CHAPTER VIII
“The Curse of Cromwell”—Massacres of Drogheda and Wexford—Death of Sir Phelim O’Neill
THEIR adherence to the cause of the young Stuart brought upon the Irish nation the blighting “curse of Cromwell,” so terribly remembered down to the present hour in every nook of Ireland visited by his formidable and remorseless legions. The English Parliament well knew that a general of the first class was needed to crush the Irish army in field and fort, and so Oliver Cromwell, commander of the famous “Ironsides,” or Parliamentary cuirassiers, the greatest and most relentless soldier of that age, was sent to Ireland, commissioned to work his will upon her. He landed in Dublin with an army of 4,000 cavalry and 9,000 infantry, augmented by the forces already in the island, on August 14, 1649. Plentifully supplied with money and military stores, he at once made ready for a vigorous campaign. His second in command was General Ireton, a son-in-law and pupil, who is remembered in Ireland only a degree less bitterly than the great regicide himself. The latter marched his formidable army, after a very brief rest, from Dublin to Drogheda, which was held for Charles II by a garrison of about 3,000 men, burdened with many helpless non-combatants, under the orders of Sir Arthur Aston, a brave and experienced officer, who had suffered the loss of a leg in the Continental wars. He spurned Cromwell’s insolent summons to surrender, and successfully repulsed two furious assaults, led by the English general in person. A third attack, made September 10, 1649, was successful. General Aston fell, and the Puritan soldiers quarreled over his artificial leg, which was said to be made of gold. Examination proved it to be of wood—a much less costly and tempting material. The garrison, seeing their leader fall, laid down their arms, believing that quarter would be extended. But Cromwell, by his own admission (see his letters compiled by Thomas Carlyle), refused this accommodation, on the flimsy pretext that Drogheda did not, at once, surrender on summons; and the Puritan army was let loose upon the doomed city. For five dreadful days and nights there ensued a carnival of rapine and slaughter. The affrighted people fled to cellars, many sought refuge in churches, and some climbed even to the belfries in the vain hope of escaping the general massacre. But they were relentlessly pursued, sabred, suffocated, or burned to death in the places in which they hoped to obtain shelter. The few miserable survivors—less than one hundred—were spared, only to be shipped as slaves to the Barbadoes. (See Cromwell’s Letters, per Carlyle.)
Cromwell, in his despatch to the speaker of the English Parliament, called this brutal achievement “an exceeding great mercy,” and, blasphemously, gave all the praise of the universal slaughter to the most High God! There is absolutely no excuse for the regicide’s outrageous conduct at Drogheda, although Froude, Carlyle, and other British historians have vainly sought to make apology for his inhuman actions. Many of the garrison were English and Protestant, so that race and creed did not entirely influence him, as the same considerations undoubtedly did at other places in Ireland. His cold-blooded idea was to “strike terror” into Ireland at the outset of the campaign; and in this he certainly succeeded only too well. It made his subsequent task of subjugation much easier than it would, otherwise, have been. Having accomplished his work in the fated city, and left it a smoking ruin, he counter-marched to Dublin, rested there for some days, and then marched toward Wexford, capturing several small towns, which offered but feeble resistance, on his way. His lieutenants had, meanwhile, added Dundalk, Carlingford, and Newry to his conquests in the North. Wexford prepared for a brave defence, but was basely betrayed by Captain James Stafford, an officer of English ancestry, who surrendered the outer defences, without the knowledge of his chief, Colonel David Sennott. Quarter was refused, as at Drogheda, and three hundred maids and matrons, many of the latter with infants in their arms, who fled to the market square, and took refuge, as they thought, under the sacred shadow of the gigantic cross which stood there, were butchered, notwithstanding their pleadings for mercy. Nearly all of these people were Catholic in creed, if not all of Celtic race, so that Cromwell manifested what may be called an impartial spirit of cruelty on both bloody occasions. His hatred for the English Protestant royalists was as hot, to all appearance, as that which he entertained toward the Irish Catholics, who had embraced the Stuart cause. But his remorseless policy of general confiscation of the lands of the vanquished, and the sending into banishment, as veritable slaves, of the unhappy survivors, have left a deeper scar on the heart of Ireland than all the blood he so cruelly, and needlessly, shed on her soil.
