SIEGE OF WATERFORD
"Now for our Irish wars!"
SHAKSPEARE.
Again the duke of York approached the rocky entrance of the Cove of
Cork, again he passed through the narrow passage, which opening,
displayed a lovely sheet of tranquil water, decked with islands. The
arrival of his fleet in the harbour was hailed with joy. Old John
O'Water had returned to his civic labours, and had contrived to get
himself chosen mayor for this year, that he might be of greater
assistance to the White Rose in his enterprise.
As soon as the arrival of his ships off the coast was known, O'Water
despatched messengers to the earl of Desmond, and busied himself to
give splendour to Richard's entrance into Cork. Tapestry and
gay-coloured silks were hung from the windows; the street was strewn
with flowers--citizens and soldiers intermixed crowded to the
landing-place. York's heart palpitated with joy. It was not that thence
he much hoped for success to his adventure, which required more than the
enthusiasm of the remote inhabitants of the south of Ireland to achieve
it: but Cork was a sort of home to him; here he had found safety when he
landed, barely escaped from Trangmar's machinations--here he first
assumed his rightful name and title--here, a mere boy, ardent,
credulous, and bold--he had seen strangers adopt his badge and avouch
his cause. Five years had elapsed since then--the acclaim of a few kind
voices, the display of zeal, could no longer influence his hopes as then
they had done, but they gladdened his heart, and took from it that
painful feeling which we all too often experience--that we are cast
away on the inhospitable earth, useless and neglected.
He was glad also in the very first spot of his claimed dominions whereon
he set foot, to see the Lady Katherine received with the honours due to
her rank. Her beauty and affability won the hearts of all around, and
O'Water, with the tenderness that an old man is so apt to feel towards a
young and lovely woman, extended to her a paternal affection, the
simplicity and warmth of which touched her, thrown as she was among
strangers, with gratitude.
Lord Desmond arrived--he was struck by the improvement in York's
manner, still ingenuous and open-hearted: he was more dignified, more
confident in himself than before--the husband of Katherine also
acquired consideration; as an adventurous boy, he might be used
according to the commodity of the hour--now he had place--station in
the world, and Desmond paid him greater deference, almost unawares.
But the earl was sorely disappointed; "Reverend Father," said he to
Keating, "what aid does Scotland promise? Will they draw Tudor with his
archers and harquebusiers, and well-horsed knights, to the north,
giving our Irish kern some chance of safe landing in the west?"
"Peace is concluded between Scotland and England," replied Keating.
Desmond looked moody. "How thrives the White Rose over the water? How
sped the duke, when he entered England? Some aid somewhere we must have,
besides yonder knot of wanderers, and our own hungry, naked kerns."
"By my fay!" replied Keating, "every budding blossom on the Rose-bush
was nipped, as by a north-east wind. When Duke Richard sowed his hopes
there, like the dragon's teeth of Dan Cadmus, they turned into so many
armed men to attack him."
"Sooth, good prior," said the earl, with a sharp laugh, "we shall speed
well thereby: would you a re-acting of the gleeful mime at Stowe?"
"Wherefore," said Keating, "fix your thoughts on England? The dark sea
rolls between us, and even the giants of old broke their causeway, which
in the north 'tis said they built, ere it laid its long arm on the
English shore. The name of Ireland reads as fair as England; its sons
are as brave and politic, able to defend, to rule themselves: blot
England from the world, and Ireland stands free and glorious, sufficing
to herself. This springal, valorous though he be, can never upset
Tudor's throne in London; but he can do more for us by his very
impotence. He is the true lord of Ireland: we are liegemen in
maintaining his right. Plant his banner, rally round it all men who wish
well to their country; drive out the good man Poynings; crush the
Butlers--aye, down with them; and when Richard is crowned King of Erin,
and the Geraldines rule under him, our native land will stand singly,
nor want England for a crutch--or, by'r Lady! for a spear to enter her
heart, while she leaneth on it; so the wars of York and Lancaster may
free us from the proud, imperious English; and the Irish, like the
Scotch, have a king and a state of their own."
