The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (45 page)

Slowly Tibbot took his seat, but he found he could not draw his eyes away from his friend’s severed head in the crock.

Red Hugh noticed. “Don’t worry, Tibbot,” he said, “we ’ll make good use of it.”

“Aye,” cried Brian O’Rourke, “target practice!” He and Murrough roared with laughter.

Red Hugh O’Donnell smiled and Tibbot thought with a chill that

’twas the smile of the Devil himself. And the Devil had come to his table with a bargain to be signed in Conyers Clifford’s blood.

17

WHILST ESSEX FELT nothing but a spot of cold wetness on his back, he nevertheless cringed as his physician placed another of the loathsome brown worms to his skin. He tried not to envision a dozen of the slippery creatures now sucking the malarial poisons from his body, only the hoped for results—good health—a state he had not enjoyed for far too long now. If the leeches proved ineffective, he mused, this last resort might indeed be his last resort
ever
. ’Twas not inconceivable that he might die of malaria, as his stepfather Leicester had done. It would, he realized with a stab of macabre irony, prevent his enduring the slow, agonizing descent into syphilitic madness.

The physician leaned down and spoke into Essex’s ear. “Sir Christopher asked me to let you know when ten o’clock had arrived. ’Tis just that hour now.”

“Good. An excuse to have you remove these hideous suckers from my back.”

“It will take only a moment, my lord.”

The physician was as good as his word and moments later was helping Essex on with his shirt and doublet. “A bleeding this afternoon, my lord?”

“I don’t think I could bear it.”

“Very good. But I must insist on the leeches again tomorrow morning. They seem to be doing you good.”

What is doing me good,
Essex thought but did not say,
is the absence of
the death and mayhem and suffering placed before my eyes every day.

As Essex descended the stairs down to Dublin Castle ’s Irish Privy Council Chamber, he was joined by Southampton and Christopher Blount, both looking rather puffed up with self-importance. Essex had insisted that his two closest advisers must be present at today’s war council, a meeting that would, by its timeliness and content, determine his fate, and perhaps the outcome of Elizabeth’s war.

The councilors were all assembled when the trio arrived and took their seats, Southampton and Blount at the Lord Lieutenant’s right and left hands. Essex was firmly set to state his case with such strength and clarity that these doddering old fools would have no choice but to accede to his wishes. He was equally determined that he would indulge in no whining or complaining, though he believed he had good cause to do so.

For every letter he had received recently from Elizabeth was filled with stinging rebukes and alarming news from London. The queen complained that she was giving her Lord Lieutenant a thousand pounds a day “to go on Summer Progress.” His enemies at Court were likewise delivering wound after wound, and in every way attempting to discredit and dishonor him. There were many cruel jests made at his expense.

“Men marvel,” ranted one Court gossip, “at how little Essex does, preferring instead to tarry in Dublin.” And the unkindest cut—Francis Bacon had turned on him. Asked by the queen for his opinion of her new Irish Viceroy, Francis had warned her that placing arms and power into Essex’s hands was too great a temptation, one that made him “cum-bersome and unruly.”
Cumbersome and unruly!
Surely Bacon had never been his friend, only pretended to be. By now Essex’s reputation was in tatters.

He ’d written back, beseeching Elizabeth in the most dignified terms he could muster. “How,” he had asked her, “can you expect a difficult war to be successfully managed by so disgraced a minister?” All it would take, he knew, was a kind or encouraging word from the queen lauding his efforts in Ireland for the ignominious slanders to be silenced. But all he had received were diatribes against his waste and procrastination.

Finally came a curt response to his third, almost begging request for two thousand reinforcements. She would send them—reluctantly—but only if he promised to use them in the north for a quick defeat of Tyrone. It was with this bit of news that he now opened the war council.

“Her Majesty has finally seen fit to grant me my reinforcements,” Essex announced, “but our problems are far from over. The victuals she lately sent us are so unsavory that they would poison the soldiers who ate them. Here in Ireland the rebel is as strong as he has ever been. My intelligence informs me that Tyrone has lately had delivered to him by Grace O’Malley a large supply of arms from Spain.” There was worried murmuring amongst the Council at that report.

