We embarked in the beginning of June for Ireland, on board of the Europa
of 60, and the Van Tromp of 54 guns. We had a narrow escape from running
ashore amongst the rocks, in a fog, upon the Irish coast: the fog,
however, cleared away just in time for us to see our danger. A new scene
began to open to us: Ireland was in a state of insurrection; and we were
but ill informed of the nature and extent of it. We were told by a
pilot, that we got upon the coast to conduct us into Dublin, that the
insurgents had taken Wexford. The prospect of being engaged in a civil
war, made me thoughtful, and agitated me not a little. On the 18th June
we anchored in Dublin bay, and landed at the Pigeon-house in the
evening. We were here met by Lord Huntly, our Colonel, who had been made
a Brigadier General on the Irish staff. We remained on the mole near the
Pigeon-house, which is about three miles from Dublin, until day-break
next morning, and then marched into the city with drums beating and
colours flying, announcing to the sleeping inhabitants, at the early
hour of three o'clock, the arrival of fresh troops for the support of
the government.
As we now entered into a scene of civil war, I will take the liberty of
stating a few of the particulars of the Irish insurrection.
The city of Dublin was under strict police: patrols of cavalry paraded
the streets during the day to prevent crowds from assembling. Numerous
and strong guards were posted through the city and suburbs, and upon all
the roads leading to the country. These guards were reinforced at night
with additional garrison troops, and large parties of volunteer
yeomanry, both horse and foot. Many citizens of the first
respectability, and not a few of the nobility, were in the ranks of the
yeomanry; and it was not an uncommon thing for a poor Highlander to have
a wealthy citizen, or noble lord, posted along with him on sentry. All
the inhabitants were ordered to be in their own houses by a set time at
night. Strong patrols then scoured the streets and made prisoners of all
they found upon them, and entered every house where they heard any
disturbance. Every house had a written list of the inmates upon the
door, and was liable to be visited during the night; and if any one was
amissing, the owner might be taken up; or if any were in the house whose
names were not on the door, or if any one was found in his neighbour's
house, he was taken up and fined before being set at liberty. Every
precaution was used, to prevent plots from being formed, and all means
was used to find them out. In such a state of society, opportunity is
afforded to private malice and ill-will, to injure the objects of their
enmity. When I was upon the Grand Barrack guard, two respectable old
citizens were brought in prisoners. They were men who were unfit, and
very unlikely to have any active hand in conspiracy against the state.
They were confined in the guard-room all that day and night; whether
they were liberated next day after I was relieved, or removed to some
other place, I know not. While they were in the guard-room, they were
exposed to the interrogatories of the ignorant and unthinking, who took
every such prisoner to be an insurgent. They were protected, however, by
the interposition of the more intelligent and humane. I had a little
conversation with them, and they told me it was their belief, that it
was an apprentice of theirs with whom they had a difference on account
of bad behaviour, who had, out of revenge, given false accusation
against them; such as, that they were holding correspondence with the
insurgents in the country, &c. They told me that such cases were
frequent. Every person accused was taken up, and kept until the case
should be examined: and as this, from the great number daily
apprehended, could not be instantly done, individuals often suffered
seriously, before they obtained their release.
The conduct of persons, whose political sentiments or behaviour, were in
any measure suspicious, was closely watched. And when they were found
transgressing any of the police rules, their cases were strictly
examined. I saw an instance of this, in the case of a respectable
gentleman, who was confined in the same guard-room upon another day. He
had been found out of his own house after the appointed time at night.
He pled that he was only a short time in a neighbour's house: and that
the person in whose house he was, was himself a very loyal man, and a
yeoman. He said he had always been a very loyal man himself. He
acknowledged, that at a certain public meeting, (which had taken place
some time previous to this) where a certain political question had been
discussed, he had spoken warmly, _too warmly_; but that that was the
only thing in the course of his life, that could have any tendency to
create any suspicion of his loyalty. He remained in the common
guard-room during the day, and was removed to another place at night. He
was liberated next morning when I saw him, and he told me, that nothing
farther than his being out of his own house at night was brought against
him; and that he had gotten his liberty on condition of paying ten
pounds to the fund for the relief of the widows and children of soldiers
who had fallen in the insurrection. He said that he happened to have as
much money upon him, and that he paid it cheerfully; for those that were
to get it well deserved it. I mention these cases as certain evils
arising out of a state of civil war.
During the time we lay in Dublin, the insurrection was raging in various
parts of the country, and much blood was shedding. Dublin itself was
kept in a state of tranquillity, by the vigilance of the police, and the
power of the military. Our stay in it was short. On the 1st of July, the
volunteer cavalry were employed in going through the city, pressing all
the coaches, gigs, and other vehicles, and collecting them in one of the
squares. At six o'clock at night we paraded, and went into them, and set
off for Arklow. We travelled all night. We were all accommodated at the
outset, but fell into considerable confusion on the way, by some of the
coachmen getting drunk, and striving to get past one another; which
caused several of the carriages to break down, and others, by running
into ditches, to upset. It was conjectured that some of the coachmen did
this wilfully, from aversion to the service they were upon. Numbers had
thus to walk in the rain, which was heavy; and several had their muskets
damaged, by the breaking down or upsetting of the carriages. One man had
his firelock completely bent; and when he was asked by the people of the
villages through which we passed, what kind of a gun _that_ was, he told
them it was one of a new construction, for the purpose of shooting round
corners.
