by Des Ekin
Hearings of this nature were unusual in Spain, and this one had left the citizens of Valladolid and the former capital, Madrid, split down the middle. Everyone waited in anticipation of the verdict.
First, the accusations were put forward. There were twelve specific charges, grouped into five topics:
ONE: The Choice of Destination. That out at sea, eight days after the departure of the fleet, Águila had changed the target from Cork or Limerick (as originally listed in O’Neill’s ‘numbers formula’) and replaced it with Kinsale or Castlehaven.
TWO: The Disembarkation Debacle. Even though Brochero had been under a royal command to return home quickly, in view of the circumstances Águila should have instructed him to wait in Kinsale ‘por algún tiempo’ – for a little time longer – until they received fresh orders from the King.
THREE: The Failure to Relocate. Given Kinsale’s poor situation and the impossibility of defending both town and harbour entrance, Águila should have marched on to Cork, or demanded that Brochero ferry his troops to Castlehaven.
FOUR: The Failure to Fortify. Águila had not fortified Kinsale properly and had not ensured that the harbour entrance remained under Spanish control for the expected reinforcements. He had also failed to stock up enough food for the siege.
And most gravely of all, with its implications of cowardice and dereliction of duty …
FIVE: The Betrayal of the Irish. That, on the morning of the battle, Águila failed to sally out from Kinsale to offer any help to the insurgent chieftains who had obeyed his orders via Bustamante, and who had occupied the position he had stipulated. This was particularly serious ‘if he heard them fighting, as some say’.
The twelve precise charges were more detailed. Many gave specific examples of the claim that Águila had failed to fortify or to stock up on supplies. One of the most outrageous allegations was that Águila had deliberately refused to acquire mounts for his cavalrymen even though ‘there were many horses available for practically nothing’. Another charge alleged that Águila left most of his big guns on board ship, and that the few he actually took were unloaded only ‘at the great insistence of the Archbishop of Dublin [Oviedo] and many captains’. Yet another charge alleged he had wasted twenty-five days before informing the chieftains of his arrival.
The most damning were the charges numbered ten, eleven and twelve, which expanded on the general accusation that he had betrayed the Irish insurgent leaders. These claimed that Águila had negligently failed to secure O’Neill’s initial approach route into Kinsale; that he had dithered indecisively for more than fifteen days after the Irish troops had arrived in the area; and, of course, that he had abandoned them on battle day. ‘This resulted in their destruction, and that of His Majesty’s infantry,’ the charge sheet concluded.
The Council listened carefully to the evidence of both sides. Oviedo, Archer and the Irish expatriates had drawn up an impressive array of witness statements, but Águila had done his homework too. Submitting a lengthy defence, he pleaded with King Felipe to read the document with his own eyes. He assured him that everything in it was true and comprehensive: ‘You are not going to find another thing.’
He submitted this to the Council with the brief soldierly comment: ‘I conducted everything with mucho valor.’ With great bravery.
On the question of destination, there was a flurry of bewildering accusation and counter-accusation. Zubiaur, for instance, declared that Águila had gone to ‘the worst place in Ireland, where the Queen enjoyed all the advantages, and our allies the complete opposite’. But Águila could produce the paper trail to show that he had been given little choice in the matter. Among his limited options he had taken the best decisions he could.
It was impossible to answer the charge of failing to relocate to Cork city, because his critics’ case was based on what might have happened. Here’s the Count of Caracena, one of his most vociferous accusers:
—If Águila had marched straight to Cork, Caracena said, the town would have been his. He is to blame for not having taken that city.
In fact, with its mediaeval walls and hills, Cork had much the same disadvantages as Kinsale.
As to the charge of failing to fortify, Águila had declared at a very early stage that he hadn’t enough men to defend both Kinsale and the forts. Besides, he had enough trouble trying to rescue the wet gunpowder and food from the shoreline.
Águila’s accusers made themselves easy targets with their allegation that he had deliberately refused to buy Irish horses. Águila was not only able to prove the contrary, but to turn the charge around to his own benefit. ‘The Irish deceived the King in promising him horses, for the which [I] brought saddles,’ he said. This could be easily verified. The Spanish officials had specifically been assured before the invasion, by O’Neill’s agent Richard Owen, that horses weren’t necessary. ‘Harnesses and all accessories should be sent,’ Owen had instructed, ‘but not horses.’
