THE SIEGE OF DROGHEDA.
Under the influence of the warm, close air of the hut, and the spirits
he had taken, Harry soon felt drowsiness stealing over him, and the
leader, perceiving this, pointed to a heap of dried fern lying in the
corner of the hut. Harry at once threw himself on it, and in a very few
minutes was sound asleep. When he awoke daylight was streaming in
through the door of the hut. Its inmates were for the most part sitting
as when he had last seen them, and Harry supposed that they had talked
all night. The atmosphere of the hut was close and stifling, and Harry
was glad to go to the door and breathe the fresh air outside.
The weather had changed, and the sun, which had just risen, was shining
brightly. The hut stood at the foot of a long range of stony hills,
while in front stretched, as far as the eye could see, an expanse of
brown bog. A bridle path ran along at the foot of the hills. An hour
later two figures were seen approaching along this. The one was a
mounted horseman, the other running in front of him, at a long, easy
trot, was Harry's guide of the preceding evening.
On reaching the cottage the gentleman on horseback alighted, and,
advancing to Harry, said:
"Captain Furness, I am heartily sorry to hear that you have had what
must have been a disagreeable adventure. The lad here who brought your
letter told me that you were regarded as a prisoner, and considered to
be a Protestant emissary. I am Tom Blake, and I live nearly twenty miles
from here. That is the reason why I was not here sooner. I was keeping
it up with some friends last night, and had just gone to bed when the
messenger arrived, and my foolish servants pretended I was too drunk to
be woke. However, when they did rouse me, I started at once."
"And has that boy gone forty miles on foot since last night?" Harry
asked, in surprise.
"Oh, that's nothing," Mr. Blake said. "Give him half an hour's rest, and
he'd keep up with us back to Killicuddery. But where is your horse, and
how did you get into this mess? The boy tells me he found you in the
bog."
Harry related his adventures.
"You have had a lucky escape indeed," Mr. Blake said. "There are places
in that bog thirty feet deep. I would not try to cross it for a thousand
pounds on a bright day, and how you managed to do so through the mist
yesterday is more than I can imagine. Now, the first thing is to get
your horse. I must apologize for not having brought one, but the fact
is, my head was not exactly clear when I started, and I had not taken in
the fact that you'd arrived on foot. My servant was more thoughtful. He
had heard from the boy that an English gentleman was here, and judging
that the larder was not likely to be stocked, he put a couple of bottles
of claret, a cold chicken, and some bread into my wallet, so we can have
breakfast while they are looking for your horse. The ride has sharpened
my appetite."
Mr. Blake now addressed a few words in Irish to the men clustered round
the door of the hut. One of them climbed to the top of the hill, and
presently shouted down some instructions, and another at once started
across the bog.
"They see your horse," Mr. Blake said, "but we shall have to wait for
two or three hours. It is some four miles off, and they will have to
make a long detour to bring it back."
Mr. Blake now distributed some silver among the men, and these, with the
exception of the master of the house, soon afterward left. Harry
heartily enjoyed his breakfast, and in cheery chat with his host the
time passed pleasantly until the peasant returned with the horse and
saddle. The horse was rubbed down with dry fern, and a lump of black
bread given him to eat.
"What can I do for the boy?" Harry asked. "I owe him my life, for I was
so thoroughly drenched and cold that I question whether I should have
lived till morning out in that bog."
"The boy thinks nothing of it," Mr. Blake said. "A few hundred yards
across the bog night or day is nothing to him."
Harry gave the lad a gold piece, which he looked at in wonder.
"He has never seen such a thing before," Mr. Blake laughed. "There,
Mickey," he said in Irish, "that's enough to buy you a cow, and you've
only got to build a cabin and take a wife to start life as a man."
The boy said something in Irish.
"I thought so," Mr. Blake laughed. "You haven't got rid of him yet. He
wants to go as your servant."