As we advanced into the country, we began to see the effects of the
insurrection. Burnt houses began to make their appearance in the
villages, and their number increased as we proceeded. The coaches
carried us to about three miles from Arklow, and then returned to
Dublin. We entered Arklow in the evening. The place had been attacked by
a large body of insurgents a few days before, who had been repulsed with
great slaughter. They had some pieces of artillery, with which they had
dismounted one of the guns of the military, and damaged some of the
houses. They had also burnt that part of the town that lay next the
sea-side, which was composed of low thatched houses, and was inhabited
by fishermen. It was a very pitiable sight to see this scene of
destruction; and those of my comrades who went to the ground where the
insurgents had stood during the action, said it was disgusting. Numbers
of dead bodies were still unburied; some of them lying in ditches, and
the swine feeding on them. There was a number of prisoners in the place,
who had been taken, whom they were trying by court-martial, and hanging;
but I was not an eye-witness to any executions in this place. A part of
the regiment was stationed in the church, which was not a large one.
This was a new kind of quarters, but every part was occupied, pulpit and
all; and the grave stones were the place where we cleaned our arms.
The insurgents were still in a body upon one of the hills in the
vicinity, and kept the place in alarm; and we had frequently to stand to
our arms during the night. On the fourth of July, we paraded in the
street at 12 o'clock at night, in great haste. The right wing of the
regiment got three days bread served out, when we marched away in a
great hurry, without giving the left wing any. I was in the left wing,
and had only a few crumbs left of that day's rations. We marched very
quickly through by-roads; and when day began to break, we made a short
pause, and loaded our muskets,--the first time I had done so in the
expectation of fighting. There was a high hill before us, (called White
Heaps) whose top was covered with mist, and that side which was next to
us was very steep. The insurgents were said to be on the top of it.
Their number, we afterwards learned, was 5000; of whom 1500 had
firelocks, the rest pikes. There were about six troops of cavalry along
with us: but our whole number did not amount to 1200, without artillery.
We ascended the hill with difficulty, without being perceived by those
on the top, the mist concealing us from each other. When we had nearly
reached the summit, and had entered into the mist that covered it, our
front was challenged by the insurgent sentinels, who demanded the
countersign, to which the Lieutenant Colonel replied, "You shall have it
in a minute." We moved a little further and formed our line. The fog
cleared up a little for a minute, when we found that our left was near
the enemy, who were collecting themselves into three bodies. The ground
betwixt us and them was a wet bog; and the commander of the cavalry told
our commanding officer, that if he advanced, the cavalry would not be
able to act in such marshy ground as that before us. The fog again
covered us, so that we could not see them, and a gust of wind, with a
shower of rain, induced us to stand still. The insurgents then gave a
loud cheer, and then a second, and they began a third; but it died away,
and was not so full or loud as the others. We expected to be instantly
attacked, as this was their signal of attack. They, however, had
imagined that we were much stronger than what we were; and being
terrified by the suddenness of our appearance, in place of coming
forward to attack, they fled in great haste down the opposite side of
the hill. We stood in uncertainty for some time, as we could see
nothing; then hearing the fire of two guns, we moved in that direction,
and got out of the fog, and descended the hill on the side opposite to
that which we had ascended. We then learned that the insurgents had gone
down the hill; and, having fallen in with another division of the army,
had come upon them before they could get fully formed, and had come
close to the guns, when they were fired upon and repulsed. It had been
arranged, that different bodies of troops should have mounted the hill
on opposite sides at the same time; but we had been sooner than the
others, which disarranged the plan. The insurgents continued to fly, the
cavalry went forward in pursuit, and we followed with all possible
haste. When we reached the foot of the hill, I saw four of the
insurgents lying dead. We continued to march with great haste, and
frequently changed our route. We heard firing at no great distance; but
the parties were always gone before we came up. The road was strewed
with old clothes, oatmeal, oat bread, and dough, thrown away by the
insurgents in their flight. The dragoons killed a great number of them
in the fields. The insurgents, in their flight, fell in with some
baggage belonging to some of the other divisions; attacked the guard,
and killed and wounded several, before the rest of the army could come
to their assistance; the insurgents were then totally dispersed, and a
great many killed and wounded; but our regiment never could arrive in
time to take share in any of the actions. Several women were among the
dead, who were shot in the ranks of the insurgents. We had a most
fatiguing march, of upwards of thirty Irish miles. In the evening we
arrived at the town of Gorey, as did also two other divisions of the
army.
One thing I would particularly notice here, is the _ferocity_ of civil
war; it has barbarities not now practised in the national wars of
Europe. In one spot, where seven had fled to a house, in which they were
killed, their bodies had been brought out to the road side, where they
lay, shamefully uncovered, and some of them mangled in a manner too
indelicate to mention. At another place, I saw an insurgent, who had
been taken and dragged by the hair of his head, which was long, for some
distance along the road, and then shot through the heart. It was said,
he was unwilling to inform upon the rest of the insurgents. Numerous and
shocking barbarities were committed on both sides, sometimes originating
in animosity, sometimes in wanton cruelty, and at other times in
retaliation.
I was witness to a scene of the latter kind a few days after, in the
town of Gorey. A man was brought to the back of the camp, to be hanged
upon a tree on the road side, by a party of an English fencible
regiment. The man was scarcely suspended, when the officer of the party
fired the contents of two pistols into the body, and then drew his sword
and ran it into it. I then turned from the sight with disgust; but those
of my comrades who stayed, told me that the body was lowered down from
the tree upon the road; that the soldiers of the party perforated it
with their bayonets, cut off the head, cut it in pieces, and threw them
about, tossing them in the air, calling out, "Who will have this?" They
then dug a hole on the opposite side of the road, and buried the body
and the mangled pieces of the head, in the presence of a few of the
unhappy man's friends. I was informed that he had been a judge in the
insurgent army for trying their prisoners: that a brother of the officer
of the party had been taken prisoner by the insurgents, and had been
sentenced by this man to be piked to death: and that this was the reason
why he had been so used.
