The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (40 page)

“I hope you’ve had better luck than Richard Bingham,” said Essex.

“Oh yes,” the Earl of Kildare offered. “Clifford has worked wonders in Connaught.”

“My policy tends toward conciliation with the Irish lords and chieftains,” he said. “Of course I began by befriending the loyalists, Clanrickard and the O’Connor Sligos. But I have in recent months worked diligently to deserve the affection and friendship of Tibbot Burke, the sea captain.”

“Tibbot Burke?” The sound of the name worked on Essex’s brain like a strong tonic. All at once the cloudiness dispersed and he felt himself alert. “Tell me more about him.”

“Well, of course you know he ’s the O’Malley woman’s son—her youngest son, and her favorite. Indeed, another son by the name of Murrough O’Flaherty she considers her enemy. Grace O’Malley continues, at her unimaginable age, to be the prime supplier to Tyrone of guns from Spain, as well as Scots Gallowglass to swell his ranks. She ’s most incorri-gible and has shown no interest in any of my offers of friendship. Her son Tibbot, on the other hand, has taken me into his heart.”

“You claim friendship with him? Sincere friendship?” Clifford smiled as he arranged his thoughts. “Tibbot Burke is an extraordinary man. He is a strong and dedicated soldier and a capable seaman. He ’s intelligent—English educated—and though he will not admit it, he loves and admires much that is English. More than anything,
ambition
drives him, and whilst that is apparent to all—he ’s quite transparent—he has ceased to try hiding that trait. We therefore share a more than usual honesty, for he is entirely aware of my motives as well. He knows that I know how easily he might be lured back to Red Hugh O’Donnell and the ‘Irish cause.’ Still, since we ’ve met he ’s remained loyal to the Crown. I try, but I cannot find fault with him. Together, he and I and Donal Sligo unseated Theobald Ciotach and pushed Red Hugh out of Connaught entirely. Because of Tibbot Burke ’s involvement, my army received full support from virtually every Connaught chieftain for that engagement.”

“Will they remain loyal when we ask for their surrender to our control?” asked Essex. “For that is our ultimate goal, is it not?”

“It is, of course it is, and I cannot promise all the Connaught chieftains’ support. But I feel”—Clifford paused, holding Essex’s eye with a steady gaze—“in that place where a good soldier feels future victory or defeat, that Tibbot Burke is
ours
. What I bring you today is a means to ensure his loyalty.” He opened the folded leather pouch he ’d carried in and extracted a parchment from it. He moved to the window for the light.

“This is the list of requests to the Council—
demands
, if you like—

submitted by Tibbot Burke. If you find some of them audacious, be reminded that I encouraged him in that direction. I wished to know the full extent of his dreams and ambitions, the better to understand his mind, and knowing full well that the Council will grant only that which is reasonable and expedient to our needs. First”—Clifford began reading—“he wishes that all the lands granted through the now defunct MacWilliamship be transferred to his control.” He read silently down the page. “There are numerous other land grants he desires be made to him . . . ah, he wishes an appropriate title, letters of pardon from the queen for his mother, brother, and uncle . . . a small army—” To the indignant sniffs of the councilors on the last point, Clifford interjected,

“That was
my
idea.”

Essex was amused. “You would give him his own army?”

“Paid for by the Crown, yes I would. And a small salary for himself.”

“You really do believe his importance in Connaught,” said Essex.

“Not just Connaught, my lord. In all of Ireland. That is why I urge you to satisfy him as fully as good sense allows.” Essex fixed Conyers Clifford with a steady stare.

“Further, my lord Essex, I humbly suggest that you personally make the man’s acquaintance. Perhaps . . . befriend him.” Clifford smiled shyly and lowered his gaze to the floor. “We are all aware of your many virtues as a soldier and high council to the queen. I do believe you would altogether charm Tibbot Burke. He would relish your friendship, and you in return would enjoy his company. He ’s a lively fellow. Quick witted and a boon companion. The previous generation was lucky to have the loyalty of the Irish lords Ormond and Kildare.” He smiled at Kildare, who was nodding with the compliment. “I say we will be lucky in our generation to acquire the loyal service of Tibbot Burke, and it would be worth your while to pursue his friendship.”

“Yes, well, I will take your suggestions into full consideration, Clifford. And thank you.” All the councilors nodded their thanks to him.