Harry laughed too. The appearance of the lad in his tattered garments
was in contrast indeed to the usual aspect of a gentleman's retainer.
"You'll find him useful," Mr. Blake said. "He will run errands for you
and look after your horse. These lads can be faithful to death. You
cannot do better than take him."
Mickey's joy when he was told that he might accompany the English
gentleman was extreme. He handed the money he had received to his
father, said a few words of adieu to him, and then started on ahead of
the horses.
"He had better wait and come on later," Harry said. "He must be utterly
tired now."
Mr. Blake shouted after the boy, who turned round, laughed, and shook
his head, and again proceeded on his way.
"He can keep up with us," Mr. Blake said. "That horse of yours is more
fagged than he is."
Harry soon found that this was the case, and it took them nearly four
hours' riding before they reached Killicuddery. Here a dozen barefooted
men and boys ran out at their approach, and took the horses. It was a
large, straggling house, as good as that inhabited by the majority of
English gentlemen, but Harry missed the well-kept lawn, the trim
shrubberies, and the general air of neatness and order to which he was
accustomed.
"Welcome to Killicuddery," Mr. Blake said, as he alighted. "Believe me,
Captain Furness, you won't find the wild Irish, now you are fairly among
them, such dreadful creatures as they have been described to you. Well,
Norah," he continued, as a girl some sixteen years of age bounded down
the steps to meet him, "how goes it with you this morning?"
"As well as could be expected, father, considering that you kept us
awake half the night with your songs and choruses. None of the others
are down yet, and it's past twelve o'clock. It's downright shameful."
"Norah, I'm surprised at you," Mr. Blake said, laughing. "What will
Captain Furness think of Irish girls when he hears you speaking so
disrespectfully to your father. This is my daughter Norah, Captain
Furness, who is, I regret to say, a wild and troublesome girl. This, my
dear, is Captain Furness, a king's officer, who has fought through all
the battles of the war."
"And who has lately been engaged in a struggle with an Irish bog," the
girl said, laughing, for Harry's gay dress was discolored and stained
from head to foot.
Harry laughed also.
"I certainly got the worst of that encounter, Miss Norah, as indeed has
been the case in most of those in which I have been engaged. I never
felt much more hopeless, when I thought I should have to pass the night
sitting on a tuft of grass with mud and mist all round me, except when I
was once nearly baked to death in, company with Prince Rupert."
"It must have been a large oven," the girl laughed; "but come in now. I
am sure you will both be ready for breakfast. But papa would keep you
chattering here all day if I would let him."
Mr. Blake, Harry soon found, was a widower, and his house was presided
over by his eldest daughter, Kathleen, to whom Harry was introduced on
entering the house. As it was now some hours since they had eaten the
food which Mr. Blake had brought, they were quite ready for another
meal, at which they were soon joined by six or eight other gentlemen,
who had been sleeping in the house. Breakfast over, Harry retired to his
room, put on a fresh suit from his wallet, and rejoined his companions,
when a sort of council of war was held. Harry learned that there was no
difficulty as to men, as any number of these could be recruited among
the peasantry. There was, however, an entire absence of any arms save
pikes. Harry knew how good a weapon are these when used by steady and
well-disciplined men. The matchlocks of those days were cumbrous arms,
and it was at the point of the pike that battles were then always
decided.
Mr. Blake begged Harry to make his house his headquarters during his
stay in the West, and the invitation was gladly accepted. The letters
of which he was the bearer were dispatched to their destinations, and a
few days after his arrival the recipients called upon him, and he found
himself overwhelmed with invitations and offers of hospitality. The time
therefore passed very pleasantly.
A few men were found in Galway who had served in the wars. These were
made sergeants of the newly raised regiment, which was five hundred
strong. This was not embodied, but five central places were chosen at a
distance from each other, and at these the peasants assembled for drill.