Piking to death was what the insurgents practised upon those of the
king's troops that fell into their hands, particularly if they remained
firm in their allegiance. The common method was for "two to stand
behind, and two before the victim, and thrust their pikes into his body
at once, and raise it from the ground, holding it suspended, writhing
with pain, while any signs of life appeared. At other times, two men,
with pikes, would come before the victim, and begin to stab him in the
feet, and then the legs, and thighs, and belly, until they reached the
heart. At other times they literally perforated the body all over, with
pike wounds." Such barbarities could not fail to produce desire of
revenge. But, as our regiment had not been in the country during the
out-breaking of the insurrection, we had received no injury to provoke
our resentment. And as we had not been employed in the execution of any
of the rigorous measures resorted to by the government to prevent the
insurrection, no one had any ill will against us. We were called into
the service of suppressing this unhappy and calamitous insurrection,
after it had begun to decline, and we were rather witnesses of its
ruinous and distressing effects, than active hands in suppressing it by
force. For it so happened, that although we several times pursued
considerable bodies of the insurgents through the mountains, and were at
times pretty close upon them, yet no one of us fired a musket, with the
exception of one or two, who did it without orders, on the morning of
the 5th July, on the White Heaps: neither was a musket fired at us; and
the only loss the regiment sustained during this service, occurred one
morning when we were pursuing a body of insurgents among the mountains.
One of our men having fallen behind through weakness, was met by two or
three insurgents in women's clothes, carrying pails of milk on their
heads, as if returning from milking. They offered him drink; and, while
he was drinking, one of them seized his musket, and after threatening to
kill him, they allowed him to proceed to the regiment, with the loss of
his musket and ammunition.
The sight of so many houses and villages, and parts of towns, burned and
destroyed, and the great number of women and children, who were in a
destitute state, because their husbands and fathers were either gone
with the insurgents, or were fled for safety, touched most powerfully
the sensibilities of our hearts, and diffused a feeling of generous
sympathy through the regiment. It so happened at that time, that we had
newly received a more than ordinary balance of arrears of pay, so that
every man was in possession of money, less or more; and although we were
very fond of milk, because we had been long living upon salt provisions,
before our arrival in Ireland, yet there were none who would accept of a
draught of milk for nothing, but would pay its price. And if the people
of the house would not take payment, they would give the value of what
milk they received to the children.
As this conduct in soldiers is more rare than even conspicuous courage
in the field, the truth of what is here asserted, may be the more ready
to be questioned. I shall, therefore, take the liberty of inserting a
quotation from Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion. The author of
that work is a clergyman, whose residence appears to have been in the
vicinity of Gorey, and who had a personal knowledge of what took place
there at that time. That author complains of the losses sustained by the
inhabitants from the insurgents and the soldiery: he says, "on the
arrival of the Marquis of Huntly, however, with his regiment of Scottish
Highlanders, in Gorey, the scene was totally altered. To the immortal
honour of this regiment, its behaviour was such, as, if it were
universal among soldiers, would render a military government amiable. To
the astonishment of the (until then miserably harassed) peasantry, not
the smallest trifle, even a drink of butter milk, would any of these
Highlanders accept, without the payment of at least the full
value."--Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion, 2d edit Lond. p. 240.
When we entered the town of Gorey, it was, in great part, deserted by
the inhabitants. Nothing was to be procured for money. After the very
fatiguing march we had on the day we entered it, we received one biscuit
and one glass of whiskey. On the next day we marched to a considerable
distance, in quest of the insurgents, and returned back; we got a
draught of milk, and one day's allowance of boiled beef, which had
arrived from Arklow; but no bread.--The day was very warm, and I was
considerably exhausted. That day passed over, and the next day, until
the evening, without any word of any more provisions. The dread of
having to pass another night in our present hungry state, determined
other two and myself, to go in quest of something that we could eat. We
saw some who had purchased some old potatoes at the mill of the place.
We made all haste to the mill; but the potatoes were all sold. We felt
disappointed; but, observing that the mill was at work, we entered it to
see what was grinding. We found a man attending the mill, who said he
was not the miller, but had just set the mill to work to grind some
barley. There were but a few handfuls ground; and we resolved, rather
than want, that we would wait until some greater quantity was done, when
we would endeavour to get it cleaned, so as to be capable of being
turned into food. After stopping a few seconds in the mill, I began to
look about, when I perceived a number of sacks that were, less or more,
filled with something: I said to my comrades, "Perhaps there may be
something in some of these sacks that will serve us: we had better
examine them and see." We were indeed loath to touch any thing; but we
were in absolute want of food, and were willing to pay for it. Observing
a sack about half full, standing beneath another that was full, and was
bent over it, we thought we would see what was in the broken sack first.
We instantly removed the full sack, and, to our great joy, we found the
other was about half full of excellent oatmeal, ready for use. The
miller's wife came in, in great agitation, and said, that she durst not
sell it, for it belonged to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who was a
Captain of the Yeomen. I replied, that we were in absolute need, and
must have it; but that we would pay a fair market price for it, which
she could give to the gentleman who owned the meal; that he would likely
be able to procure a supply to himself elsewhere; that he perhaps was
not in the immediate want of it, but that we were, and did not know any
where else to find it; and that she might state this to the owner, and
that would remove all blame from her. She assented to the justice of
this; and said, that one shilling and six-pence was a fair price for the
stone weight. The weights were quickly erected; we weighed a stone, paid
the price, and set out to get it cooked, leaving a number more of our
comrades, who had come to the mill, to be supplied in the same way as we
had been. While passing along the street, looking for an inhabited
house, where we might get our meal cooked, we met other three of our
comrades, who had gone to the country in quest of provisions, but could
get nothing but milk, of which they had their canteens full. We agreed
that we would give them a share of our meal for a share of their milk.