The tidings from Drogheda and Wexford soon spread throughout the country, and the faint-hearted governors of many strong towns surrendered without attempting to make an honorable defence. Kilkenny proved an exception. There a brave stand was made, and garrison and inhabitants received favorable terms of surrender. But Cromwell’s most difficult task was in front of “rare Clonmel,” in Tipperary, which was garrisoned by a few regiments of the aboriginal Ulster Irish—among the bravest men that ever trod a battlefield or manned a breach—under the command of Major-General Hugh Duff (Black) O’Neill, nephew and pupil of the glorious Owen Roe. This brave and skilful officer repulsed, with much carnage, several of Cromwell’s fiercest assaults, and the siege would, undoubtedly, have been raised only for failure of ammunition in the Irish army. O’Neill, having satisfied himself that this was the unfortunate fact, evacuated the city on a dark midnight of May, 1649, and retreated to Limerick. Cromwell, ignorant of this movement, demanded the surrender of Clonmel next morning. Favorable terms were requested and granted. There was no massacre, and Cromwell’s sardonic nature made him rather enjoy the masterly trick played upon him by young O’Neill. Some years afterward, when the latter, after a most noble defence of Limerick, fell into the hands of Ireton and was condemned to death, we are informed that Cromwell, then virtually Lord Protector, caused his sentence to be commuted and allowed him to return to the Continent. Such is the effect true courage produces on even the most brutal natures.
Owen Roe O’Neill, who, of all the Irish generals, was alone fitted, both by nature and experience, to combat the able Cromwell, died soon after that tyrant’s arrival in Ireland, as some say by poison. He was on the march to attack the English army, when he surrendered to death at Clough Oughter Castle, in Cavan, bitterly mourned by all who had dreamed of an independent Ireland. How beautifully Thomas Davis laments him:
“We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow!
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky,
Oh, why did you leave us, Owen, why did you die?
“Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye,
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high;
But we’re slaves and we’re orphans, Owen! why did you die?”
Immediately after the capitulation of Clonmel, Cromwell, summoned by Parliament to operate against the royalists of Scotland, set sail for England, leaving behind him Ireton and Ludlow to continue his bloody work. By Oliver’s direction, confiscation followed confiscation, and, when he became Protector of the English Commonwealth, many thousands of innocent boys and girls were shipped from Ireland to the West Indies and other colonies of England, where most of them perished miserably. Ireton died in Limerick, which yielded to his arms, after a desperate resistance, in 1651. Tradition says that he rotted from the plague, and that his last hours were horrible to himself and to all who surrounded his repulsive deathbed. He had caused to be killed in the city a bishop, many priests, and a multitude of other non-combatants; and these atrocities appalled his craven soul at the moment of dissolution. Ludlow, an equally ferocious soldier, concluded the work of conquest in Ireland, and, in 1652, the whole island was again rendered “tranquil.” “Order reigned in Warsaw,” but it was not the order that succeeds dissolution. Ireland, as subsequent events proved, was not dead, but sleeping. The close of “the great rebellion,” which had lasted eleven years, was signalized by the ruthless executions of Bishop Heber MacMahon—the warrior prelate who led Owen Roe’s army after that hero’s death—and Sir Phelim O’Neill, who was offered his life on the steps of the scaffold, if he consented to implicate the late King Charles I in the promotion of the Irish revolt. This, the English historians inform us, he “stoutly refused to do,” and died, in consequence, like a soldier and a gentleman. He had his faults—this fierce Sir Phelim. He was by no means a saint, or even an exemplary Christian—but he acted, “according to his lights,” for the best interests of his native country, and lost everything, including life, in striving to make her free. A gifted Irish poet (T. D. McGee) sings of him as “In Felix Felix,” thus:
“He rose the first—he looms the morning star
Of that long, glorious unsuccessful war;
England abhors him! has she not abhorr’d
All who for Ireland ventured life or word?
What memory would she not have cast away
That Ireland keeps in her heart’s heart to-day?
“If even his hand and hilt were so distained,
If he was guilty as he has been blamed,
His death redeemed his life—he chose to die
Rather than get his freedom with a lie.
Plant o’er his gallant heart a laurel tree,
So may his head within the shadow be!
“I mourn for thee, O hero of the North—
God judge thee gentler than we do on earth!
I mourn for thee and for our land, because
She dare not own the martyrs in her cause;
But they, our poets, they who justify—
They will not let thy memory rot or die!”