“And as I’m sure you are all aware,” Essex went on, “we have suffered a catastrophic loss in the Curlew Mountains of Connaught. Nearly half of our troops were injured or killed during a chaotic retreat, having been set upon by”—Essex found it difficult to say—“just two hundred rebels.” He struggled for composure as he continued. “Lord Clifford’s body was decently buried at Lough Ce, but his head, I am afraid, has not yet been recovered.”

“They are wicked devils,” said Archbishop Loftus.

“He was a good man. Terrible loss,” Carey muttered, “terrible.”

“When Red Hugh O’Donnell finally breached Collooney’s walls and took the castle,” Essex continued, “he forced O’Connor and Donal Sligo’s submissions. This last is not so dire a piece of news as it seems, for we altogether trust these Irish allies and believe they will return to the English fold at the first possible opportunity.”

“What of Tibbot Burke?” Loftus inquired of Essex.

“There are conflicting reports, my lord. We know on the one hand that he did meet with Red Hugh on his flagship after the battle in the Curlew Pass.” Essex could not hide his sarcastic tone. “They finished off a barrel of wine together. On the other hand, Tibbot Burke returned all his vessels to our men at Galway with their cargoes intact.” Southampton spoke up. “They may have conspired to make it appear that Burke kept faith with the Crown, for their own purposes.”

“That is possible,” Essex agreed, “but only time will tell of Tibbot Burke ’s true colors. But here is the point. I and my army must leave for the north immediately. Even with the reinforcements sent, my dearly reduced troops will only number five thousand foot and three hundred horse. We cannot possibly adventure as far as the northern coast and Lough Foyle. Establishing a garrison there this year is out of the question. So we must take what we have, march as far north as we can, and do as much damage to the rebel as God will allow.” Essex hesitated and tried his best to sound deliberate. “As for Tyrone, we will destroy him.” He looked about the Council table and saw only two sympathetic faces, Southampton’s and Blount’s. All else were blank stares and silence.

“What am I seeing here?” he finally demanded. “Surely at this late date this is not
reluctance
?”

“I’m afraid it is, my lord Essex.” This was Nicholas White speaking with eyes lowered.

“But how can you deny a northern campaign when the queen so clearly demands it!” Essex cried.

“Her Majesty must be made to understand that our concerns still outweigh her desires,” Archbishop Loftus continued for White. “Our army is plagued by deserters who run back to England, and others who join with the enemy. Still others hide in the country and pretend sickness. Of those men who are strong and serviceable, we can count only four thousand at the most. That number is easily outmatched, perhaps
doubled
, by Tyrone ’s forces in Ulster. Our cavalry will have difficulty serving our foot, and further, revictualizing such an army will prove nightmarish.”

Essex found himself reeling at Loftus’s words. The pall of weakness and confusion that had troubled him in the Azores was again threatening his logic, undermining his temper. He was loath to speak, terrified his words would betray his condition.

Southampton, blessedly aware, piped up. “I believe the Lord Lieutenant sees more clearly into Her Majesty’s mind than anyone here at this table, and Her Majesty’s mind
is made up
. Am I correct in that, my lord?” He turned to Essex with a disingenuous smile.

“You are indeed,” he uttered with all the strength and calm he could muster. “If I may read from the queen’s last letter to me . . .” Essex removed a folded parchment from a pouch at his waist and scanned the page for the passage he sought.

If sickness of the army be the reason why action is not undertaken, why was there not action when the army was in better state? If winter is now approaching, why were the summer months of July and August lost? If the spring was too soon and the summer otherwise spent, if the harvest time was so neglected that nothing was done, then surely we must conclude that none of the four quarters of the year will be in season for you and your Council to agree on Tyrone ’s persecution—the whole reason for your expedition!

There were angry mutterings all round.

Christopher Blount silenced them all by saying, “I presume you would not like it said, my lords, that the Irish Privy Council was weak and cowardly, that they feared to confront the most fearsome of the Irish rebels, preferring inaction instead, would you?” Loftus pounded the table with his fist. “That will never be said of us!”