We then went into a house, in which was a woman with one child. She said
her husband was a blacksmith, and that the insurgents had forced him to
go with them, to forge their pikes.[3] We told her that we wanted her to
make us some porridge, and that she should get a share of it for her
trouble. She instantly cleaned her pot, (which was but a small one,) and
got it on the fire. We procured some wood for fuel; and, the first pot
full being soon made, and poured into a dish to cool, we desired her to
make haste and get the second ready, for we were very hungry, and what
was in the dish would do little to fill us: we then sat down, all six,
to satisfy our hunger. What was in the dish would have been a very
scanty meal for three; yet, after we had eagerly swallowed a few
spoonfuls, we began to slacken our speed, and (although the milk and
porridge were exceedingly good) to swallow them slowly, and with
difficulty; and we were all reluctantly compelled to leave off before
our little mess was nearly finished, and the poor woman got the remains,
and the second pot full for her trouble. We told her, that we would call
back next day after parade, to get another meal. On returning to our
quarters, we found that our provisions had arrived in our absence; but
as we could not know that they were to arrive that night, we felt
satisfied with what we had done. We did call back at our cook's next
day; and, after taking a little more porridge, desired her to make use
of the rest of that meal as she needed it, for that we had now got
plenty of other provision, and were not likely to require it.
The town and adjacent country were in a most distressing state. Numbers
of the cattle were going through the corn-fields, and destroying more
than they were eating. The milk-cows were lowing most piteously for want
of being milked. And as the town had been more than once in the hands of
the insurgents, the alternate movements of the army and the insurgents
created always fresh alarm to the peaceable and helpless, who were
liable to suffer by every change. The insurgents harassed those who did
not join with them; and when the insurgents had to fly, the soldiers
harassed those whom they found at home, on pretence that they were
friends or favourers of the insurgents: so that it was next to
impossible, for even those who were unable to take any part on either
side, to escape being involved in the distresses attendant on the
quarrel.
The following circumstance will in part show this. Three of our men went
from Gorey, to the country, in quest of provisions; (I think it was the
same three that gave us milk formerly.) They went to a farm house, into
which they entered, but could find no one within. They went through all
the apartments, but could discover no one. They saw that the fire was
unextinguished; the milk, and every thing about the house, showed that
the inhabitants could not be far away. When they had waited a good
while, in the hope that some of them might make their appearance, a
young child came into the house. This convinced them that the mother
could not be far off. They spoke kindly to the child, and gave it a
penny. It then left them, and in a short time reappeared with its mother
and the rest of the women and children belonging to the house. The
soldiers told them that they wanted to buy some milk; to which they
replied, that they might take whatever they wanted, and welcome. The
soldiers said, they did not want any thing for nothing, but would pay
for what they got; but the women insisted that they should take freely
what they wanted, and said, that was not the way they had been used by
the soldiers that had visited them before, for they took what they
wanted without asking their liberty, and sometimes ill used themselves;
adding, "We saw you coming, and we were afraid, and went and hid
ourselves; but when the child came into our hiding-place, and showed us
a penny it had got from you, this encouraged us to make our appearance;
and God bless you, take what you want freely." The soldiers got their
canteens filled with milk, but the inhabitants had no other provisions
that they could spare. They then left them, (after giving the children
as many pence as they thought the milk was worth,) highly pleased with
their visit.
We stayed in the town of Gorey a fortnight, during which time public
confidence was greatly restored. The bulk of the inhabitants had
returned, and the grocers' shops began to be replenished. There was no
whiskey, or drink of any kind, to be had when we entered it; but whiskey
was distilled and sold some days previous to our departure, which
consumed the soldiers' money much faster than the buying of milk did,
although the milk was by far the preferable article, had they been so
wise as to have contented themselves with it. We left Gorey, and had two
days march to Blessington, twelve miles from Dublin. Our route led us
through a part of the country that had suffered severely. Almost every
change of landscape presented to our view the roofless walls of cabins
and of gentlemen's country seats, many of which were spacious and
elegant. The populous village of Carnew, where we halted for a night,
had been almost totally burnt. The inhabitants had sheltered themselves
within the walls of their cabins the best way they could; but, in wet
weather, their condition was pitiful. A great part of the town of
Blessington had also been destroyed. We pitched our tents in the rear of
the Marquis of Downshire's fine house, which had also been burnt. A
large body of military was encamped in the pleasure grounds, and great
openings were made in the walls and hedges to admit of a ready
communication between the different parts of the camp, and every thing
was in a ruinous state. We were here put under the orders of Sir John
Moore, then a Major General, and in a few days he marched with our
regiment, and the Hompesch dragoons, and two pieces of artillery, and
encamped in the glen of Eimal, among the mountains of Wicklow; where
several detached bodies of insurgents were still in arms. When we
entered the glen, which was a fruitful valley of considerable extent,
the inhabitants kept their houses, because some of the military, who had
been there before us, had spread a report that we were uncommonly
ferocious. But this impression was of short duration; we were soon great
favourites with them, and our camp became a place of public resort,
particularly upon Sundays. The young men and women were entertained with
whiskey, music, and dancing; to which exercise they were encouraged by
the attendance and approbation of a neighbouring Catholic priest, who
excited the young women to dance with the military, even with very
profane language. This drew forth the remarks of the soldiers; and even
the most openly profane among them condemned their own sins when
committed by a priest.--A circumstance of a different kind took place
here, which was remarked as uncommon among us. Two of the soldiers
quarrelled, and had a long vociferous wrangle, consisting chiefly in
profane oaths and curses. They were not far from the Major's tent; (the
Major was a Catholic;) he was so disgusted at the horrid profanity of
their language, that he ordered them extra drill, as a punishment, and
complained to Lord Huntly, who gave out an order prohibiting the
practice, and threatening to put the Articles of War in force, and to
fine every man in a shilling for every oath. This was a temporary check
to the very public commission of it, but it was only of short duration;
for the practice was too general among all ranks, and the order was soon
as if it had never been.
