea Hospital with military honours; others, that it was more likely to have been at St Margarets, Westminster. According to Christine Reynolds of Westminster Abbey Library, the latter was not her final resting place. I have also seen the written entry of her admission to Chelsea from the War Office records held in the National Archives at Kew, courtesy of Alastair Massie of the National Army Museum. Page 289 records: Grant of Chelsea pension to woman who served as soldier within Flanders, 1717. G.R. Gleig in 1838 quoted her admission from a list of old admissions into Chelsea Hospital as 19 November, 1717. Stairs Dragoons, Catherine Welsh, a fatt jolly-breast woman, received several wounds in the service, in the habit of a man; from 19 July 1717.
It has been said that her account may have been written by Daniel Defoe but this seems unlikely, and the claim has been questioned by, amongst others, Dianne Dugaw, who supplied the entry on her in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. The story of Kit Cavenaugh is an unusual yarn and it is quite possible, indeed probable, that she herself had a vivid imagination, and there are a number of anomalies in her text, but we do know that her tale is based on fact. Laugh with her, weep for her, love her or not this is her story, and I hope you will enjoy reading about her adventurous life as much as I have been absorbed in writing it.
This is a story of actual events written in the creative non-fiction style. There are no fictional characters in the book and direct speech is taken either directly, or adapted, from the memoir published in 1740 of Kits life, or by using plausible conjecture relevant to a given scene. Scenes are dramatised using settings, personal gestures, and internal thoughts of characters. Details of clothing, military training and so on are described from contemporary records.
A. H.
2013
A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WOULD LIKE to acknowledge the help of so many supportive people, not least my publisher The Collins Press for enabling me to fulfil my dream of writing this story; thanks to Sue Parrish who has urged me to do it ever since that memorable trip together across Europe, retracing the Long March. I owe particular thanks to James Faulkner; and to the following individuals and institutions:
Blenheim (Blindheim) Museum, Hochstadt; the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford; the Brazen Head, Dublin; Turtle Bunbury; Laura Card, Christine Reynolds and Mark Smith of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea; John Colgan; Grattan de Courcy Wheeler; Colonel Charles Delamain; Patricia Donohue; Dianne Dugaw; Major J. M. K. Erskine; John Gibney; Peter Gibson; Theresa Harris; the Battle of the Boyne Visitor Centre, Oldbridge, County Meath; Ruth Illingworth; Irish Writers Union; Morgan Llewellyn; Michael McCann; Major Robin Maclean of the Scots Greys Museum, Edinburgh Castle; Alastair Massie of the National Army Museum, Chelsea; Ita ODriscoll; Jane Ohlmeyer; Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Museum; Dr Chris Scott; Patsy Smiles; Tony Stapleton; The Tyrone Guthrie Centre; and the Westmeath County Council Arts Office.
THE TOMBOY
DO THAT AGAIN!
Kit looked up startled, quickly pulled her skirt around her, and gasped at the sight above.
She and her four friends had been somersaulting down the lush green hill, giggling and as skittish as wild young colts at play. They had not noticed the nobleman watching from the road above. His coach was drawn by six magnificent grey horses, and his coat of arms was embossed on the side. But it was at the horses that Kit looked, mesmerised.
Do you hear me? I say do it again!
He saw them hesitate.
Ill give you money.
Kit looked at the earl. His clothes were colourful and expensively cut, and he wore a shoulder-length wig. He had had a birds-eye view, and he wanted a repeat performance, bare bottoms and all.
How much? Kit called.
Half a crown.
The girls conferred. Still they were undecided. The youngest started to walk away, thinking the showing of their backsides indecent; others were probably afraid that they might offend the nobleman. Did Kit urge them to do it again for the cash? Quite probably, for we shall see that her love of money was central to her character. One of Kits friends urged propriety.
Dont do it again, Kit, she pleaded, hell see us. Come on.
But Kit tossed her hair and looked sidelong at the nobleman. No amount of finery would could make this man handsome, but Kit was looking beyond him at his six horses. All of them were grey pure white really and they were handsome.
Kit had, unusually, been well educated: my parents were both very tender of me, and spared no cost in my education. She could read proficiently and was an able seamstress, but while Kits friends were probably demurely learning to spin and weave, earning good money from woollen goods, Kit preferred to tend the sheep that produced the wool.