The most dramatic moment came as the Council investigated what actually happened inside Kinsale while the battle was raging. Here, there was a direct conflict of evidence. Archer and Oviedo both claimed to have heard the noise of fighting. They had wanted to emerge with guns blazing, but Águila had overruled them. ‘Whether it was from treachery or accident,’ raged Oviedo, ‘… we listened to the loud musket and arquebus gunshots, but we did not sally out, as we had agreed.’
Archer accused Águila of outright cowardice. He testified that he’d heard artillery as the Irish kept their promise and began fighting, but the Spanish commander ‘refused to go out of Kinsale’.
Águila told the hearing that he had instructed O’Neill and O’Donnell (‘the Counts’) to take up position on the mountain opposite the camp, to do nothing except to hold it, and to advise him on their arrival. ‘I was perpetually on the alert,’ he said, ‘but for most of the day, I heard nothing. [Then] the enemy made a great salvo of gunshot in their quarters after having routed the Irish. I understood this to be the Counts [fighting], so I started hurling my people out.’ He had been dismayed to find the enemy positions better occupied than ever. Finally: ‘We spotted [Spanish] flags which some [English] cavalrymen were showing off to the whole camp, and sometimes dragging on the ground … we found absolutely no trace of the Counts’ troops.’
Separately, the inquiry also had to decide whether Águila was guilty of dereliction of duty with his peace treaty and surrender of the ports. Donal Cam O’Sullivan Beare complained that Águila had ‘ignominiously surrendered to the English heretics, our deadly foes, greatly to the dishonour of His Majesty’. The Spanish quartermaster Pedro Lopez de Soto was convinced that Águila had made a grave error of timing.
—If Don Juan had not come to terms so soon, he claimed, six thousand men would have been sent to second him.
Águila responded that he had held out as long as he could. He had to start negotiating before Blount realised just how badly off he was. ‘I waited six days until I had no more biscuit … nor any kind of man who could fight,’ he said. ‘I was already ruined … I had no other way to escape.’ The other ports were not defensible. And most importantly, O’Neill and O’Donnell had fled from the front line. ‘One tempestuous puff of war had blown one of them into Spain,’ Águila said, ‘and the other into the North.’ O’Neill’s logic, expressed in a letter to Felipe III, was that he wouldn’t have had to leave to go north if the King had sent his armada north in the first place.
The hearings continued for several months until at last, on 12 July 1603, the Council was ready to pronounce its verdict.
On the first four of the five general accusations, Águila stood acquitted.
Águila was relieved. But despite his reputation as a cold commander, his heart must have been thumping under his military tunic as he awaited the verdict on the fifth and most serious accusation relating to his alleged betrayal of the Irish ‘Counts’ on battle day.
‘On the fifth charge that the Counts came to the place agreed with Alférez Bust
amante, but that [Águila] did not go to help,’ intoned the Council, ‘we find that the Counts did not come to the position that he conveyed.’
Águila must have breathed a little easier.
‘As he was under the impression that they were going to be there,’ the Council continued, ‘Águila issued orders to go out and help them. By doing this, he risked losing the place [Kinsale] but had calculated that he would not need it any more if things went well, and that in any event he could not sustain it for much longer.
‘He had everyone in position, with the sentries in elevated positions watching and listening. He himself was at the gate, waiting for the moment when he could prudently sally out. But no one saw or heard anything as the Counts fought.’
The Council said that when Águila finally sallied out with a hundred men, he found the English troops still firmly in position and unengaged.
Commenting on the battle itself, the Council said that the Irish had been defeated by a much smaller force of English. This had happened not only because of their poor organisation on the battlefield, but also because they’d never had any real intention of advancing – as evidenced by the fact that they’d earlier shifted their camp baggage backwards rather than forwards.
But what of the accusation that Águila had abandoned Kinsale to the English in a traitorous deal?
