The Last Armada

by Des Ekin

  Dedication

  For Grace

  Contents

  Preface

  A Note on the Text

  1Tinker, Tailor … Soldier

  2‘Haste, Haste, for Your Life’

  3The Man Born without Fear

  4‘For God, All Difficulties Must Be Overcome’

  5Sailing to God or the Devil

  6The Invasion

  7‘I Will Never See My Homeland Again’

  8Trust in God and Keep Your Powder Wet

  9‘Iacta Est Alea – The Die Is Cast’

  10Curses Like Thunderbolts

  11The Lord of Beara and Bantry

  12Confessions and Conspiracies

  13‘Crested Plumes and Silken Sashes’

  14Digging for Victory

  15The Taking of Rinjora Castle

  16‘The Most Bloody and Treacherous Traitor’

  17There Will Be No Retreat

  18Cold as Stone, Dark as Pitch

  19Stella and the Centaur

  20That Wondrous Winter March

  21A Direct Hit on Don Juan

  22Hell at Spaniards’ Point

  23‘Let Us Settle This in Single Combat’

  24The Battle of Castlehaven

  25‘Send Us Home Some Greyhounds’

  26The Great Persuader

  27‘They Died by Dozens on a Heap’

  28A Meeting in the Fastness of Wood and Water

  29‘My Lord, It Is Time to Arm’

  30‘The Day of Trial’: The Battle of Kinsale

  31Wondering Why

  32Honourable Terms, or a Thousand Deaths

  33‘A Barbarous Nation for Which Christ Never Died’

  34Dossier of Treason

  35A Dead Juan Walking

  36The Trial

  37The Aftermath

  38Legacy

  Bibliography and Recommended Reading

  A detail from this extraordinary sixteenth-century map depicts Ireland’s southwest coast and ‘The Spanish Sea’. With west topwards, it shows O’Sullivan Beare’s territory (top) and Baltimore, Castlehaven and Cork (to the right of the words ‘The’, ‘Spanish’ and ‘Sea’ respectively). Kinsale lies just to right of the ship: the black castle of ‘Barry Óg’ is Rincorran.

  ‘Truly I think that when the Devil took our Saviour Jesus Christ to the pinnacle of the Temple and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, he kept Ireland hidden … to keep it for himself. For I believe that it is the Inferno itself, or some worse place.’

  – Don Juan del Águila, Spanish commander

  PREFACE

  It is one of the great adventure stories of history – a siege drama that deserves to rank alongside the Battle of the Alamo and the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift against the Zulu nation.

  At 6pm on 21 September 1601, one of the strangest invasion forces in history sailed into the southern Irish harbour of Kinsale, a place its commander had never wanted to go. Battered by punishing storms and towering waves, it had lost contact with its best ships, most of its troops and some of its most important supplies. Although its ostensible purpose was to fight its way through Ireland and conquer England from the west, the expedition included hundreds of women and children. Its ranks contained scores of petrified young soldiers who had no idea how to shoot a gun. It had 1,600 saddles but no horses to put under them.

  This was the last of the great armadas of the Elizabethan era – and the last Spanish armada ever to attempt an invasion of England through Ireland.

  As the boats dislodged the 1,700 weary troops and the seasick civilians onto shore, the open-mouthed townspeople also saw a gaggle of nuns in their wimples and veils (and perhaps an occasional starched cornette) trip delicately across the rock and shingle. They were followed by a succession of bizarre religious figures. There was a much-feared Jesuit secret agent who was wanted by the English for allegedly organising a murder plot against Queen Elizabeth. There was a Franciscan friar who’d been appointed as Archbishop of Dublin – a city he would never visit, and a See he never saw. There were two more bishops, and a confusion of priests and friars. In this strange guns-and-rosaries expedition, the clerics enjoyed huge power. They immediately tried to order the veteran soldiers around. Even when it came to military matters, they felt they knew best.