With another bow Conyers Clifford backed from the room.

Essex turned to face the Council. “The more pressing issue at hand today, and the queen’s express desire,” he began, “is the conquest of Tyrone in Ulster. I am commanded to move with the great force she has provided, north through Ulster to the coast, and to establish a permanent garrison there near the deep harbor of Lough Foyle. She wishes us to engage the traitor Tyrone, and defeat him once and forever.” Essex’s confident announcement, one that he fully expected would be greeted with unanimous and enthusiastic agreement, was instead met with an uncomfortable silence all round, councilors squirming like schoolboys in their chairs. Essex found himself at a loss.

“Is not Tyrone ‘like a frozen snake picked up by a farmer, which, growing warm, hisses at his benefactor’? So writes our illustrious poet Spenser. ‘He is a serpent,’ ” Essex went on quoting, “ ‘raised out of the dust by the queen, yet encompassing the most serious of all perils to Elizabeth’s rule in Ireland.’ He is, is he not, gentlemen?”

“Yes, of course he is, my lord, without question the most dangerous man in Ireland. The root of all evil,” Loftus agreed. “And as our own Lord Burgh so aptly observed, ‘Branches will sprout as long as the root is untouched.’ ”

“Her Majesty,” Essex insisted, “has made it quite clear in her generous mustering of the largest army she has ever assembled—sixteen thousand men and thirteen hundred horse—that she means for me to hunt down the Earl of Tyrone and destroy him,
at any cost.
”

“Agreed, my lord Essex.” Nicholas White, Master of the Rolls, spoke earnestly and seemed, in fact, to be speaking for the whole of the Council, who already sat nodding in somber affirmation. “The problem, you see, is one of transport and supply. ’Tis a very large army you propose taking so far north to Lough Foyle, one that requires a vast amount of food.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, my lord.” Essex was beginning to feel ill again, the clarity he ’d enjoyed during his conversation with Clifford dissolving into fog.

“To feed such an expedition,” Lord White went on, “a great herd of cattle is necessary. Sadly, herd animals—cows in particular—have been drastically diminished in number during the previous years’ hostilities.

What animals we do have are in poor health—quite inedible—and would certainly die if driven north at this time of year. It would be best to wait for high summer, when pastures would be greener and the rivers necessary to cross less wild. Too, in the summer, the rebels’ corn and cows might also be confiscated for our use.”

“If we cannot take cows”—Essex dabbed with his handkerchief at the perspiration gathering on his upper lip—“then we shall feed the army on dry rations.”

“No, no, my lord. That is impossible. You see, the winds in the Irish Sea have been most contrary—as I’m sure you yourself realize—and the transport horses that are meant to carry your biscuit and hardtack have not even left England.”

Essex sighed deeply, expelling with his breath what was left of his hope that this adventure would prove successful. “What are you suggesting, my lords?”

“Welll. . .”

Essex stared round the room and all at once saw himself surrounded by a cadre of timid and dithering old men. He could not hope for guidance from them, yet he was utterly constrained by them. Much as he hated to admit it, Francis Bacon had been correct. If Essex moved without consent of the Irish Privy Council—especially now—he could not hope to remain in command. There was one explosion that he ’d already been forced to deal with—Southampton’s appointment to Horsemaster.

Elizabeth had been livid when she ’d found out.

“If I do not, as the queen has expressly bade me do, press north into Ulster and cut at the ‘root ’ of the rebel forces, what would you have me do?”

Kildare spoke up then. “If you cannot at this time make your way to the root, my lord Essex, then alternately you might take action by shaking and swaying the branches. In other words, go south into Leinster and Munster. I’m sure Lord Ormond would be grateful for your assistance there.”

Essex thought,
At this moment I would be grateful for Lord Ormond’s
assistance here. Surely he would see the necessity of striking Tyrone when the
English army was at its strongest.

“It is now April,” Kildare continued. “You have two or three months’

time before you need attack Ulster.”

Essex was in despair. This was ill advised and would end in disaster, he was sure of it, but there was nothing to be done. “I shall do as you advise me, my lords, but I insist you back up the request I will make of the queen and Privy Council for an additional two thousand reinforcements and appropriate supplies and horses. Many hundreds of my men are already sick or dead of dysentery, and in the coming months we will surely see more casualties. When I finally do reach Ulster, I do not wish Her Majesty’s army to meet the ‘King of Ireland’ as a diminished force.”