Desmond's eyes flashed for a moment, as Keating thus presented before
them the picture he most desired to behold; but they grew cold again.
"The means, reverend prior, the arms, the money, the soldiers?"
"A bold stroke brings all: strike one blow, and Ireland is at our feet.
We must not tarry; now the Butlers and their party are asleep in their
security; gather men together; march forward boldly; strike at the
highest, Dublin herself."
"Father," replied the earl, "long before I were half way there, my
litter would be abandoned even by its bearers, and we left alone among
the bogs and mountains, to feed as we may, or die. If there be any sooth
in your scheme, it can only prove good, inasmuch as we secure Connaught
to ourselves, and turn this corner of the island into a kingdom; but
neither one word, nor one blow, will gain Dublin. You are right so
far,--something must be done, and speedily; and, if it be well done, we
may do more, till by the aid of the blessed St. Patrick and
white-tooth'd Bridget! we tread upon the necks of the Butlers."
This one thing to be undertaken, after much consultation among the
chieftains, was the siege of Waterford: it had been summoned to
acknowledge Duke Richard as its lord, and had refused: Keating was very
averse to spending time before a fortified town. "On, on, _boutez en
avant_!" He reminded Lord Barry of his device, and strove to awaken
ambition in him. The prior of Kilmainham had spent all his life in
Dublin, a chief member of the government, a seditious, factious but
influential man: the capital to him was all that was worth having,
while, to these lords of Munster, the smallest victory over their
particular rivals, or the gaining a chief city in a district, which was
their world, appeared more glorious than entering London itself
victoriously, if meanwhile Waterford, or any one of the many towns of
Ireland, held out against them.
On the fifteenth of July, 1497, the duke of York, the earl of Desmond,
and the other many chief of many names, some Geraldines, all allied to,
or subject to them, as the O'Briens, the Roches, the Macarthys, the
Barrys, and others, assembled at Youghall, a town subject to the earl of
Desmond, and situated about midway between Cork and Waterford, at the
mouth of the river Blackwater.
On the twenty-second of July the army was in movement, and entered the
county of Waterford; the chiefs, at the head of their respective
followers, proceeded to the shrine of St. Declan at Ardmore, to make
their vows for the success of their expedition. The church at Ardmore,
the round tower, the shrine, and healing-rock, were all objects of
peculiar sanctity. The countess of Desmond, and her young son, and the
fair duchess of York, accompanied this procession from Youghall. After
the celebration of mass, the illustrious throng congregated on the rocky
eminence, on which the mysterious tower is built, overlooking the little
bay, where the calm waters broke gently on the pebbly beach. It was a
beauteous summer-day; the noon-day heat was tempered by the sea breeze,
and relieved by the regular plash of the billows, as they spent
themselves on the shore. A kind of silence--such silence as there can
be among a multitude, such a silence as is preserved when the winds sing
among the pines--possessed the crowd: they stood in security, in peace,
surrounded by such objects as excited piety and awe; and yet the hopes
of the warrior, and, if such a word may be used, a warrior's fears,
possessed them; it was such a pause as the mountain-goat makes ere he
commits himself to the precipice. A moment afterwards all was in motion;
to the sound of warlike instruments the troops wound up the Ardmore
mountains, looking down on the little fleet that stemmed its slow way
towards the harbour of Waterford. The ladies were left alone with few
attendants. The young duchess gazed on that band of departing warriors,
whose sole standard was the spotless rose; they were soon lost in the
foldings of the hills; again they emerged; her straining eye caught
them. That little speck upon the mountain-side contained the sole hope
and joy of her life, exposed to danger for the sake of a little good;
for Katherine, accustomed to the sight of armies, and to the
companionship of chiefs and rulers, detected at once the small chance
there was, that these men could bring to terms a strongly fortified
city; but resignation supplied the place of hope; she believed that
Richard would be spared; and, but for his own sake, she cared little
whether a remote home in Ireland, or a palace in England received them.
She looked again on the mountain path; no smallest moving object gave
sign of life; the sunlight slept upon the heathy uplands; the grey rocks
stood in shadowy grandeur; Katherine sighed and turned again to the
chapel, to offer still more fervent prayers, that on this beauteous
earth, beneath this bright genial heaven, she might not be left
desolate: whatever else her fortune, that Richard might be hers.