While we lay in this camp, Sir John Moore marched twice with us into the
interior of the mountains, where the insurgents still kept in small
bodies. They made a show of resistance, but fled when we got near them.
We pursued them slowly; Sir John did not allow any to fire at them,
though it might, at times, have been done. It appeared to be his
intention to intimidate them from remaining in arms, and by showing them
forbearance, to induce them to return to their allegiance. This wise
conduct of the general, along with the conciliatory behaviour of the
soldiers, had a happy effect. For, during the time that we were encamped
here, the greater part of them came in and delivered up their arms. The
whole would have submitted in the course of a day or two, if the French
had not landed at Killala. It was said, that the only remaining leaders
were in the camp, and had left it to fetch in their followers the next
day; but that the report of the French having landed[4] reaching them in
the evening, revived their hopes of a revolution: and, our marching
suddenly away next morning to oppose the French, confirmed them in the
belief that they were in great force. In consequence of this, they
remained in arms during the autumn and winter, committing petty
depredations, and skulking among the mountains. It was lamentable to see
the ignorance of the people who had been in arms. They were indeed no
judges of political questions. Petty local animosity, and an aversion to
Protestants, was all that operated with the great body of them; and
beyond these, they could not be made to look by those who saw farther.
Their bigotry to the Romish religion was so strong, that although their
oaths, as united Irishmen, bound them to "persevere in endeavouring to
form a brotherhood of affection among Irishmen of _every_ religious
persuasion," they were no sooner up in arms, than they began to show
that Protestants would not be tolerated. They put many Protestants to
death, in the most cruel manner, some of whom were fighting in their own
ranks. And had they succeeded in overturning the government, they would
not have spared even those Protestant gentlemen that were their chief
leaders, nor yet those of their own communion that were favourers of
toleration. Their secular leaders, whether Protestant or Catholic, were
soon convinced, that because they did not approve of intolerance, their
lives would fall a sacrifice to their own party if it was successful.
They preferred surrendering themselves to the clemency of the
government, as soon as it was in their power, to staying among the
insurgents; for, although they had forfeited their lives by their
insurrection, they had a greater chance of being spared by the clemency
of the government, than of escaping the bigotry of those whom they
themselves had stirred up to rise in arms against it. One Garret Byrne,
a Roman Catholic gentleman, of landed property, surrendered after the
affair of the White Heaps, and was sent to our camp, and was employed by
Sir John Moore to guide us through the mountains, when we went in
pursuit of the insurgents.
Disaffection had spread among the Protestants of the north, as well as
among the Papists of the south; but, as soon as the Protestants in the
north heard that the insurrection had taken a religious turn in the
south, they were glad to be quiet, for they instantly saw that their
safety (they being by far the fewer number) lay in the preservation of
the government. This freed the government from the resistance of the
Protestant insurgents of the north; who, from the superiority of their
intelligence, were more to be dreaded than the Catholics of the south.
Want of subordination in the insurgent armies, also, contributed
materially to render the insurrection abortive. Their notions of
liberty, for which they ignorantly pretended to be fighting, were of
such a nature as to render every attempt to train them to arms utterly
vain. They said, we are the sovereign people--we are free--we will not
be drilled like those slaves of government, the red coats. To be drilled
like a soldier was a degree of subordination which they had never been
subject to; and, when they had been persuaded by those who stirred them
up to insurrection, that they were slaves, and that they would obtain
freedom by rising in arms, they could not see the consistency of this,
with submitting to the slavery of being drilled like soldiers. Indeed,
their actions showed that the liberty for which _they were fighting_,
was a liberty to violate the laws of God and man, and indulge in
licentiousness, riot, and dissipation, and the cruelties of
superstition.
We had a long fatiguing march to the opposite coast of Ireland. We never
came in contact with the French, but we were extremely glad when we
heard of their surrender, as we were weary with hard marching. We
escorted them as prisoners one day's march; their number was then, of
all ranks, somewhat about 800. When they landed, they were 1100,
(Gordon's History of the Irish Rebellion, p. 294.) There were several
amongst them who had been prisoners in Corsica when our regiment was
there, and they recognised some of our men as having been guards over
them there.
