The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was not a happy Tidy family that walked, while no bell tolled, to listen to Oliver Cromwell.

  The crowd at College Green was impressive. The aldermen and city councillors were all there; the great men of Trinity College, old Doctor Pincher easily visible among them; the city’s Protestant parish clergy, still a small and unimpressive collection; and a large gathering of citizens. They all watched with interest as, with a cavalry escort, the general arrived in a simple open carriage.

  When the carriage stopped, Cromwell did not leave it. He took off his hat and stood up. He was a strongly built, soldierly man, an inch or two under six feet. His greying hair was parted in the centre and hung to his shoulders. His face was not ugly, but plain, and seemed to have warts on one side. When he spoke, his voice was rough and his manner blunt. And the message which Oliver Cromwell now delivered to the people of Ireland was plain and brief.

  He had been brought there by Almighty God, he told them, to restore them to liberty. Those who, recognising God’s Providence, were amongst the godly—by which he meant any good Protestant—could be assured that the barbarous and bloodthirsty Irish would be subdued, and that the Parliament of England would protect them. Those who opposed the authority of the Parliament with arms would be crushed. Let there be no doubt of that.

  But let them also understand, he continued, that he had no desire to hurt tender consciences. Those who were well-affected need not fear. The watchword of the army of God was justice: punishment for those who were guilty of shedding innocent blood, but for the rest, gentleness. Virtue and order should be their guide.

  “Civil liberties for peaceful people,” he announced.

  Then he sat down, put on his hat, and was driven away.

  Doctor Pincher frowned. This was not what he had expected at all.

  The message was carefully calculated. That was to be expected. And the tactical situation in which Cromwell found himself was well understood. He was a general. He had come to Ireland to protect the Parliamentary forces’ western flank. Those opposing the authority of Parliament with arms—in other words, the Royalist forces—would be crushed. This was clear. Of course.

  Those who had shed innocent blood would be brought to justice. Did he mean the Irish bands who had run riot when Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire had begun the rebellion in 1641? Presumably. The memory of those massacres, and the refugees coming into Dublin, was still fresh, though identifying the remaining culprits now would not be easy.

  But what was this talk of “tender consciences”? The phrase was a code, well known to every listener. It meant those of another faith. If those with tender consciences were “well-affected,” the general had announced, they had nothing to fear. The political language was unmistakable. The hint to the townsmen gathered on College Green was clear. As far as this blunt English general was concerned, respectable Catholic merchants like the Smiths of Dublin, if they gave him no trouble, could be left alone. It sounded suspiciously as if Cromwell might even let them continue to worship if they did so discreetly and out of sight. Doctor Pincher was appalled.

  Was this the general of the army of God? Were the Catholics not even to be forced to convert? Were they not to be dispossessed? Pincher had been waiting for this all his life. Perhaps this speech was just a tactic to keep the Catholics quiet until they could be properly dealt with. He hoped so. But another possibility also occurred to him: could it be that General Cromwell, beyond smashing the Royalists and punishing the guilty, had no plan for Ireland at all? Pincher glanced around the crowd. Everywhere, people were looking at each other with surprise.

  It was in some confusion, and with disquiet in his soul, that Pincher prepared for the meeting with his nephew.

  By the time that the Tidy family had entered the sanctuary of Trinity College, Pincher had already set the scene. He himself was standing alone, black-gowned and erect, looking towards the gateway where a group of students was watching. By a doorway on the right, several of his fellow lecturers had gathered, waiting to be introduced. The Tidys stood just inside the gateway.

  Through which, moments later, a large figure, dressed in the leathers of a Roundhead officer, strode with a heavy tread. He saw Doctor Pincher at once and made straight towards him. And Tidy groaned.

  “God’s blood,” he muttered. It was the officer with whom he’d quarrelled that morning.

  Doctor Pincher stared. The figure coming towards him was tall, but there all family resemblance ended.

  Barnaby Budge was burly. His chest was broad, his big breeches clearly housed legs like tree trunks, his leather riding boots were huge. But it was the sight of his face that transfixed the doctor.