On this point, the Council gave a clear endorsement of Águila’s tactics. ‘He defended the place with a valour that claimed the lives of many enemy troops,’ it ruled. Águila had not been defeated by force: ‘He had been given too few supplies, and had been left with neither advice, nor hope of aid, from Spain … his people were either dead, or injured, or exhausted by the defence. He negotiated with the enemy a treaty and conditions that were more honourable than many other deals that were made in less troublesome circumstances.’
Despite a dissenting opinion by one member, the War Council summed up with a ringing vote of confidence in Don Juan. ‘The Council concludes,’ read the verdict, ‘that Don Juan del Águila satisfied his obligations to Your Majesty. He did everything that he should have done as a very prudent and valiant captain. No blame attaches to him. More than that: he deserves a position of even greater responsibility in future.’
It was all over. The man from El Barraco had been completely exonerated and could stand tall again.
The Council’s work continued for many more months. There were still serious charges against Admiral Zubiaur and the quartermaster general, Lopez de Soto. Zubiaur was accused of returning to Spain in the original expedition instead of joining Brochero in Kinsale. Both he and Lopez de Soto had to explain why they had sent only a niggardly two hundred troops to aid O’Neill. (When Zubiaur sailed back to Spain with O’Donnell, he still had 400-500 troops available.) Zubiaur replied that he had actually sent 900 men – the 200 Spaniards and 700 Irishmen whom he had trained. The case against the two men was to drag on for years.
In a side-issue, Águila had made a formal complaint against Sergeant de Heredia for abandoning Rincorran Castle before its official surrender. Heredia was arrested in Ostend, in Flanders, and thrown into prison. He was to remain there for another fourteen years, long after the death of his accuser.
The news of Águila’s acquittal was well received in England. ‘Don Juan del Águila hath endured all that could be said against him by the Irish, and hath well acquitted himself … to the good liking of the King,’ read one report from Spain in 1603. It was suggested that he was ‘again received to the King’s favour’ and there was talk of him leading another mission.
But Águila never did get to lead his beloved tercio into battle again. The ordeal at Kinsale had blighted his health, as it had Blount’s. The repeated slurs on his character and professionalism had left him deeply scarred. The effort of mounting an effective defence against intelligent and resourceful opponents like Oviedo and Archer was every bit as exhausting as defending Kinsale.
He returned to his birthplace of El Barraco to spend his remaining days there. ‘Wounded by all the vengefulness, he retired to the serenity of his homeland,’ wrote the contemporary historian Gil Gonzáles Dávila.
Águila had hoped that he would be given a substantial pension, wrote Gonzáles Dávila, but ‘death came before rewards’ and he never had the opportunity to enjoy ‘the glory that was his just entitlement’.
According to another source, Águila died ‘of grief’. He was in or around sixty. The precise date of his death is contentious. It’s commonly given as August 1602, but English records show he survived well into 1603, and Spanish archives prove that he was still writing letters from Avila that year. His tombstone in a chapel built after his death is dated ‘May 1605’.
His funeral and burial were lavish affairs and certainly refute any suggestion that he had become a social pariah. He was laid to rest in a side-chapel of his local church, underneath an elaborate altarpiece. Águila bequeathed a trust fund to help the daughters of the local poor to make good marriages. He gave twice as much to any who were named ‘Juana’, thus ensuring that his name would live on. His bequest also paid doctors to treat the elderly. And every Friday, grain was distributed to the poorest townsfolk in his name.
‘He made El Barraco famous,’ wrote Gonzáles Dávila, ‘with the memory of his ashes and triumphs.’
In his will, Águila said he looked forward to his actions being judged in the divine court. He would certainly get a fairer hearing than he has received from some historians over the centuries. Let us say farewell to Don Juan del Águila by listing some quotes about his life and character. We will start with the vitriolic assessments of some Victorian writers whose views dictated public opinion for decades. We will end with the opinions of his admirers, who included his most bitter military enemies. Read them, and judge the man for yourself.
Matthew O’Conor, military historian, 1845: ‘The least competent of all the generals whom Philip could have chosen … had signalled himself by defeats and miscarriages.’
John Mitchel, Irish writer, 1845: ‘[He] exposed a brave garrison to destruction through his cowardice and incompetence.’
