The Rebels of Ireland (45 page)

“I have come here to do the work of the Lord, Uncle, and I am owed five hundred pounds.”

“Quite so,” said Doctor Pincher.

For seven years, he explained, the five hundred pounds he had
contributed to the Parliamentary cause had naturally been much in his mind. And as it was now to be repaid handsomely with confiscated Irish land, he would be glad to hear his uncle's advice. He looked forward, he told the old man, to settling in Ireland and becoming his friend. “We shall turn this into a godly land, Uncle, I promise you,” he said, and clapped the old man on the back. To all of which Doctor Pincher, who was beginning to wonder if he really wanted this large relation to embarrass his declining years, replied:

“All in good time, Barnaby, when the battle is won.”

Nor did it take Pincher long to take the measure of his nephew's intellect. Barnaby was not a scholar. Indeed, though familiar with many parts of the scriptures, it did not appear to the doctor that Barnaby had ever read a book in his life. His religious faith, as a solid, God-fearing Protestant, was commendably strong. When asked if he believed he should be saved, he answered firmly: “I serve in the army of God, Sir, and hope to be saved.” But when it came to church membership and Calvin's understanding of Predestination, Barnaby seemed less certain. “Only God knows, I suppose, whom He has chosen,” he remarked—which, while undoubtedly being true, was not very satisfactory. And probing further, Pincher came to understand, as he had never really done before, how, quite apart from their English dislike of being told what to do by Scottish Presbyterians, the godly men of Cromwell's army had come to believe that it was their years of fighting fellowship that proved they were of the Elect, rather than belonging to any church. While it pleased Pincher that his nephew should know himself to be chosen of God, it irked him that he should know it for the wrong reason, and he hoped that once peace was established, Barnaby should be led to a better understanding.

He was interested, however, to hear more about the puzzling figure of Cromwell. He quickly learned that his nephew, and the entire army, revered the blunt general.

“He is a godly man,” Barnaby assured him. “If he has a fiery temper, he shows it only in the cause of righteousness.” No man in his
regiment, the doctor was glad to hear, could blaspheme or even swear an oath, on pain of punishment. Cromwell had been content with his lot as a country squire and Member of Parliament, according to Barnaby. Only the impossible tyranny of King Charles had forced him into opposition; and only Parliament's complete inability to bring the business with the king to any conclusion after the war had forced him, with the other army men, to take control. “He had no wish to execute the king,” Barnaby declared. “Only cruel necessity made him do it. He told me so himself.” Though whether this was the agonising of a plain man or the self-justification of a politician, Doctor Pincher did not know. But one other piece of information was encouraging.

“Cromwell is strenuous for the Lord, and he knows that the Catholic priests are the greatest devils of all. Any priests he catches, I can promise you, he will kill.”

Whatever the general said about tender consciences, therefore, it did not seem that the Catholics could hope for much. Pincher was relieved to hear it.

It was when Barnaby spoke about the feelings of the army who marched with Cromwell, however, that his statements became startling.

“We know why we have come, Uncle,” Barnaby assured him. “We have come to punish the barbarous Irish for the massacres. We'll avenge the rebellion of '41, I promise you.”

“It was a terrible thing,” Pincher agreed. “I preached to the survivors in Christ Church Cathedral,” he added with some pride.

But Barnaby was scarcely listening.

“I am fully informed, Uncle,” he assured him. “The whole Irish nation rose,” he recited. “They turned upon the Protestants, man, woman, and child, and they butchered them. There was no mercy given, no limit to their Irish cruelty. They killed them all, except the few who got away. Three hundred thousand innocent Protestants died. There has been nothing like it in all the history of Man.”

Doctor Pincher stared at him. The actual loss of life in the rising
of 1641 was somewhat uncertain. He believed that when it was all done, perhaps five thousand Protestants lost their lives across the whole of Ireland, though it might well be less. Another thousand or two Catholics had been killed in reprisals. Since then, of course, the figures had swollen in the telling, but Barnaby's statement was astounding. Pincher wasn't sure there were even that many Protestants on the island.

“How many?”

“Three hundred thousand,” said Barnaby firmly.

Pincher despised the Irish and hated Catholics, but he was not a dishonest man.

“That number,” he ventured, “may be somewhat high, you know.”

“No, I assure you,” said Barnaby. “It is so. The whole army knows it.”

And now Doctor Pincher understood. The army of Oliver Cromwell, having questioned the need to convert Catholics, had been fortified by these reminders of the atrocities to avenge. And he sighed. Every army, he supposed, has to be told a story. Sometimes the story is true, sometimes not. No doubt, he supposed, this story would serve its necessary purpose.

 

DROGHEDA

1649

 

W
ALTER
S
MITH
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 north
ern 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 thirty-pounder.” 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.