They had brought a large quantity of arms, accoutrements, and clothing
from France, to equip the Irish insurgents, many of whom had joined them
after they had taken the town of Castlebar; but the major part left
them, and went away with the arms, accoutrements, and clothing they had
received, as soon as the French began to drill them. Muskets had been
given to five thousand five hundred in Castlebar, but there were only
about fifteen hundred that accompanied the French on their march from
that place to Ballinamuck, where the French surrendered, when 500 of
them were killed, and the rest dispersed. They were also dangerous as
well as useless allies to the French; for they were not disposed to give
quarter to prisoners. I heard of an instance of an insurgent who killed
a soldier that had been taken prisoner: one of the French cavalry
instantly cut the insurgent down with his sword. This restraint did not
suit the sanguinary temper of the insurgents; but the French well knew
that if their allies did not give quarter, no quarter would be given to
them. The alliance was also very incongruous; for the insurgents were
all bigotted Catholics, and the French enthusiastic infidels, who openly
boasted that they had lately driven Mr. Pope out of Italy, and had not
expected to find him so suddenly in Ireland. They smiled at the
simplicity of the Irish, when they heard them declare that they came to
take arms for France and the blessed Virgin. The priests were treated
with the utmost contempt by the French general, although it was his
interest to have acted otherwise. There can be no doubt that, although
the French had succeeded in revolutionizing Ireland, their religious
difference would have produced a new war between them and the Irish.
We did not return to the Wicklow mountains; but encamped during the
autumn at Moat, twelve miles from Athlone, which is near the centre of
Ireland; and, when winter set in, we went into Athlone for winter
quarters. The number of the regiment was changed at this time from the
100th to the 92d.
We lay there from the end of October, 1798, to June, 1799. In this place
it pleased God to lead my mind to serious and deep reflection, and to
begin a work of sharp conviction, such as I had never before
experienced. There was a Catholic Chapel, an English Church, and a
Wesleyan Methodist Meeting-house in the town. In the Methodist
Meeting-house, there were always public prayers evening and morning, and
sermon on the Lord's day, and often twice a week in the evenings. I
attended the Meeting-house pretty closely, and began to read my Bible
with more than common attention. I reviewed my past life, and found that
I was an exceeding great sinner in the sight of God: and God's goodness
as my Creator, and merciful Preserver, appeared to my view in a much
stronger light than ever it had done before. I read several religious
books, amongst which were Baxter's Call to the Unconverted, and Young's
Night Thoughts. The subject of life, death, and immortality, occupied my
thoughts very much; the conviction of my ingratitude, in sinning against
God, often made me weep in secret; and the fear of falling into the
hands of a justly offended God, frequently made me shudder. The words of
Scripture, "Repent and turn to the Lord," were strongly impressed upon
my mind. I saw there was no salvation without pardon, and no pardon
without repentance. I wept for my sins, and earnestly besought God to
forgive them. I read the Scriptures, and found, as I imagined, pardon
promised to the penitent. I followed, as far as circumstances permitted,
in point of form, Baxter's directions. I devoted myself to God, and
vowed to forsake sin, and to live a godly life for the future. I made
this resolution in sincerity of heart, my understanding being convinced
that it was my duty to hate sin, because God hated it; and that if I
regarded sin in my heart, God would not hear my prayers, nor pardon my
transgressions. I then began to attempt the performance of what I saw
was my duty. I began to hunger and thirst after personal holiness; but
of the nature of justification, by faith in the imputed righteousness of
Christ, I had no conception; and of the nature and design of his
sufferings, my ideas were very confused and erroneous. It was a sense of
sin that pained my conscience, and I sought for relief in personal
reformation, and founded my hope of pardon for the past, and of eternal
life, in the success of the reformation, I had now commenced. Being
convinced that I was liable to many and strong temptations, and that the
conquest of sin would be no easy work, I conceived that it was my
wisdom, as well as duty, to have recourse to every thing that could
strengthen me against temptation, and assist me in the arduous task of
working out what I conceived to be my salvation.
When under this temper of mind, I happened, with a number of other
soldiers of the regiment, to be at the meeting-house one evening; and
after the ordinary service of praise and prayer was over, the preacher
desired the soldiers to remain, intimating that he had something to say
to us. He then addressed us, on the propriety of joining in a class
meeting, informing us how many soldiers had joined in a class meeting,
in a neighbouring town, in his circuit. He said that some of us might
scruple, because he was not of the same religious principles as those we
had been brought up in. This might be true; but he remarked that we had
no opportunity of joining with those, who were of the principles in
which we might have been educated, there being none in the place; that,
if we chose to form a class meeting, he did not require that we should
be of the same principles with him in every thing; but that if we were
concerned for the salvation of our souls, it would be for our benefit,
while we were absent from home, to be united together, for the purpose
of social worship and instruction.--I thought the proposal candid and
reasonable, and put down my name, as one willing to join in a class
meeting. I thought it would be a means of helping me in the work of
personal reformation. For a short time I went on pretty well in my own
estimation, abstaining from any thing that was open and flagrant; but
secret sins overcame me, although I had set myself to resist them with
all my might; and this broke my peace of mind. It happened, that there
were a number of the regiment, and amongst them some of my own comrades,
taken ill with dysentery; and several died of the disorder. This alarmed
me much. I began more seriously than ever, to contemplate the
uncertainty of life. I read seriously, and with great attention, those
portions of Young's Night Thoughts that treat on that subject. I entered
fully into the spirit of the poet, and applied to my conscience his
reflections. My security of life was completely broken. Every night I
lay down to sleep, I was afraid I might never awake, and every morning I
arose, I was afraid I might die before night. I would say to myself in
the morning, "Some of my fellow creatures, who are living at this
moment, will be dead before night; and how can I tell but I may be one
of them!" This subject never made so strong an impression on my mind as
at this time. I never was so much afraid of death, except on occasions
of evident danger. I could no longer place death at a distance. I saw
myself in danger of being snatched away every moment in numberless ways,
and put the question to myself, "Were I to die this moment, what hope
have I of escaping hell and getting to heaven?" and I concluded, that I
had no hope of heaven whatever, but every reason to fear that hell
should be my portion.