  Barnaby Budge’s face was large and flat. It made Doctor Pincher think of a saddle of mutton. Was it really possible that this brutish fellow lumbering towards him was really his sister’s son?

  “Doctor Pincher? I am Barnaby.”

  The doctor inclined his head. Words would come, no doubt, but at that moment he could think of none. Meanwhile, he realised that the big soldier was studying his physiognomy with interest. Then Pincher heard him mutter to himself: “My mother was wrong.”

  “Wrong? How so?” Pincher asked sharply.

  Barnaby looked surprised, then embarrassed. He had not imagined that his uncle’s hearing, at such an advanced age, would be so keen.

  “I see, Sir,” he answered heavily but truthfully, “that you are not ill-looking at all.”

  Pincher gazed.

  “Come, Nephew,” he said quietly, with a glance towards where the lecturers of Trinity College were watching, “let us discuss family matters at my lodgings.” And giving the Tidys not even a nod, he passed stiffly out through the college gateway with Barnaby striding at his shoulder.

  Once at his lodgings, it did not take long to dispose of the necessary family enquiries. The doctor learned that Barnaby had been solidly set up in the drapery trade before joining the army of Cromwell, that he had inherited a little property and a good house. He spoke dutifully of his mother but, it seemed to Pincher, without much affection. He also spoke of the matter of his investment in Ireland.

  “I have come here to do the work of the Lord, Uncle, and I am owed five hundred pounds.”

  “Quite so,” said Doctor Pincher.

  For seven years, he explained, the five hundred pounds he had contributed to the Parliamentary cause had naturally been much in his mind. And as it was now to be repaid handsomely with confiscated Irish land, he would be glad to hear his uncle’s advice. He looked forward, he told the old man, to settling in Ireland and becoming his friend. “We shall turn this into a godly land, Uncle, I promise you,” he said, and clapped the old man on the back. To all of which Doctor Pincher, who was beginning to wonder if he really wanted this large relation to embarrass his declining years, replied:

  “All in good time, Barnaby, when the battle is won.”

  Nor did it take Pincher long to take the measure of his nephew’s intellect. Barnaby was not a scholar. Indeed, though familiar with many parts of the scriptures, it did not appear to the doctor that Barnaby had ever read a book in his life. His religious faith, as a solid, God-fearing Protestant, was commendably strong. When asked if he believed he should be saved, he answered firmly: “I serve in the army of God, Sir, and hope to be saved.” But when it came to church membership and Calvin’s understanding of Predestination, Barnaby seemed less certain. “Only God knows, I suppose, whom He has chosen,” he remarked—which, while undoubtedly being true, was not very satisfactory. And probing further, Pincher came to understand, as he had never really done before, how, quite apart from their English dislike of being told what to do by Scottish Presbyterians, the godly men of Cromwell’s army had come to believe that it was their years of fighting fellowship that proved they were of the Elect, rather than belonging to any church. While it pleased Pincher that his nephew should know himself to be chosen of God, it irked him that he should know it for the wrong reason, and he hoped that once peace was estab
lished, Barnaby should be led to a better understanding.

  He was interested, however, to hear more about the puzzling figure of Cromwell. He quickly learned that his nephew, and the entire army, revered the blunt general.

  “He is a godly man,” Barnaby assured him. “If he has a fiery temper, he shows it only in the cause of righteousness.” No man in his regiment, the doctor was glad to hear, could blaspheme or even swear an oath, on pain of punishment. Cromwell had been content with his lot as a country squire and Member of Parliament, according to Barnaby. Only the impossible tyranny of King Charles had forced him into opposition; and only Parliament’s complete inability to bring the business with the king to any conclusion after the war had forced him, with the other army men, to take control. “He had no wish to execute the king,” Barnaby declared. “Only cruel necessity made him do it. He told me so himself.” Though whether this was the agonising of a plain man or the self-justification of a politician, Doctor Pincher did not know. But one other piece of information was encouraging.