Several of the sons of the squires received commissions as officers, and
the work of drilling went on briskly, Harry superintending that at each
center by turns. In the evenings there were generally dinner parties at
the houses of one or other of the gentry, and Harry greatly enjoyed the
life. So some months passed.
In July the news came that the Earl of Ormonde's force outside Dublin
had been routed by the garrison, under General Jones, the governor, and
shortly afterward Harry received orders to march with the regiment to
join the earl, who, as the king's representative, forwarded him at the
same time a commission as its colonel, and the order to command it.
It was on the 13th of August that Harry with his force joined the army
of Ormonde, and the next day the news came that Cromwell had landed at
Dublin, and had issued a bloodthirsty proclamation against the Irish.
Harry was at once ordered to march with his regiment to Tredah, now
called Drogheda, a seaport about forty miles north of Dublin. At this
town Harry found in garrison twenty-five hundred English troops, under
the command of Sir Arthur Ashton, an old Royalist officer, he had lost a
leg in the king's service.
During the six months he had passed in the West Harry had found Mike an
invaluable servant. He had, of course, furnished him with decent suits
of clothes, but although willing to wear shoes in the house, nothing
could persuade Mike to keep these on his feet when employed without. As
a messenger he was of the greatest service, carrying Harry's missives to
the various posts as quickly as they could have been taken by a
horseman. During that time he had picked up a great deal of English, and
his affection for his master was unbounded. He had, as a matter of
course, accompanied Harry on his march east, and was ready to follow him
to the end of the world if need be.
The garrison of Drogheda employed themselves busily in strengthening the
town to the utmost, in readiness for the siege that Cromwell would, they
doubted not, lay to it. In September Cromwell moved against the place.
He was prepared to carry out the campaign in a very different spirit to
that with which he had warred in England. For years Ireland had been
desolated by the hordes of half-savage men, who had for that time been
burning, plundering, and murdering on the pretext of fighting for or
against the king. Cromwell was determined to strike so terrible a blow
as would frighten Ireland into quietude. He knew that mildness would be
thrown away upon this people, and he defended his course, which excited
a thrill of horror in England, upon the grounds that it was the most
merciful in the end. Certainly, nowhere else had Cromwell shown himself
a cruel man. In England the executions in cold blood had not amounted to
a dozen in all. The common men on both sides were, when taken prisoners,
always allowed to depart to their homes, and even the officers were not
treated with harshness. It may be assumed that his blood was fired by
the tales of massacre and bloodshed which reached him when he landed.
The times were stern, and the policy of conciliating rebels and
murderers by weak concessions was not even dreamed of. Still, no excuses
or pleas of public policy can palliate Cromwell's conduct at Drogheda
and Wexford. He was a student and expounder of the Bible, but it was in
the old Testament rather than the new that precedents for the massacre
at Drogheda must be sought for. No doubt it had the effect at the time
which Cromwell looked for, but it left an impression upon the Irish mind
which the lapse of over two centuries has not obliterated. The wholesale
massacres and murders perpetrated by Irishmen on Irishmen have long
since been forgotten, but the terrible vengeance taken by Cromwell and
his saints upon the hapless towns of Drogheda and Wexford will never be
forgotten by the Irish, among whom the "curse of Cromwell" is still the
deadliest malediction one man can hurl at another.
Cromwell's defenders who say that he warred mildly and mercifully in
England, according to English ideas, and that he fought the Irish only
as they fought each other, must be hard driven when they set up such a
defense. The fact that Murrogh O'Brien, at the capture of Cashel,
murdered the garrison who had laid down their arms, and three thousand
of the defenseless citizens, including twenty priests who had fled to
the cathedral for refuge, affords no excuse whatever for the
perpetration of equal atrocities by Cromwell, and no impartial historian
can deny that these massacres are a foul and hideous blot in the history
of a great and, for the most part, a kind and merciful man.