  As the townspeople soon found out, this wasn’t even purely a Spanish expedition. The ships – an odd mix of serious warships and requisitioned merchant vessels hauling cargos like salt and hides – carried a multinational mix of Spanish, Italians, Portuguese, Irish insurgents, and even a few English dissidents. Yet this oddball force was destined to be the most successful Spanish invasion ever mounted against England. Unlike the renowned Great Armada of 1588, this expedition actually established a bridgehead on English-controlled territory and captured a string of key ports.

  The maestro de campo general or overall land commander of the expedition was an intriguing veteran named Don Juan del Águila. Today, he is relatively unknown. And yet Águila was the commander responsible not only for this last Spanish invasion of Ireland at Kinsale, but also, a few years earlier, for the last Spanish ‘invasion’ of England: a daring incursion into Cornwall from his base in Brittany.

  Águila held out in the walled city of Kinsale for a hundred days, enduring a crippling siege imposed by English commander Charles Blount. Pinned down in one of the least defensible towns in Europe, the Spaniards shivered and starved under the relentlessly pounding English artillery and the equally pitiless Irish weather.

  Monstrous guns hurled down fire and death from the hills into the narrow streets. Cannonballs tore breaches in their walls. Besieged from sea and land, the invaders had been reduced to eating dogs, cats and knackered horses – indeed, those were described as ‘treats’ and ‘the best victuals within the town’. Their troops died in their hundreds from hypothermia, malnutrition and dysentery.

  Yet they held out and never surrendered.

  There were bitter disappointments for the invaders: the locals initially gave them little help, despite confident promises; reinforcements despatched from Spain failed to get through to the town; and a huge relieving force of Irish insurgents from the north of the island proved unable to smash the siege and unite with their beleaguered allies. Still, even after the Irish rebel force was routed at the Battle of Kinsale, and all hope of success had been dashed forever, the surviving invaders still clung grimly on, declaring their determination to die before surrendering the town.

  With both sides battle-wearied, and neither relishing the idea of a bloody hand-to-hand fight through Kinsale’s narrow and claustrophobic streets, Águila eventually came to terms with his English counterpart. The proud Spaniard sailed home, undefeated, with his sword still at his side and his colours still flying. An honourable man, he insisted on one particular condition that almost broke the deal: although the English wanted to arrest and hang the Irish ‘traitors’ who’d fought on the Spanish side, he refused to hand them over.

  —If you so much as mention such disgraceful terms again, he told Blount in haughty Castilian fury, you should return to your sword.

  He said he would fight to the death rather than betray his comrades. Blount dropped his demand and the Irish sailed off to Spain with Águila.

  This is the story of the Last Armada, an astonishing tale of courage, endurance and heroism (on all sides) that has long been lost in a mist of myth, legend and self-serving propaganda. One eminent nineteenth-century historian has described Águila’s defence of Kinsale as ‘the most brilliant example of combined pluck, skill and endurance’ in Irish history.

  On a global level, the siege and battle at this remote port on the western fringe of civilisation altered the balance of world power and changed history – with consequences that we a
re still living through today. Spain suffered a major reputational defeat at Kinsale. At sea, its proud navy was outclassed by a superior English fighting fleet. On land, its supposedly invincible infantry was shown to be as vulnerable as any other force. These reversals, combined with the final proof that Ireland would never be an easy back-door route to England, created a much more decisive turning point than the celebrated defeat of the Great Armada of 1588. It led to England’s expansion as a naval power and Spain’s decline.

  The impact in Ireland was even more dramatic. After Kinsale and the departure to Europe of the leading Gaelic noblemen, England finally enjoyed total control over its first colony. Determined to avoid another rebellion from the north, they flooded the northern Gaelic heartland of Ulster with their own people – English and Scots planters. This was intended to guarantee peace but the actual effect, as we know only too well, was almost exactly the opposite. This experimental human mélange of assertive Anglican colonists, uncompromising Scots Calvinists and disempowered and resentful Catholic Irish was to prove a volatile mix.