“Of course, my lord. We will confirm your request.” There were relieved, congratulatory smiles all round the Council table.

“You have made a wise decision,” said Archbishop Loftus.

“We will see about that,” Essex replied. “Time will tell.”

13

THE STENCH of the field hospital was unendurable—
What it
must smell like in Hell
, thought Essex as he moved, hardly daring to breathe, through an inspection at the side of his army’s chief surgeon, Elvin Meade. Whilst the surroundings were certainly more pleasant than the usual canvas tent thrown up in a meadow—this was the great hall of perhaps the finest plantation castle in Munster—the complaints of virtually all the wretched patients here were not battlefield injuries but marsh fevers and dysentery. Even the smells of blood and rotting flesh, Essex decided, were preferable to the raunch of vomit and several hundred soldiers’ bowels emptied onto their cots in the overheated afternoon.

“Two hundred and forty have died this week, my lord, and dozens more are falling ill every day.” The surgeon, a tall, gaunt man with a deeply pocked forehead, hid the rest of his face beneath a kerchief, though Essex doubted anything could allay the foul aroma of the place.

Even so, he now regretted having refused the offer of a kerchief for himself. Most of the soldiers, gray faced, with parched, bleeding lips and eyes glazed with fever, were too far gone to appreciate seeing the uncovered countenance of their illustrious commander.

“What are our total losses to this date?” Essex asked, dreading to hear the answer.

“Battlefield deaths and injuries are negligible,” Meade answered.

“Through dysentery and various fevers, twelve hundred and fifty. I never in my life dreamed I’d wish for gaping wounds and amputated limbs in my surgery. I’ve not seen anything like this, sir.”

“Nor have I. We shall be moving on the day after next, and I will of course need you with me. Can you arrange for local nurses to look after these men?”

“I’ll do my best, sir, but as you know, there are no English left in the province, and even if well paid, one wonders how carefully the Irish women will look after a company of their enemies.”

“Well, we have no choice. I shall assign two of my men to stay and oversee the nurses.” Essex shook his head, unable to fathom the magni-tude of his losses. “This is dreadfull. . . dreadful.”

“How is your own health, my lord?” the doctor inquired with what Essex perceived as sincere interest.

“I wish I could say I was well,” he answered. “But the air of the Irish bogs and swamps is every bit as sick making as my predecessors promised it would be. I suffer a sweat nearly every night. Or chills. And a mild but constant diarrhea.”

“Keep your strength up, sir. We cannot afford to lose you.” They had reached the door. “Thank you, Meade. I’ll send you the names of the two men who’ll stay behind.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Leaving the hospital felt to Essex like an escape with his life, and he was quite suddenly overwhelmed by pity for the horrible end his countrymen would know in this strange, inhospitable land.

He had purposely withheld from Doctor Meade the details of his own fevers—the deliriums and terrifying visions from which he suffered nightly, and the blunted cognition with which he awoke nearly every morning. Sometimes it took him several hours to regain enough clarity to give cogent orders, and strength enough to mount his horse and ride.

So far only Southampton and Blount were aware of his disabilities. They had been Godsent, gracefully covering for his weaknesses each day until he was fit to command.

But the days since leaving Dublin six weeks ago with his army of three thousand foot soldiers and three hundred horse—all the rest having been assigned elsewhere—had been as ghastly as the nights. For the Irish rebels had, frustratingly, refused to engage with the English army, with only a few exceptions. In this land of mountains, with few roads and hidden fortresses, his men had been repeatedly spooked as they marched through dark forests and misty bogs filled with distant, and not so distant, howls and banshee cries, laid low by day after day of drizzle and fog, their feet moldering in soggy boots, their bowels revolting against putrid rations and thick, miasmic air.

Essex found that the enemy would rarely confront his army or allow themselves to be flushed out of their hiding places. Instead the rebels would lurk in their rocky defiles and fetid quagmires. They’d lay in wait in the woods or along the narrow entrances to their glens, having cut down several trees that they’d woven into intricate barricades, impeding the English army’s progress, impossible to clear quickly. Everyone knew they were there, a silent terror that kept his army always on edge, their nerves fraying more perceptibly with every passing day.