Upon arriving before Drogheda on the 2d of September Cromwell at once
began to throw up his batteries, and opened fire on the 10th. His
artillery was abundant, and was so well served that early the same
afternoon two practical breaches were made, the one in the east, in the
wall of St. Mary's Churchyard, the other to the south, in the wall of the
town. Sir Arthur Ashton had placed Harry in command at St. Mary's
Churchyard, and seeing that the wall would soon give way under the fire
of the enemy's artillery, he set his men to throw up an earthwork
behind.
Seven hundred of the Roundheads advanced to the assault, but so heavy
was the fire that Harry's troops poured upon them that they were forced
to fall back with great slaughter. At the other breach they were also
repulsed, but attacking again in great force they made their way in.
Near this spot was an ancient tumulus, called the Hill Mount. The sides
of this were defended by strong palisades, and here the Royalists,
commanded by Sir Arthur Ashton himself, opposed a desperate resistance
to the enemy. These, supported by the guns on the walls, which they
turned against the Mount, made repeated attacks, but were as often
repulsed. The loss, however, of the defenders was great, and seeing that
fresh troops were constantly brought against them they at last lost
heart and surrendered, on promise of their lives; a promise which was
not kept, as all were immediately massacred.
Up to this time Harry had successfully repulsed every attack made upon
the other breach, but at length the news of the Roundheads' success at
the Mount reached both assailants and defenders.
With exulting shouts the Roundheads poured over the wall. The garrison,
headed by Harry and the other officers, strove hard to drive them back,
but it was useless. Cromwell and Ireton were in the van of their troops,
and these, accustomed to victory, hewed their way through the ranks of
the besieged. Many of them lost heart, and, throwing down their arms,
cried for quarter. With shouts of "No quarter!" "Hew down the
Amalakites!" "Strike, and spare not!" the Roundheads cut down their now
defenseless foes. Maddened at the sight, the besieged made another
desperate effort at resistance, and for awhile fought so stoutly that
the Roundheads could gain no ground of them.
Presently, however, a party of the enemy who had forced their way over
the wall at another point took them in rear. Then the garrison fled in
all directions pursued by their victorious enemy, who slaughtered every
man they overtook. Mike had kept close to Harry through the whole of the
struggle. He had picked up a pike from a fallen man, and had more than
once, when Harry was nearly surrounded by his foes, dashed forward and
rid him of one of the most pressing. Seeing, by the general slaughter
which was going on, that the Roundhead soldiers must have received
orders from their general to give no quarter, Harry determined to sell
his life dearly, and rushed into a church where a score of the English
soldiers were taking refuge. The door was closed and barricaded with
chairs and benches, and from the windows the men opened fire upon the
Roundheads, who were engaged in slaying all--men, women and children,
without mercy. Soon, from every house around, a heavy fire was poured
into the church, and several of those within fell dead under the fire.
Under cover of this, the Roundheads attacked the door with axes. Many
were killed by the fire of the defenders, but as the door yielded, Harry
called these from their post, and with them ascended the belfry tower.
Here they prepared to fight to the last.
Looking from a window, Harry beheld a sight which thrilled him with
horror. Gathered round a cross, standing in an open space, were two
hundred women on their knees. Even while Harry looked a body of
Cromwell's saints fell upon them, hewing and cutting with their swords,
and thrusting with their pikes, and did not desist while one remained
alive. And these were the men who had the name of God ever on their
lips! When the dreadful massacre began Harry turned shuddering from the
window, and with white face and set teeth nerved himself to fight to the
last. Already the door had been beaten down, and the assailants had
streamed into the church. Then a rush of heavy feet was heard on the
stairs. Assembled round its top stood Harry and the twelve men
remaining. Each knew now that there was no hope of quarter, and fought
with the desperation of men who cared only to sell their lives dearly.