The army which the earl of Desmond led against Waterford, did not
consist of more than two thousand men. With these he invested the
western division of the city. Richard, with his peculiar troop, took his
position at the extremity of this line, nearest Passage, close to
Lumbard's Marsh, there to protect the disembarkment of troops from the
fleet.
Neither party failed in zeal or activity. The first days were actively
employed in erecting works and bringing the cannon to play upon the
town. On the third, in the very midst of their labours, while the earl
in his litter was carried close under the walls among the pioneers, and
Lord Barry in his eagerness seized a spade and began to work, signals of
attack were made from the town, and the troops poured out from the
nearest gate. The advanced guard were too few to contend with them; they
were driven back on the entrenchments. The citizens were full of fury
and indignation; they rushed forward with loud cries, and created a
confusion, which Desmond and Lord Barry were not slow to encounter; they
brought a few regular troops to stand the assault; a well pointed cannon
from the town swept the thin lines; they fell back; a yell of victory
was raised by the men of Waterford; it reached the outpost of Duke
Richard: he, with a score of men, five among them, with himself, being
cavaliers armed at all points, were viewing a portion of the walls that
seemed most open to assault; the roar of cannon and the clash of arms
called him to more perilous occupation; he galloped towards the scene of
action; and, while still the faltering men of Desmond were ashamed to
fly, yet dared not stand, he, with his little troop, attacked the enemy
on their flank. The white steed, the nodding plume, the flashing sword
of York were foremost in the fray; Neville and Plantagenet were close
behind; these knights in their iron armour seemed to the
half-disciplined Irish like invulnerable statues, machines to offend,
impregnable to offence; twenty such might have turned the fortunes of a
more desperate day: their antagonists fell back. The knight of Kerry led
on at this moment a reinforcement of Geraldines, and a cannon, which
hitherto had been rebel to the cannoneer's art, opened its fiery mouth
with such loud injurious speech, that for many moments the dread line it
traced remained a blank. Richard saw the post of advantage, and
endeavoured to throw himself between the enemy and the city: he did not
succeed; but, on the contrary, was nearly cut off himself by a
reinforcement of townsmen, sent to secure the retreat of their fellows.
Those who saw him fight that day spoke of him as a wonder: the heart
that had animated him in Andalusia was awake; as there he smote to death
the turbaned Moor, so now he dealt mortal blows on all around, fearless
of the pressing throng and still increasing numbers. While thus hurried
away by martial enthusiasm, the sound of a distant trumpet caught his
ear, and the echo of fire-arms followed; it came from the east--his own
post was attacked: now, when he wished to retreat, he first discerned
how alone and how surrounded he was; yet, looking on his foes he saw,
but for their numbers, how despicable they were; to a knight, what was
this throng of half-armed burghers and naked kerns, who pell-mell aimed
at him, every blow ineffectual? But again the loud bellow of distant
cannon called him, and he turned to retreat--a cloud of missiles
rattled against him; his shield was struck through; the bullets
rebounded from his case of iron, while his sword felled an enemy at
every stroke; and now, breaking through the opposing rank on the other
side, his friends joined him--the citizens recoiled. "Old Reginald's
tower," they averred, "would have bled sooner than these Sir
Tristans--they were charmed men, and lead and good arrowheads were
softer than paper-pellets on their sides." The first movement of panic
was enough; before their leaders could rally them again to the attack,
the English knights were far, riding at full speed towards the eastern
gate.
Here Richard's presence was enough to restore victory to his
standard--flushed, panting, yet firm in his seat, his hand true and
dangerous in its blows, there was something superhuman in his strength
and courage, yet more fearful than his sharp sword. The excess of
chivalrous ardour, the burning desire to mingle in the thickest fight,
made danger happiness, and all the terrible shows of war entrancing joys
to York. When reproached for rashness by his cousin, his bright eye was
brighter for a tear, as he cried, "Cousin, I must have some part of my
inheritance: my kingdom I shall never gain--glory--a deathless
name--oh, must not these belong to him who possesses Katherine? The
proud Scots, who looked askance at my nuptials, shall avow at least that
she wedded no craven-hearted loon."
