ALIGHTING IN DROGHEDA
On our way from Armagh to Newry, we saw the Newry Canal. This little
piece of engineering work was completed shortly before the railroads
came to make it useless.
Newry is a prosperous place, but not noted much in history. The
Newryites gazed at us in wonder, as we whirled directly over their town
towards Warrenpoint. Warrenpoint is a handsome seaside resort at the
head of Carlingford Bay. We kept to the east side of the Bay until we
reached Rosstrevor. This beautiful village has a back-ground of wooded
hills, and many handsome villas are in its neighborhood. The village is
owned by Sir John Ross-of-Blandensburg. A large obelisk in an elevated
place tells why the name of the owner is “Ross of Blandensburg.” This
obelisk is in honor of General Ross, grandfather of Sir John, and the
inscription reads as follows:
_The Officers of a Grateful Army
Which under the command of the lamented Major General
Robert Ross
Attacked and defeated the American forces at Blandensburg
on the 24th of August, 1814
and on the same day
Victoriously entered Washington, the Capital of the
United States
Inscribe upon this tablet their admiration of his professional
skill and their esteem for his amiable
private character._
As I pointed out the obelisk to Mike and told him of this inscription,
he was greatly amused.
From Rosstrevor we crossed the little bay to Carlingford, another
picturesque village, and shortly afterwards sighted Dundalk.
“What time is it?” asked Mike.
I looked at my watch and answered:
“Ten minutes to three.”
“Let us alight here,” said Mike. “My wings are tired.”
We came down in a field just outside of the town. It was the worst
landing Mike made. We alit on one runner of the aeroplane, and got a
severe jar, but, fortunately, no damage was done.
After an hour’s rest and a walk around town, we sailed on to Drogheda,
where we expected to spend the night.
If we had been Theodore Roosevelt himself, or even Edward VII., we
could not have attracted more attention and honor from the people of
the country than we did that afternoon between Dundalk and Drogheda.
Mike made a superb landing at Drogheda. We alit beside a two-storied
house on the edge of town, creating a sensation. Some children, near
the door, saw us swooping down, and ran, screaming into the house. Just
as we were landing a woman ran out and as she saw the aeroplane alight,
she uttered a shriek, as though she had seen a ghost.
Presently a man came running, and we introduced ourselves. Leaving
the aeroplane with him and the gathering crowd, we went to a hotel. I
was interested in Drogheda, on account of its historic siege by Oliver
Cromwell in 1649. We saw two of the old towers standing, just as they
were left after the siege.
Oliver Cromwell is as unpopular in Ireland as the Duke of Alva in the
Netherlands, and when we read his report of his doings at this city we
were not surprised. Here is what he wrote from Drogheda in reporting to
Parliament:
“Divers of the enemy retreated to the Milmount, a place very strong
and of difficult access, being exceedingly high, having a good graft,
and strongly palisadoed. The Governor, Sir Arthur Aston, and divers
considerable officers being there, our men getting up to them, were
ordered by me to put them all to the sword. And, indeed, being in the
heat of action, I forbade them to spare any that were in arms in the
town; and I think that night they put to the sword about 2000 men.
Then our horse and foot followed them so fast over the bridge, which
goes over a broad river; and being very long and houses on both sides,
yet they had not time to pull up their draw bridge, that our men fell
violently upon them, and I believe there were 2000 of them put to the
sword. Divers of the officers and soldiers being fled over the bridge
into the other parts of the town, where about 100 of them possessed
St. Peters church-steeple, some the West Gate, others a strong round
tower next the gate called St. Sundays. These being summoned to yield
to mercy refused, whereupon I ordered the steeple of St. Peters to be
fired, when one of them was heard to say in the midst of the flames,
‘God confound me, I burn! I burn!’
“The next day the two other towers were summoned, in one of which
was about six or seven score, but they refused to yield themselves;
and we, knowing that hunger must compel them, set only good guards
to secure them from running away until their stomachs were come
down. From one of the said towers, notwithstanding their condition,
they killed and wounded some of our men. When they submitted, their
officers WERE KNOCKED ON THE HEAD, and every tenth man of the soldiers
killed, and the rest shipped for the Barbadoes.”
After writing this gentle epistle, Oliver continues:
“I am persuaded that this is a righteous judgment of God upon these
barbarous wretches, who have embrued their hands in so much innocent
blood, and that it will tend to prevent the effusion of blood, for the
future, which are the satisfactory grounds for such actions, which
otherwise cannot but work remorse and regret.”
After viewing Drogheda, we hired a jaunting car, and visited the ruins
of Monasterboice, some six miles from town. This monastery was founded
by St. Patrick. Eight or nine centuries ago, thousands of students
gathered here every year. There are two small churches left still
standing, evidently of great age. Our driver told us that the big round
tower there was 1000 years old. The finest relics of the past here are
three large Celtic Crosses, the largest being 27 feet in height. One
of them is badly damaged, and, of course, the damage is attributed to
Cromwell.
Our driver was a talkative fellow and entertained us with all kinds of
stories about the country.
[Illustration: IRISH JAUNTING CAR.]
“I always tell folks,” he said to Mike, “all that I know, but begorra,
I keep the rest to myself.”
He got a good laugh on Mike when he told us some history which Mike
deemed ridiculous.
“Do you think I’m a fool to tell me that,” said Mike.
“Sure, I don’t know, sor,” answered the driver solemnly, “I only met
you this evening.”
This driver had a son in America, as a good many Irish fathers have.
These Irish boys go out to America with very little that they own
except their names, but they soon begin to make remittances home, and
in thousands of Irish homes the regular remittances from faithful
sons and daughters in America are depended on as part of the means of
livelihood.
The river which Cromwell refers to in his dispatches, on which Drogheda
is built, is the Boyne river. Three miles from Drogheda, on the banks
of the Boyne, the armies of William III. and James II. met in battle.
This was the battle that sealed the fate of King James, and it is
said he showed a little too much anxiety for his royal person on this
occasion to win much renown as a soldier. The battle was fought on July
12th, 1690. A huge obelisk now marks the field of conflict.
The Boyne is a beautiful stream, richly wooded, with many villas
adorning its banks. This part of Ireland is “soggy,” as Mike expressed
it, with historic memories. The next day we hoped to fly over Tara, the
ancient Capital of the Green Isle, and with pleasant anticipation, we
retired for the night.