Fast as the Roundheads poured up the stairs, they fell, pierced by pike,
or shot down by musket ball. For half an hour the efforts continued, and
then the Roundheads, having lost over fifty men, fell back. Three times
during the day the attack was renewed, and each time repulsed with the
same terrible slaughter. Between the intervals the defenders could hear
the never-ceasing sound of musket and pistol firing, as house after
house, defended to the last by desperate men, was stormed; while loud,
even above the firing, rose the thrilling shrieks of dying women and
children.
In all the history of England, from its earliest times, there is no such
black and ghastly page as that of the sack of Drogheda. Even supposing
Cromwell's assertion that he wished only to terrify the Irish rebels to
be true, no shadow of an excuse can be pleaded for the massacre of the
women and children, or for that of the English Royalists who formed
five-sixths of the garrison.
All through the night occasional shrieks and pistol shots could be
heard, as the wretched people who had hidden themselves in closets and
cellars were discovered and murdered. No further assault was made upon
the church tower, nor was there any renewal of it next morning. As hour
after hour passed on Harry concluded that, deterred by the great loss
which his men had already sustained in endeavoring to capture the post,
Cromwell had determined to reduce it by starvation.
Already the defenders were, from the effects of exertion and excitement,
half-mad with thirst. As the day went on their sufferings became
greater, but there was still no thought of surrender. The next day two
of them leaped from the top of the tower and were killed by their fall.
Then Harry saw that it was better to give in.
"My lads," he said, "it is better to go down and die by a bullet-shot
than to suffer these agonies of thirst, with only death as the issue. We
must die. Better to die in our senses as men, than mad like wild beasts
with thirst. Mike, my lad, I am sorry to have brought you to this pass."
Mike put his parched lips to his master's hand.
"It is not your fault, master. My life is no differ to any."
The men agreed to Harry's proposal. There was a discussion whether they
should go down and die fighting, or not; but Harry urged upon them that
it was better not to do so. They were already weak with hunger and
thirst, and it would be more dignified to meet their fate quiet and
unresistingly. They accordingly laid by their arms, and, preceded by
Harry, descended the stairs.
The noise of their footsteps warned the soldiers in the church below of
their coming, and these formed in a semicircle round the door to receive
the expected onslaught. When they saw that the Royalists were unarmed
they lowered their weapons, and an officer said: "Take these men out
into the street, and shoot them there, according to the general's
orders."
Calmly and with dignity Harry marched at the head of his little party
into the street. They were ranged with their backs to the church, and a
firing party took their places opposite to them.
The officer was about to give the order, when a divine in a
high-steepled hat came up. He looked at the prisoners, and then rapidly
advanced between the lines and gazed earnestly at Harry.
"Is your name Master Furness?" he asked.
"I am Colonel Furness, an officer of his majesty Charles II.," Harry
said coldly. "What then?"
"I am Ebenezer Stubbs," the preacher said. "Do you not remember how
seven years ago you saved my life at the risk of your own in the streets
of Oxford? I promised you then that if the time should come I would do
as good a turn to yourself. Captain Allgood," he said, "I do beseech you
to stay this execution until I have seen the general. I am, as you know,
his private chaplain, and I am assured that he will not be wroth with
you for consenting to my request."
The influence of the preacher with Cromwell was well known, and the
officer ordered his men to ground arms, although they muttered and
grumbled to themselves at the prospect of mercy being shown to men who
had killed so many of their companions. A quarter of a hour later the
preacher returned with an order from the general for the prisoners to be
placed in durance.
"I have obtained your life," the preacher said, "but even to my prayers
the general will grant no more. You and your men are to be sent to the
Bermudas."
Although Harry felt that death itself would be almost preferable to a
life of slavery in the plantations, he thanked the preacher for his
efforts in his behalf. A week later Harry, with the eight men who had
taken with him, and twenty-seven others who been discovered in
hiding-places, long after the capture of the place, were placed on board
a ship bound for the Bermudas, the sole survivors of the garrison--three
thousand strong--and of the inhabitants of Drogheda.