But royal words, however sweet, could not conquer Ulster. Heroic as was his character in many ways, Essex had not the gifts which have been given to a few great generals. He could not infuse courage or endurance into wretched starvelings, nor had he administrative genius to conquer the shortcomings of his commissariat. Newry and Dundalk must have been evacuated but for a timely supply of herrings. The peculation was such that stores calculated to last six months did not last four, and that the full supplies for near 600 men were expended on much less than half the number. The powder was one-quarter coal dust, and was not worth firing. The Carrickfergus garrison was reduced nearly two-thirds by desertion and disease, and was so completely isolated that a traveller going to Dublin might consider 100 horse but a scanty escort. The filth of the town was such as to make fever almost universal. The services of religion were neglected, for the ‘belly-fed ministers’ who were induced to visit Ulster liked the danger and hard fare no better than the gentlemen adventurers whose service had consisted in eating without paying. The reinforcements sent were of such quality as to be worse than useless: 100 were raw recruits from Oxfordshire and Berkshire; 200 were from Cheshire and Lancashire, and so bad—the Lancashire men especially—as to be scarce fit for field labour. As labourers Essex had to keep them, ‘for soldiers,’ he said, ‘they will never be.’ One hundred veterans promised from Berwick had been countermanded on a rumour of Desmond’s submission. Captain Morris, who had the leading of the ragged regiment, was destined to lay his bones in Ireland. The fact was that Carrickfergus had such a bad name in England that everyone who possibly could avoided service there. Waterhouse, who was at Chester in constant communication with Ireland, begged that the men might be sent to Carlingford; but routine seems to have been too strong for him, and they were despatched to the old pest-house. The wretched lads died like flies at the rate of fifteen or twenty a day—300 were sick at once, and none could hope to escape. Scarcely a man was fit even for sentry duty. Essex lay among his men, and there was not a night but one, two, or three died within ten feet of him. The remonstrances of his officers against this heroic foolhardiness prevailed at last, and he was induced to withdraw the remains of the garrison. Out of some 600 only 200, more dead than alive, reached the Pale, where he had to support them at his own expense.[276]
He still has hope.
The Queen’s gracious letter caused hope to spring once more in the Earl’s breast, and with such men as he could muster he resolved to chastise Sir Brian MacPhelim. That chief was proclaimed traitor, and 200l. was put upon his head. At first he despised such threats, and some skirmishing took place. Having the worst in these encounters, and perhaps hearing exaggerated accounts of the reinforcement, Sir Brian thought it prudent to submit. Some thought that this was done only to gain time until the provisions were exhausted; but it is probable that Sir Brian looked upon war against the Queen’s Governor as different from war against the Earl of Essex in his capacity of private adventurer. So far as humility of language went, nothing could be said against him. He acknowledged that after many years’ loyal service he had wandered into the wilderness like a blind beast without knowledge of good. By the good grace of Almighty God he had been called home, and his chief desire now was to see her Majesty’s face. Clandeboye was the Queen’s, and he was ready to pay a rent of 1,500 kine for the first year and to increase it afterwards. At his earnest request Essex interceded for his pardon, and was sanguine enough to express an opinion that it would be well deserved.[277]
But all men see that he must fail.
The Lord Deputy’s troubles.
It seems that Burghley wished to make Essex Deputy, but the Earl, though he was accused of intriguing for it, had no wish to incur hatred and envy ‘in that unfortunate office.’ ‘Who shall serve the Queen and his country faithfully,’ he said with an evident side glance at Fitzwilliam, ‘shall have his fair reward for his travail; but if he will respect his gain more than his prince, country, or honesty, then may he make his gain unmerciful.’ He was quite ready to serve under Sidney or any other settled Governor, ‘and such a one as is fit for Ireland, not Ireland for him.... All the ill-disposed now rob and steal, hoping that the new Governor will pardon all done before his time.... This people wax proud; yea, the best might be amended; all need correction.’ The actual Deputy declared that he ‘fretted away his life in misery.’ Not only was he persistently and, according to himself, quite unjustly accused of trying to thwart the Ulster enterprise, but he found his credit everywhere depreciated. Edward Fitzgerald, who may be supposed to have been tolerably impartial, declared that he pitied his sad state. The evil feared him but a little. The Pale bore him no goodwill. The soldiers misliked him, while the captains complained; and the councillors cynically abstained from giving advice whenever he seemed inclined to do anything unpopular or capable of misrepresentation. He accused his old antagonist Vice-Treasurer Fitton of annoying him in every possible way, withholding his pay, disputing his requisitions, and refusing to follow him into the field.
‘I would,’ said Fitzwilliam with evident sincerity, ‘abide the pricking out of my eye or the stitching up of my lip,’ rather than let private feeling hinder public service; but he confessed that he could not help disliking a man who counterworked God’s will by prejudicing the English Government against his official superior, with no higher object than to gratify his own malicious vanity. Fitton was evidently a provoking person, but he solemnly declared he never gave Fitzwilliam a crabbed word, whereas the Lord Deputy’s household was a hotbed of slander against him. Such, according to his own account, was the Vice-Treasurer’s conscious innocence that he magnanimously signed State papers which contained covert attacks upon his official conduct. The poor Deputy could only testify against Fitton’s vain-glorious humour, and beg to be recalled from his ‘tabering.’[278]
Fitzwilliam is blamed for doing nothing, but is not furnished with means.
Had Fitzwilliam felt sure of his sovereign’s favour he might have laughed at his enemies, and even at his daughter’s unwedded condition. But the Queen blamed him roundly for staying lazily in Dublin, while Desmond lorded it in Munster and Essex struggled on unsupported in Ulster, and while Connaught scarcely preserved the semblance of the royal dominion. Fitzwilliam pleaded with perfect truth that to take the field without proper forces would be to risk her Majesty’s honour. His credit was at the lowest ebb. The commissariat was in a state of chaos, and though he had often and urgently asked for a victualler none was sent—‘a most necessary minister, the toilsome care of whose charge doth trouble me more than half the Government besides.’ To save appearances he gave out that he expected his recall daily. ‘Between these changes,’ said Essex, in words that apply now as well as then, ‘is ever all the mischief in Ireland; and therefore it were good to make it surely known that he shall still remain, or else to send such a Governor as you do determine on presently, for the expectation of a change maketh this man not to be obeyed nor cared for.’[279]
Fears for the peace of Munster.