I then began to look around me; and compare myself with the bulk of my
comrades. I thought I was not so bad as they were. I began to reason
with myself, that if God was to send _me_ to hell for _my sins_, surely
those that were worse than I was, would also be condemned; and, if that
was the case, how few would there be that would escape! I would fondly
have indulged the idea, that surely God would not be so severe, as to
condemn so many, and would fain have cherished the hope, that because I
was not so bad as the major part of those I knew, I should have a chance
to escape. But when I reviewed my past life in the light of the word of
God, I found nothing but condemnation; for I perceived that that word
took cognisance of the quality of sin, as well as the quantity, and
condemned both sins secret and sins open: I began to remember the means
that I had enjoyed above others, of religious instruction and
information; and the declaration of our Lord, "To whom much is given, of
them shall much be required," rang in my ears. I remembered the
impressions made upon my mind by early religious instructions; I
recollected the resolutions I had made to forsake sin, and the
convictions which had produced these resolutions; I thought of my
breaches of these resolutions, and my former forgetfulness and
indifference: and more particularly, my failing in keeping my last most
solemn vow. I began to meditate and consider of God's dealings with me
as an individual: and of the account he would require of me _as an
individual sinner_. I no longer durst compare myself with other men. I
knew not the extent, in number and heinousness, of any other man's sins.
I knew not their secret sins and evil purposes of heart; and as God
would bring all manner of sin into judgment, I durst no longer think in
my heart that I was a whit better than the most wicked and profane
person I knew; for I knew more evil of myself than I had known, or could
know of another. This led me to look more strictly into my own heart,
and to examine what was done in it, as I found that the word of God
discerned the thoughts of the heart. This led me to investigate the
_motives_ of my actions, and then I found that I did nothing that was
pure. I called to mind the past goodness of God, the many mercies and
deliverances he had given me; I reflected on my ungrateful behaviour,
and was filled with wonder and astonishment that a God of such awful
majesty, should have spared such an ungrateful and vile wretch so long;
I was led afresh to consider, "What shall I do to escape the just
vengeance of Almighty God?" and my resolution was to repent afresh of my
sins, and devote my future life, with greater resolution to his glory. I
durst not delay my repentance to a more convenient time, because the
fear of death stared me in the face; and I was convinced, that as death
left me, judgment would find me. I trembled at the thought of being
called, by death, before the awful tribunal of God. I had nothing to
look to on the one hand, but a broken law; and a holy, sin-avenging God
on the other. This made me earnestly wish for the pardon of my sins, and
I resolved that I would do any thing whatever that would procure it.
I read the Scriptures, but chiefly in the Old Testament, often in
Isaiah. To the clearer light of the New Testament, I did not so much
attend. Its clear evangelical language did not strike my mind with that
force as to fix my attention upon it. From those parts of the Scripture
that caught my attention, I formed the following opinions:--that God
promised mercy to the penitent returning sinner: this gave me a gleam of
hope, which I believe prevented me from sinking into absolute despair;
but I did not understand the nature of evangelical repentance, or the
way by which the penitent should come to God, in order to be accepted.
The state of my mind at that time was this; I thought that if I
sincerely repented of my past sins, and did not commit sin for the
future, God would pardon my sins. I also promised myself, that if I
truly, and seriously, resolved to serve God for the future period of my
life, God would on this account, give me strength to resist every kind
of temptation, and to overcome every desire to sin. I promised myself,
that, by constant endeavours, and unremitting exertions, I should
overcome all obstacles, and finally merit eternal life. I saw that God
required of the penitent sinner, future obedience: I was convinced that
this was just: I thought that God did not require any thing but what he
had given us power to perform, if we were but willing to do so. I
resolved to be willing, and to try my strength to the utmost. I thought
that if I did meet with any thing that was too hard for my present
strength, God would give me additional strength; but that the only way
to honour God was to use the power that he had already given me. I
thought it would be affronting God to ask more, until I had first proved
the insufficiency of what I now possessed: and that it would be
insulting to divine goodness, to be seeking that which was already
bestowed upon me. Under this frame of mind, I set about the performance
of religious duties. I prayed more frequently and fervently; I read the
Scriptures with greater diligence and attention; I abstained from every
thing that was in my opinion sinful. But my past sins were still painful
to me, because I was not yet assured that they were or should be
pardoned. I was, however, certain that if I continued to commit sin, I
should get no pardon, but if I forsook sin, I _might_ obtain pardon. The
spirit of my prayers was, entreating God to pardon my sins, and
promising to lead a holy life in future.
While in this state of mind, I went one evening to the meeting-house,
and as I was returning to the barracks, pondering in my mind my guilt,
as a sinner, and the goodness and sparing mercy of God, the powers of my
mind having been buoyed up by the fervour of the exhortations and
prayers I had heard, a sudden emotion started all at once into my mind,
that my sins were pardoned by God, that God had promised pardon to such
as me; and that all that was required was, that I should believe that
God had pardoned my sins; that God was faithful to his promise, and it
would be to me, even according to my faith. This emotion had a powerful
influence upon me. It gave peace to my mind, for I took it to be one of
those manifestations of the Spirit, spoken of by those who preached,
exhorted, and prayed, at the meeting-house. Under the impressions
produced by it, I went on very smoothly, abstaining from sins, to which
I had formerly been a slave. I now thought myself happy, and promised to
myself, that I would now be able to live such a life, as should be
pleasing to God, and should procure and retain his favour.
