The incessant rumours of Spanish invasion led to nothing, but these foreign intrigues are worth following for the light which they throw upon Elizabeth’s policy. Stukeley, finding that the Archbishop of Cashel’s party would not accept him as the champion of Irish Catholicism, went to Rome, where he walked barelegged and barefooted about the churches and streets. Fitzwilliam derisively reported that the man who had given up the kingdom of Florida and the dukedom of Ireland only for holiness’ sake was about to have a red hat, and that the superstitious people of Waterford really believed in his sanctity. Constant communication was kept up between Ireland, Spain, and the Low Countries, and there was scarcely a southern chief or lord who was not supposed to be in correspondence with Stukeley or with some other of the exiles. Many probably sympathised with the idea of a Spanish invasion, though not to such an extent as the sanguine Fitzgibbon had represented, and others may have thought it prudent to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness. The adventurer, after his return from Rome, was attracted by the somewhat kindred spirit of Don John of Austria, and served under him either at Lepanto or in some smaller encounter with the Turks, after which he retired to Madrid, and ‘for his many deeds’ became more of a favourite than ever. A pension of 1,000 ducats per week was thought a suitable entertainment for the Duke of Ireland, and one Cahir O’Rourke obtained the command of forty men. The Bishop of Cadiz received orders from Philip to punish those who refused passages to the Irish refugees, friars, and others, and one Cormac, calling himself provincial of the Irish Dominicans, busied himself in seeing that the order was carried out. The French captains under one pretence or other refused to carry these emissaries; but the Portuguese were more subservient, and many Irishmen sailed from Lisbon as well as from the Spanish ports. Meanwhile loyal Englishmen were subjected to every inconvenience. Five ships were stopped at San Lucar and three at Seville, and many of Elizabeth’s subjects were closely imprisoned. The Inquisition worked harder than ever. Rumours of a fleet to be commanded by Stukeley were again rife, and some talked of as many as fifty ships. Philip II.’s slow mind was quite unequal to the task of coping with such statesmen as Cecil and Walsingham, and they were able to watch every move. English merchants and sea-captains, even Compostella pilgrims, took a pride in thwarting the despot, who seldom travelled further than Aranjuez, and imagined that he could rule all mankind by making silly marginal notes on despatches. Waterford having been recommended in 1569 as the best point for attacking Ireland, Philip, who apparently heard of the place for the first time, could only wonder in manuscript ‘whether the Duke of Feria knew anything of that port.’ Considering that Philip had been King of England, this is a fine illustration of the aphorism as to the small amount of wisdom with which the world is governed.[229]
Effects of St. Bartholomew in Ireland.
The day of St. Bartholomew could not but have its effect in Ireland. In Connaught and other Irish districts ‘the godly,’ as the few Protestants esteemed themselves, thought it prudent to hide. The rest of the people triumphed ‘as though the kingdom of Antichrist were once again erected.’ There was talk of the Spanish Inquisition, but little or no actual violence is recorded to have been done. Suspicion filled the air, and the sudden appearance of innumerable friars seemed to bode some great foreign movement. They came out of Ulster and traversed Connaught in companies of twenty at a time. Cormac, the so-called Provincial of the Dominicans, brought a budget of indulgences to Sligo, and published them openly. Friars preached at Galway before the ex-mayor and other leading townsmen, and held councils at Adare, Galway, and Donegal. They came and went between Ireland and France, and Fitzwilliam’s informant held that the preaching of Ulster friars ‘must naturally tend to rebellion.’ Their evident desire, he thought, was to subvert the English Government, and ‘set up their own wickedness.’ In Galway the mendicants bore themselves like princes, so that the Pope might be thought King of England and Ireland. Clanricarde himself dared not say a word, and Limerick threatened to be soon as bad as Galway.[230]
Rise of Rory Oge O’More.