  “Cromwell is strenuous for the Lord, and he knows that the Catholic priests are the greatest devils of all. Any priests he catches, I can promise you, he will kill.”

  Whatever the general said about tender consciences, therefore, it did not seem that the Catholics could hope for much. Pincher was relieved to hear it.

  It was when Barnaby spoke about the feelings of the army who marched with Cromwell, however, that his statements became startling.

  “We know why we have come, Uncle,” Barnaby assured him. “We have come to punish the barbarous Irish for the massacres. We’ll avenge the rebellion of ’41, I promise you.”

  “It was a terrible thing,” Pincher agreed. “I preached to the survivors in Christ Church Cathedral,” he added with some pride.

  But Barnaby was scarcely listening.

  “I am fully informed, Uncle,” he assured him. “The whole Irish nation rose,” he recited. “They turned upon the Protestants, man, woman, and child, and they butchered them. There was no mercy given, no limit to their Irish cruelty. They killed them all, except the few who got away. Three hundred thousand innocent Protestants died. There has been nothing like it in all the history of Man.”

  Doctor Pincher stared at him. The actual loss of life in the rising of 1641 was somewhat uncertain. He believed that when it was all done, perhaps five thousand Protestants lost their lives across the whole of Ireland, though it might well be less. Another thousand or two Catholics had been killed in reprisals. Since then, of course, the figures had swollen in the telling, but Barnaby’s statement was astounding. Pincher wasn’t sure there were even that many Protestants on the island.

  “How many?”

  “Three hundred thousand,” said Barnaby firmly.

  Pincher despised the Irish and hated Catholics, but he was not a dishonest man.

  “That number,” he ventured, “may be somewhat high, you know.”

  “No, I assure you,” said Barnaby. “It is so. The whole army knows it.”

  And now Doctor Pincher understood. The army of Oliver Cromwell, having questioned the need to convert Catholics, had been fortified by these reminders of the atrocities to avenge. And he sighed. Every army, he supposed, has to be told a story. Sometimes the story is true, sometimes not. No doubt, he supposed, this story would serve its necessary purpose.

  DROGHEDA

  1649

  WALTER SMITH moved slowly round the side of the great mound. It was a blustery day at the start of September, and it seemed that the winds might turn into gales. Along the low ridge, the huge, grassy tombs lay grimly under the cloudy sky. At his feet, the scattered shards of white quartz took their tone from the dullness of the day, like so many bleached bones. Below, gusts of wind angrily ruffled the slate-grey water of the River Boyne.

  It was said, he knew, that the legendary inhabitants of the island long ago, the Tuatha De Danaan, still lived and feasted in their bright halls under the magic mounds. Perhaps it was the weather, but to him the old sacred site seemed cold and vaguely threatening. He continued to ride eastwards.

  A month had passed since he departed Rathconan. Why had he left so abruptly? Perhaps it was ingrained in his nature that he must finish any task he had begun. Having committed himself to fight, he had to look for the battle. He had found Ormond and the remains of the forces of the crown and rested with them in camp for three weeks. During that time, his wound had nearly healed, although his leg still hurt him and he walked with a slight limp.

  After Cromwell’s arrival in Dublin, the news of his preparations had come quickly. He had picked the best men of the garrison and added them to his army. He had also imposed his usual iron discipline. His troops were quartered on the city, but they were forbidden to give any trouble. There was no looting, on pain of instant death. He had even insisted that all provisions from the surrounding countryside, from Catholic and Protestant farmers alike, were to be fully paid for. Not only was this unheard of, it was also very clever. So far at least, not a hand had been raised against him or his men.

  Presumably, Walter thought, Orlando was being fully paid for his grain. More than once, he had felt the urge to visit the estate in Fingal, but he knew it was impossible. Even if he were not arrested, it would only cause trouble. He must stay away until this business was over.

  It was not long before a rider came with definite news.