But I must here add, that this impression that my sins were actually
pardoned, was not accompanied with any increase of light to my
understanding of the way in which God forgives sin. I was as blind to
the nature of the great doctrines of the justifying righteousness and
atoning blood of Christ, as I had been before. The views which at this
time I entertained of Christ's death, were, that he had died to procure
the pardon of such sins as were committed by sinners, while in a state
of ignorance and impenitence. I believed that had Christ not died, there
would have been no pardon for sin, but that his death had opened the
door of mercy to penitent sinners of all descriptions. I thought all the
design of God, was to bring men to a sense of their moral duty, and to
put them once more in a fair way of discharging their moral obligations
to him, as their Creator and Preserver; and that he had promised those
who repented, his assistance in all things that were difficult, and his
protection from outward danger; and that Christ's death justified God,
in granting pardon to penitent sinners, on account of their penitence. I
had some faint recollection of what I had read in Boston's Fourfold
State, and the instructions I had received in the Sabbath school, and
from others, and could discern that there was a difference between them
and the instructions I was now hearing, particularly on the doctrine of
election, and remaining corruption in believers; but I had no fixed
ideas on these topics, only just as much as prevented me from thinking
that the Methodists were right, in denying, that the doctrines of
election, and of remaining depravity in all believers, were taught in
the Bible. I thought they were, but they were not any part of my own
fixed belief. I read Wesley on Christian perfection, and, although I did
not think he gave a sound view of some Scripture texts, perfection was
the thing I was striving to obtain; a perfect obedience to the divine
law was what I had set out to accomplish; and the following lines of one
of Mr. Wesley's hymns, were, for a time, very frequent in my mouth, and
repeated in secret prayer to God;
O grant that nothing in my heart
May dwell, but thy pure love alone;
and I resolved that my life should be one scene of devotion and of
gratitude to God. I continued to go on pretty smoothly for about six
weeks, and I thought I had got the better of sinful inclinations; but
when I fancied I was strong, I soon had reason to be convinced that I
was weak, had I only been willing to learn; for I again fell into some
sins, which I had flattered myself I should never more be guilty of; and
this broke my peace of mind, and blasted all my hopes. I however found
means to heal the sore again, after having undergone considerable pain
of mind. I again set out by repenting, and trusting in the mercy of God,
and resolving on future obedience; but my conduct was not regular, and
secret sins, which lay at times very heavy upon my conscience, would
overcome me, although I strove against them with all my might.
I continued to attend the various meetings, public and private, amongst
the Methodists, while we lay in Athlone. My attendance among them was
certainly of great benefit to me, in leading to a train of experience,
that materially contributed to make me acquainted with the deep
deceitfulness of my own heart. I was indeed slow to learn; but what took
place with me at that time, afforded matter for reflection afterwards. I
think upon it still, and see great reason for humility on account of my
blindness, in not seeing while I was there, that I was without strength
and without righteousness, without Christ, and without hope, I can not
tell how far the gospel was set before me by the Methodists; but I am
pretty certain, from some expressions that I have still a faint
recollection of, that Christ was set before me in a much clearer light
than I at that time apprehended him; I had, all the time I was there,
continued in a course of sinning and repenting, making resolutions and
breaking them; and, although I suffered great pain of conscience, I
succeeded in quieting it by the hope of better success the next time.
When we came to leave the place, I felt that I should not have the same
privilege, of the means of instruction and social worship, at least for
a while to come; and this gave me less hope of myself, and filled me
with a greater degree of fear, that I should be more liable to be
overcome by temptation, when I should not have the help of the means of
grace.
I may here mention a simple incident that occurred while I was in
Athlone. One night I was placed sentinel over a prisoner, in the room in
which he slept. He was asleep, and I did not disturb him; a book lay
near me; I took it up and passed the two hours with it; it was a book of
sermons on Contentment, written by an old divine, (if I mistake not, a
Mr. Taylor of London,) but it matters not who the author was. He handled
it in a variety of lights, and applied the principle of contentment to
the good works of Christians. I forgot all that I read but the following
expressions; he said, that the genuine disciple of Christ was one, who
was willing to do every thing for the sake of Christ, and, at the same
time, was content to deny all he had done for Christ's sake. The author
pursued his subject in a spiritual sense, and I was taken with the book,
although I did not understand it. It was, however, written in such a
strain of piety, that I was struck with it; my memory kept hold of the
words, "do all for Christ, and deny all for Christ;" and I would at
times reflect upon them, as strange and mysterious. I could never
understand them, but I could not help being struck with them; and when
the Lord opened my eyes several years afterwards, I remembered I had
read them, and wondered how it was I did not understand them sooner; but
I was then carnal; and the things of the Spirit were foolishness to me,
for I had not spiritual discernment.
We left Athlone, and marched to Cork, in June, 1799, to embark for
England, and join the army that was forming to invade Holland. After
leaving Athlone, I began to fall off in my attention to serious things.
I carried Gray's Sermons in my knapsack, to oblige a comrade who was a
Methodist, but who had not room for it in his. I carried it to the place
of our embarkation, and returned it to him, without having read any part
of it. I had read little or nothing of my Bible either, during the
march. I found out the Methodist meeting at Cashil, where we stopt a
day, and was at worship twice or thrice.
We lay several weeks encamped at a place called Monkton, near Cork,
waiting for vessels to carry us to England. I was twice or thrice at a
prayer meeting during that time; but although the prospect of danger was
increasing, I was increasingly remiss in attending to religious duties;
and this was the case with the most part of those who had been joined
with the Methodists. There was only one man in the regiment who was
uniformly steady and consistent in these things.
Footnote 3:
They impressed into their service all the blacksmiths they could find.
Footnote 4:
Reports varied as to the number landed: some reports made them 15,000,
others, as high as 30,000.