With the morrow came a new task. Their little fleet had made its way up
Waterford Harbour into the river Suir; and the troops destined to join
his were partly disembarked. To protect the landing, he and Neville rode
across the marsh to the strand. On their return a fresh sight presented
itself--the ponds of Kilbarry were filled, the besieged having raised a
mound of earth to stop the course of the river which flows from Kilbarry
into the Suir; and the road back to their camp was completely cut off.
There was no mode of getting round save by the road to Tramore; yet to
the active mind of Richard, it seemed that even this disaster might be
turned into a benefit. He re-embarked the troops; he himself went on
board the principal vessel; he called to secret council the
captains:--the conclusion was not immediately divulged, but some
adventure of peril was assuredly planned among them.
The long summer day went slowly down; the hum of men from Waterford
reached the ships; the quay was thronged with soldiers: several vessels
were anchored in the advance, and manned with troops; but the English
fleet, their anchors cast, their sails furled, seemed peacefully
inclined. As night came on, the quay became a desert; the ships were
worked back to their former stations. It grew darker; the city, with its
old rough tower and spires, was mirrored indistinctly in the twilight
tide; the walls grew dim and gigantic; the sound of fire-arms ceased;
the last roll of the drum died away; the city slept, fearless of its
invaders. At this moment, the ebbing tide began to flow. Assisted by the
rising waters, Richard and Neville ran a small boat under the cover of
the opposite bank of the river, to observe what defences the quay might
possess. The low tide at that hour was its best defence; a watch-tower
or two with their sentinels, completed the guard of a part of the town,
whose defence on that side was neglected; by midnight also the tide
would have risen, but it was necessary to wait for the following night;
for first he must communicate with Desmond, that a night attack in the
opposite direction might effectually leave the water-side deserted. The
vessels meanwhile dropped down below Little Island, at once to get out
of shot of Reginald's Tower, which commands the harbour, and to remove
from the citizens any apprehensions they might entertain of attack. The
winding of the river concealed them entirely from the town.
The next day, a burning August day, declined into a dewy night;
imperceptibly during the dark the vessels were nearer the city; and
while the warders of the city fancied that the troops on board the fleet
were finding a circuitous path over land to Desmond's camp, the stars of
night twinkled through the shrouds upon decks crowded with men, arming
themselves in busy silence. Suddenly it was reported to Richard that a
stranger caravel was among them; she was the only vessel with set sails,
and these were enlarged by night, till as she neared, she seemed a
giant, a living thing stalking between heaven and the element beneath. A
sudden shiver convulsed the prince; to his eye it was the likeness of
that vessel which long ere this had traversed, he hoped in safety, the
western sea, stemming its mountainous waves towards the beauteous Indian
Isles. Had it been wrecked, and this the spectre? It was the illusion of
a moment; but it was necessary to ascertain the nature and intentions of
the stranger, who was now close among them. York's vessel, at his
command, got alongside of her; he leapt upon the deck, and saw at once
him whom the dim night had concealed before, Hernan de Faro upon the
deck.
A thousand emotions--wonder, fear, delight--rushed into the youth's
heart; while the mariner, yet more weather-beaten, thin to emaciation,
but still erect, still breathing the same spirit of fortitude and
kindliness, grasped his hand, and blessed the Virgin for the meeting.
The questions, the anxiety of Richard, could not be uttered in this hour
of action; he only said, "You will join us, and we will be doubly
strong; or must you remain to guard your daughter?"
"I come from her--she is not with me--more of this anon."
Rapidly he asked and obtained information of the meditated attack; in
part he disapproved, and, with all the sagacity of a veteran in such
enterprises, suggested alterations. Now every boat was lowered with
silent expedition, each received its freight of troops, and was rowed
with the tide up the Suir. One skiff contained York and the Moor. The
prince, in the anticipation of the hazardous contest, looked serious;
while every feature of De Faro's face was bright, his animated, glad
smile, his flashing eyes--all spoke the exhilaration of one engaged in
his elected pleasure. Richard had never seen him thus before: usually he
appeared kind, almost deferential; yet, except when he talked of the
sea, heavy and silent, and speaking of that in a subdued tone. He now
stood the picture of a veteran hero, self-possessed and calm, but for
the joyousness that the very feeling of his sword's weight, as his right
hand grasped the hilt, imparted to his warlike spirit.