  I first became interested in this story while researching my book The Stolen Village, the true-life account of the 1631 slave raid by North African pirates on the fishing port of Baltimore, County Cork. I am a journalist by profession – not an academic and certainly not a qualified historian – so I was surprised and intrigued to learn that Baltimore had become Spanish territory for several weeks in 1601 under this Last Armada. I couldn’t help wondering: what had life been like for them, these men from the lands of sunshine, fighting through the rigours of this bitterly cold northern winter?

  When I began my researches, I became fascinated by the personalities involved at Kinsale. There was Juan del Águila, a grizzled veteran fighter with nothing to lose. He had been in deep trouble with the Spanish authorities, and was gambling his career on this last throw of the dice. There was the English commander Charles Blount, scandal-hit after an affair with a lethal femme fatale, and equally desperate in his need for rehabilitation after being caught up on the fringes of an abortive palace coup in London. And there were the Irish commanders: Hugh O’Neill, a complex figure whose decision to withdraw his troops at a crucial moment before a planned link-up with the Spaniards remains an intriguing mystery; and Red Hugh O’Donnell, a man of action whose dramatic mental breakdown in the aftermath of the Battle of Kinsale ruled out all chances of the insurgent forces regrouping and retaliating.

  I have spent several years researching this story, poring over every relevant line of the main original English and Irish sources; reading a great deal of the extensive Spanish legajos, or bundles of correspondence; peering over the shoulders of the well-informed Venetian ambassadors; and tapping into some obscure 1600s histories to gain angles and insights which rarely make their way into mainstream books.

  One important point: this is a post-Good Friday Agreement book. I am not interested in bitter recriminations, laments or partisan rants about what ought not to have happened in the past. Rather, I view the Kinsale saga as a bit like those beautiful Georgian houses that line Dublin’s squares. A generation ago, many were torn down and viewed as hated symbols of Ireland’s colonisation. Now, they are cherished and protected because we all appreciate that they are part of our shared history. The story of Kinsale – where Irish people fought with equal commitment on either side – belongs to us all.

  I wanted to make this story come alive again – as an exciting and vibrant tale of human endurance under pressure; of epic personality clashes; of a Spanish commander whose courage went unrewarded by his unforgiving King; and of an English commander who gained hero status from his victory at Kinsale, but threw it all away for his forbidden love of a married woman.

  It is a tale from the era of Shakespeare, with all the elements of a Shake-spearean tragedy, and yet it is also a contemporary story of politics and intrigue, of human weaknesses and strengths, that speaks clearly to us across the centuries. I hope you find it as captivating as I do.

  A NOTE ON THE TEXT

  This is a work of nonfiction. Nothing has been made up or ‘novelised’. Everything is attributable to an identified source.

  Reading this book, you will notice that sometimes I use standard ‘curly’ quotation marks and sometimes Continental-style quotation dashes. This is a deliberate technique. Words in quotation marks are a direct quote, faithfully reproduced but sometimes edited back. Quotation dashes signify an indirect quote: that is, an honest and accurate reflection of what was said, but not using the actual words. In fact, sometimes I will use modern phrases to convey the same meaning. I find this helps to lighten the leaden plod of indirect testimony in official accounts, which were never intended for easy reading and rapidly become wearisome. However, both types of quotes are fully sourced and attributed. No dialogue has been invented.

  I have modernised spellings for easier accessibility. Dates are kept in the Old Style (OS) Julian Calendar used by the English at the time.

  For simplicity, I generally refer to the participants by their second names rather than their titles. For instance, in repeated references, Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, is ‘Blount’ rather than ‘Mountjoy’, and so on. No disrespect is intended. Similarly, Juan del Águila is simply ‘Águila’. I am aware that this isn’t actually his surname (any more than ‘da Vinci’ is Leonardo’s) but if Dan Brown can get away with it, so can I.