Those parts of Ireland which were supposed to be tolerably well settled were pervaded by a sense of insecurity, and gave Fitzwilliam no help. King’s County, under the wise government of Henry Cowley, noted by an eminent lawyer as being the only Englishman who ruled by law, was long an exception; but the Queen owed the constable near 2,000l., and such disinterestedness could not be expected from every officer. Cowley had but twenty-three men, and, though others praised him, he was himself dissatisfied with the state of his district. Cosby was less successful in the Queen’s County, where Rory Oge O’More still kept an armed remnant of his tribe together. Kildare and Ormonde combined their forces but could not catch him, and he refused to cross the Barrow except in the company of the former Earl, who accordingly brought him to his castle of Kilkea. Rory said he would make no war against the Queen, but must be assured of life and living before he would submit; nor would he disperse his men, who were his only protection against many enemies. After consulting with Cosby, the two Earls gave him protection for a fortnight, on his undertaking not to damage the corn. When Ormonde went to England Rory broke out again, and found his neighbours willing enough to help him. Bands of fifty or a hundred invaded the Pale nightly with music and torches, as Fitzwilliam bitterly observed, ‘lest they should be heard or seen,’ yet he would not blame Cosby, for he had neither men nor money.[231]
The O’Byrnes.
In Wexford a gentleman named Browne was murdered by the O’Byrnes, among whom Feagh MacHugh was rising into distinction as a guerilla chief. Agard, the seneschal of Wicklow, took immediate vengeance on some of the mountaineers, and was then inclined to hold out hopes of mercy as the best chance of catching the most guilty parties, such as Matthew Furlong and others, who had employed the O’Byrnes. But Nicholas White, the seneschal of Wexford, went ‘thundering’ about saying that the Queen would never pardon anyone who had a hand in Browne’s murder. Fitzwilliam wished devoutly that White had stayed in England. The revenge already taken might have been severe enough even for White’s taste. Led by a mountaineer whom he had captured, and whose life was the price of his service as guide, Agard entered the south-west corner of Wicklow, where he burned sixteen villages, then passed through the valley of Imail, where he killed a foster-brother of James Eustace, afterwards the famous rebel Lord Baltinglass. A sister of Simon MacDavid’s was captured, ‘whom, if she do not stand me in stead, I mean to execute.’ Had plunder been the main object a very large number of cattle might easily have been driven off, but the guide, who may have had a quarrel of his own to avenge, offered to take the soldiers where they might ‘have some killing.’ Captain Hungerford and Lieutenant Parker preferred killing to kine, and went in at the head of Glendalough. ‘They slew many churls, women, and children,’ brought away much kine, and lost 500 more ‘while they were killing.’ Feagh MacHugh just escaped, but two of his sisters and two foster-brothers were slain. Much blood was destined to be shed before the blood of Robert Browne should be finally expiated. Sometimes the English officers seem to have set a very indifferent example. Robert Hartpole, sheriff of Carlow and constable of the Castle, and his sub-sheriff were accused upon oath of having seized a vast number of cattle on all sorts of pretences, of forcing labourers to work, and in general of every sort of violence and corruption. These misdeeds were said to have been committed by virtue of letters from the Earl of Ormonde. In the following year, Hartpole was one of those licensed by the Lord Deputy to cess Ormonde’s lands for protection against the O’Mores and O’Connors. No particular notice seems to have been taken of the charges against him, for he remained in Carlow to found a family, and to be remembered as a chief actor in one of the most horrible tragedies recorded even in Irish history.[232]
Bad effects of reducing the army.
Fitzwilliam had reduced the army much against his will, and the disturbances which he had foreseen followed as a matter of course. He asked for reinforcements, unless the Queen wished deliberately to leave the whole country to the native Irish. Her answer was that she marvelled at the stir in Ireland, and that she would not send the 800 soldiers he asked for; and she reminded him that Mr. Smith had been ready to bring over that number if Fitzwilliam had not opposed the enterprise. Smith was, however, now really coming, and might give some help. The poor Deputy could only answer that the 800 men were much wanting, that double that number of Scots had landed in Connaught, and that Ormonde, on whom alone he could depend, had been sent for to England. But to Burghley he passionately poured out his griefs. ‘I pass over,’ he said, ‘usual matters, such as killing, burning, spoiling;’ though they pricked his conscience daily, and though he feared that God would demand the innocent blood at his hand. The English name was hateful, and he would rather die when Ireland was lost than live in England to bemoan it. He could but shake the scabbard, for he had no sword to draw, and yet military government was the only government possible for a ‘people so long nursled in sensual immunity.’ The great men ‘all, tooth and nail, whatsoever semblance they bear, do spur, kick, and practise against regular justice.’ The fear of Ormonde kept some quiet, but in his absence their enforced frowns at the rebels were changed to winking. For himself, he could bear all if the Queen would only give him credit for doing his best, instead of blaming him more and more for not doing what he had long since declared impossible. ‘A hard word of a prince,’ he said, ‘is a dart to a true subject—much more, a nipping, a checking, and a taunting.’[233]