Had an angel, on poised wings of heavenly grain, hovered over the city
of Waterford, gazing on its star-pointing spires, the reflecting waters
of the Suir, the tranquil hills and woods that gathered round the river,
he would have believed such quiet inviolate, and blessed the sleep that
hushed the miserable passions of humanity to repose. Anon there came the
splash of waters, the shout of men, the sentinels' startled cry, the
sudden rush of the guard, the clash of swords, the scream, the low
groan, the protracted howl, and the fierce bark of the watch-dog joining
in. The celestial angel has soared to heaven, scared; and yet honour,
magnanimity, devotion, filled the hearts of those who thus turned to
hell a seeming paradise. Led by Richard and De Faro, while a party was
left behind to insure retreat, another rushed forward right through the
town, to throw open the western gate, and admit Desmond, before the
terrified citizens had exchanged their nightcaps for helmets; in vain:
already the market-place was filled with soldiers ready for the
encounter; guided by a native, they endeavoured to find a way through
the bye-streets; they lost themselves; they got entangled in narrow
alleys; the awakened citizens cast upon their heads tiles, blocks of
wood,--all they could lay hands upon. To get back to the square was
their only salvation; although the storm and yell that rose behind,
assured them that Desmond had commenced the attack. With diminished
numbers York regained the market-place; here he was furiously attacked:
the crowd still increased, until the knot of assailants might have been
crushed, it seemed, by mere numbers; day, bright day, with its golden
clouds and swift-pacing sun, dawned upon the scene. In one of those
pauses which sometimes occur in the most chaotic roar, a trumpet was
heard, sounding as it seemed Desmond's retreat from the walls. Richard
felt that he was deserted, that all hope was over; and to secure the
retreat of his men was a work of sufficient difficulty. Foot to foot the
young hero and the veteran mariner fought; one by the quickness of his
blows, the other by his tower-like strength, keeping back the enemy;
while retreating slowly, their faces to the foe, they called on their
men to make good their escape. They reached the quay--they saw the wide
river, their refuge; their vessels near at hand, the boats hovering
close, their safety was in sight, and yet hope of safety died in their
hearts, so many and so fierce were those who pressed on them, Richard
was wounded, weary, faint; De Faro alone--Reginald's old tower, which,
dark and scathless, frowned on them, seemed his type. They were at the
water's edge, and the high tide kissed with its waves the very footway
of the quay: "Courage, my lord,--a few more blows and we are safe:" the
mariner spoke thus, for he saw Richard totter; and his arm, raised
feebly, fell again without a stroke. At that moment, a flame, and then a
bellowing roar, announced that the tardy cannoneer had at last opened
his battery on the fleet, from the tower. One glance De Faro cast on his
caravel; the bolt had struck and damaged one of the vessels, but the
Adalid escaped, "Courage, my lord!" again he shouted; and at that moment
a blow was struck at Richard which felled him; he lay stretched at De
Faro's feet. Ere it could be repeated, the head of the assailant was
cleft by a Moorish scimitar. With furious strength, De Faro then hurled
his weapon among the soldiers; the unexpected act made them recoil; he
lifted up the insensible form of Richard with the power of an elephant;
he cast him into the near waves, and leapt in after: raising him with
one hand, he cut the waters with the other, and swam thus towards his
vessel, pursued by a rain of missiles; one arrow glanced on Richard's
unstrung helmet, another fixed itself in the joint at the neck; but De
Faro was unhurt. He passed, swimming thus, the nearest vessels: the
sailors crowded to the sides, imploring him to enter: as if it had been
schoolboy's sport, he refused, till he reached the Adalid, till his own
men raised Richard, revived now, but feeble, to her worn deck: and he,
on board her well-known planks, felt superior to every sovereign in the
world.