  Des Ekin

  CHAPTER ONE

  TINKER, TAILOR … SOLDIER

  Somewhere between Bristol and London

  29 December 1601

  Five days after the Battle of Kinsale

  LIKE THE shadow of a storm cloud scudding across a troubled sky, the cloaked rider thundered through the heartland of England in his headlong race to the court of Queen Elizabeth. Sweat flew like sea-spume from the lathered flanks of his galloping horse. Mud and turf sods splattered from its hooves as its rider coaxed the gasping animal to greater speed.

  Richard Boyle – a dark, wolfish and fiercely ambitious man of thirty-four – barely paused to glance at the darkened windows of the wealthy merchants’ homes as he clattered across the cobbles of each sleeping town. What he carried in his satchel was more valuable than all their gold. He had information – crucial information that would upset carefully laid plans and elevate some powerful politicians while consigning other courtiers to oblivion. It would destroy many careers at court and advance others – including, he hoped, his own.

  Boyle was well aware of the power he possessed and of the need to keep his information secret until it reached the right ears. At each staging point on the Queen’s postal route from Bristol to London, he would ignore the curious queries from stable masters. Instead, he would thrust forward a document signed by his superior officer, General George Carew, and by the Queen’s all-powerful Secretary of State, Robert Cecil, declaring that he was on a mission of national importance.

  And indeed, it was an epic trip – possibly a record-breaking one. Boyle had left Cork, on the southern coast of Ireland, at 2am on Monday, 28 December. A favourable breeze had carried his ship swiftly into Bristol harbour. Now, on the Tuesday evening, he was on the last leg of the gruelling 122-mile trip from Bristol to London. The post horse relay network set up earlier in Elizabeth I’s reign was remarkably efficient. As the fastest means of travel imaginable, ‘posting’ was used by Shakespeare as a word to describe flashing speed. But even in summer – when the roads were dry and in good shape – a hurrying post-boy would usually cover ten miles per hour. Seventy miles in a day was considered a good speed for urgent packages. Boyle was chalking up that distance, plus half as much again, and then some, in the middle of a particularly wet and cold winter, all by himself, on a single day – and this was just the culmination of a total journey on sea and land of more than 420 miles.

  Although weary and wet to the bone, Boyle didn’t care about the rigours of the road. He knew how important it was that his version of events – or more correctly, the version of his boss Carew �
�� should reach the Queen’s ears first.

  George Carew, now based in Ireland, had long been an ally of Secretary Robert Cecil in London – united against a highly placed cadre of rivals in a bitter power struggle that had torn Elizabeth’s court asunder. Even now, a messenger from the rival camp was rushing from Cork to the Queen’s palace to disclose the same tale, with a different twist. The news itself was important. But even more important was who told it to her first.

  By late on Tuesday evening, Boyle’s sensitive nose was catching the first traces of the human stench that signified he was approaching London. Already Europe’s third largest city, the metropolis contained 200,000 people jam-packed into the 450 acres within the city walls. Boyle was familiar with London – he’d been involved in intrigues at the royal court before. Once, after being accused of corruption, he’d thrown himself personally at the mercy of Queen Elizabeth. The bold move had paid off, slapping down his enemies and elevating Boyle to the position of Clerk of the Council of Munster.

  He knew his way around the city. Just down the river was the newly built Globe Theatre, where the Lord Chamberlain’s Men were playing to packed houses. Perhaps Boyle felt a pang of regret that his faraway posting had prevented him from seeing the new play everyone was talking about – the one featuring Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

  Sparks flying from his horse’s iron shoes, he clattered along the stony roads towards Westminster, the political capital of England. He swung into the private courtyard of Secretary Cecil’s mansion on the Strand – which, as its name suggests, was at that time situated right on the riverbank. After handing his horse to a groom, he entered the jaw-dropping splendour of London’s most lavish private house and was eventually greeted by an extraordinary figure.

  Robert Cecil did not look like the most powerful man in England. So short in stature that the Queen privately mocked him as ‘my pygmy’, he was further plagued by a spinal deformity that gave him a slight hunch. His oversized head seemed perpetually cocked to one side. His large, expressive eyes, combined with his squat frame, gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a wide-eyed frog. His rivals had nicknamed him The Toad.