Charles Gibson, historian, 1861: ‘[He] was desperate, but this did not justify the black treachery with which he acted towards his Irish friends … he could use his tongue and pen better than the sword.’
Edward d’Alton, historian, 1906: ‘He was impetuous and self-willed … defeats and disasters were all that could be placed to his account … there was nothing heroic in the character of Águila … he had been in fact the main cause of [the Irish] defeat … By the Irish his memory was execrated, and not without some justice.’
Fr James Archer, Jesuit priest, 1602: ‘[He] has the reputation in other parts of being a brave soldier, but [in Ireland he was] cowardly and timorous.’
Robert Cecil, English Secretary, 1563–1612: ‘One of the bravest commanders in Spain.’
Francis Bacon, English statesman, 1561–1626: ‘A man of good valour.’
George Carew, English general, 1602: ‘[A] man of quality, honour and merit … a master [of military arts] in which I give [him] the preeminence.’
Charles Blount, English commander, 1601: ‘One of the greatest soldiers the King of Spain hath.’
Richard Leveson, English admiral, 1570–1605: ‘A great captain and a gallant fellow.’
Philip O’Sullivan, Irish historian, 1621: ‘A Spanish gentleman, of military skill … [and of] great valour.’
Fernando de Toledo, Spanish nobleman 1580s: ‘The man born without fear.’
Spanish War Secretary Esteban de Ibarra, 1601: ‘[A man of] valour … When I remember who Don Juan del Águila is, my heart is lightened.’
King Felipe III, 1602: ‘[His] bravery and prudence … I prize highly.’
Gil Gonzáles Dávila, historian, 1578–1658: ‘One of the greatest luminaries that war has produced.’
Martin Hume, specialist in Spanish history, 1901: ‘A chivalrous soldier of the old school, brave as a lion.’
Sta
ndish O’Grady, historian, 1896: ‘Heroic … I hardly know of a better soldier and more honourable or loyal gentleman operating in Ireland … the country is the richer because Don Juan was here.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE AFTERMATH
THE WAR in Ireland continued for another year after the Spanish left Munster – and the intervening months were among the blackest periods in Irish history.
In the north, full-scale hostilities resumed in the summer of 1602. O’Neill made renewed attempts to obtain a royal pardon, but Queen Elizabeth refused. She ordered Blount to strike ‘while the iron is hot’. Blount obeyed, ravaging O’Neill’s territories in a relentless scorched-earth campaign. Some of his commanders took this to extremes. ‘We have killed above 100 people,’ reported one general, Arthur Chichester. ‘… We spare none of what quality or sex soever.’ There was widespread famine. Fynes Moryson recalled seeing ‘multitudes of these poor people dead with their mouths all coloured green by eating nettles’. Other victims were forced into cannibalism.
(It does not mitigate the horror in any way to point out, for the sake of balance, that such pitiless scorched-earth tactics were used by both sides. O’Neill’s ravages in Munster and Leinster had left whole regions destitute. Similarly, O’Donnell had passed through the west ‘plundering, devastating, ravaging and destroying’.)
O’Neill held out, hoping for better terms after Elizabeth’s death. Negotiations were re-opened, and were still continuing when the Queen died in 1603 – but the English withheld that news from O’Neill until after he had submitted to Blount.
O’Neill negotiated excellent terms. Since he retained nearly all his lands and kept his English title of Earl of Tyrone, it was almost as though he had hit an ‘undo’ button and wiped out his recent past. This left his former foes embittered. ‘[I] went near to starving, ate horseflesh in Munster, and all to quell that man, who now smileth in peace!’ stormed one. It was Blount who held these enemies back, reckoning that it was better to keep O’Neill inside the tent spitting out, than outside spitting in. In an odd twist of history, he became O’Neill’s protector – and when Blount died in 1606, the Ulsterman lost his only shield against attack. O’Neill, who had spent much of his life cheerfully hopping back and forth between sides, was running out of room to manoeuvre. He was dogged by spies and kept under surveillance. But exactly why he chose to leave Ireland, suddenly and secretly, in 1607 is a fiercely disputed question.