“Then ’tis agreed!” Blount shouted decisively, daring them all to dispute him, upstart that he was. None did.

“Very well,” said Essex, pushing back his chair, “I expect your preparedness reports by week’s end.” In the next moment and in perfect synchrony, Southampton and Blount moved together with such subtle force on either side of Essex that no one was aware that they had, in fact, lifted their disabled friend from his chair. The triumvirate stood thus as the councilors shuffled from the room, not bothering to whisper their angry oaths at their having been outsmarted.

When the three were finally alone, Christopher Blount closed the door and Essex, sick and alarmingly pale, collapsed back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. “What have we done?” he said. “Nothing Loftus said about this army is untrue. They are unfit for the march north and horribly outnumbered.”

“You’re obeying the queen’s command,” Southampton insisted. “We have no choice. There is nothing else to be done.”

“Nothing?” Essex whispered hoarsely.

“No, my lord.”

“Then I fear we are doomed, my friends,” Essex said with gravity.

“Altogether doomed.”

Elizabeth,

Even now I am putting my foot into the stirrup to rendezvous with
Tyrone. From a mind delighting in sorrow; from a heart torn in pieces
with passion; from a man that hates himself and all things that keep
him alive, what service can Your Majesty reap? It is clear that my services past deserve no more than banishment and proscription into this
most cursed of countries. So whilst it seems I cannot please you in life,
perhaps my death in the service of Ireland will bring you some pleasure.

From your Majesty’s exiled, but ever faithful servant,
Essex

18

THERE WERE TIMES on the march north into Ulster that the feelings of dread that had held Essex like a vise let go their grip of him. His physical ills receded and a vital force flowed through his organs and limbs. They were the moments, he realized, that he had put away all thoughts of battle, administration, command, victory, and the queen. He would leave the officers’ mess, make himself scarce even from Southampton and Blount, and place himself, very simply, amongst his men.

He might walk alongside his foot soldiers, shocking himself at his strength for trekking mile upon mile on the rough, rock-strewn roads.

Even more, he delighted in riding with the cavalry, exchanging notes on their animals—the health and husbandry of their mounts in wartime conditions, stories of a favorite childhood horse, martial exploits in foreign lands. At first the soldiers were stiff and formal, mistrusting the familiarity of so high a nobleman, but his honest interest and natural charm soon purchased their confidence, and before long there was easy conversation, bawdy storytelling and laughter. Talk of home and family, sweethearts, the farm suffering without its farmer—he, called to arms in the queen’s service, marching now to war in a strange land. Such talk and manly camaraderie soothed Essex, caused him for that time, at least, to forget his ills, forget even who he was. Soon there were changes to be seen in Essex’s army. The pace and progress of the column quickened.

Soldiers walked with a lighter step. Less grumbling was heard. Men smiled.

Essex remembered, with a touch of pique, Francis Bacon’s admonition—that the great generals cared little for popularity amongst their subordinates, were satisfied with a lonely existence. That was nonsense!

Soldiers performed better for a commander they loved. And for the first time in his long career, Essex knew he loved the men who served him.

What did Francis Bacon know of such things? He was effete. Bookish.

Lost in an endless labyrinth of politics and philosophies.

Christopher Blount had chided Essex, and even Southampton questioned his fraternization with the “common stock.”

“Let me be!” Essex had finally shouted at their persistent nagging.

“I swear the Irish faeries have taken possession of your mind!” Southampton cried back, throwing up his hands.

“Perhaps,” Essex agreed, “I am a better man for it.”

“God’s blood, Essex!” Christopher Blount was the more aggravated of his two friends. “A soldier will bleed and die just as quickly if he loves his commander or loathes him. In the meanwhile, your officers are losing all respect for you.”

“Bugger them,” Essex replied.

“You don’t mean that,” Southampton said. “These are men from the noblest families, gentlemen who begged to fight under your command.

You owe them your best.”

“Yes I do,” said Essex, finally relenting. “They suffer this war as keenly as the lowest privates do.”

Blount squealed with frustration. “The pox has eaten away your brain, Robert.”