  “Cromwell’s preparing to move north.” This made sense. If he could take back the Ulster garrisons held by the Royalists and smash Owen Roe O’Neill, then he would have broken the backbone of the opposition. But it was also a strategy with risk. The garrisons were strong, and before entering Ulster, he must take the greatest stronghold of them all.

  Drogheda. Tredagh, the English were calling it, as their best approximation to the way the Irish pronounced the name. Soon after the news came, Ormond had strengthened the garrison with some of his best troops, under the command of Aston, a veteran commander. Walter, as an unskilled volunteer, had not been chosen to go. So he had quietly slipped away from Ormond’s camp the previous day. Once he arrived there, he considered, they would hardly turn away an extra man.

  He had only to ride a few miles along the northern bank of the River Boyne before he came in sight of his object.

  It was a grim old place. Occupying two hills on each side of the river, Drogheda’s medieval walls towered up in massive masonry that was almost impregnable. As the second great port after Dublin in that region, its importance was obvious, and it was the guardian of the coastal gateway into Ulster. Like most Irish towns, its citizens had been both Catholic and Protestant, but when forced to choose, it had closed its gates firmly against Sir Phelim and his Catholic rebels, who had besieged it for months and got nowhere. As a stronghold loyal to the government, it had recently been garrisoned by Ormond’s Royalist forces. Today, under a sullen, windy sky, its grim defences and grey steeples seemed to say: “We did not yield to Sir Phelim and his Catholics, and we shall not yield to Cromwell, either.”

  As Walter got near, he encountered a little stream of townspeople leaving, some on foot, others with carts. Evidently, Cromwell was expected soon. Entering through a gateway in the north-western wall, he passed into the town.

  Soon after making himself known to one of the officers, he was summoned to the commander’s headquarters, where, to his surprise, he found himself face-to-face with the commander himself. He knew a little about Sir Arthur Aston. A short, fiery man who had lost a leg in action, he had been one of the few Catholic officers in King Charles’s army. The men respected him. He was also wealthy. “They say his wooden leg is filled with gold,” Walter had been told. Hearing that Walter had come from Ormond’s camp, Aston was eager to talk to him.

  “I had hoped you were bringing ammunition,” he told the merchant. “Lord Ormond has promised to send me both powder and shot.” He shook his head. “Owen Roe O’Neill has promised me troops. They haven’t arrived either.” He gave Walter a quick look. “Do
n’t worry. The walls here would protect us if we never fired a shot.”

  Aston quickly gave orders that Walter should be attached to a small mounted company, whom he found lodged at an inn that lay in the northern half of the town. Though Ormond’s coalition contained both Catholics and Protestants, most of Aston’s men were Catholic, and the little company Walter joined was entirely so. The innkeeper was an English Protestant who had genially informed them that he had no particular preference between themselves and Cromwell’s men. “But I’d sooner stay here and be paid for my ale than have you gentlemen drink it for nothing when I’m gone.” He’d been widowed the year before and had a three-year-old daughter with golden curls, with whom the soldiers played to pass the time. Amused to find themselves with a comrade who was so much older, the soldiers immediately called Walter “Granddad.” When the little girl asked why, they informed her: “Didn’t you know, Mary, that this is your granddad? He’s everybody’s granddad.” And when she turned to her father, the innkeeper genially answered: “Most children only have two grandfathers, Mary, but you are so lucky—you have three.” The child insisted on sitting on Walter’s knee all evening after that.

  Cromwell’s army appeared from the south the following day. Walter watched their movements from the city walls. As they pitched their tents on the slopes opposite, the watchers estimated that Cromwell had brought about twelve thousand men. By the next morning, it was also clear that his artillery had not yet arrived.

  “He’s probably sent it by sea,” Aston told them. With the continuing winds, the coastal waters were treacherous. “With luck,” the one-legged commander remarked, “his transports will have been sunk.” Faced with the high walls of Drogheda, and without an artillery bombardment, there would be nothing Cromwell could do.

  The succeeding days were strangely quiet. Walter’s comrades tried to teach him some of the rudiments of swordplay and military tactics, though without much success. He spent the rest of his time wandering about the town.