Bingham subdues the Burkes.
While it was still uncertain whether Bingham or his enemies would get the upper hand, the Burkes continued in rebellion. They went about in bands of 500 or 600, openly celebrated the Mass, and robbed all who were not with them. The Blind Abbot was made MacWilliam, with all the ancient ceremonies, and in virtue of his office he proceeded to assault and capture a castle garrisoned by Attorney-General Comerford’s men. When Bingham had gained his cause in Dublin, it became evident that his policy must prevail; and a letter from the Queen herself, whom the creation of a MacWilliam touched in her tenderest point, probably decided Fitzwilliam’s course. He made arrangements to have a strong force at Galway, and went there himself, to make a last effort for peace. Sir Murrogh ne Doe came in, but failed to find acceptable pledges, and was lodged in gaol. The Burkes did not appear, and some thought their contumacy was caused by the wording of the proclamation, which gave safe conduct to come, but not to return. It may be remembered that no less a personage than Shane O’Neill had been detained in virtue of a quibble of this kind. At all events the time of grace was allowed to pass, and Bingham went to work in earnest. With about 1,000 men, of whom more than three-quarters were regular soldiers, he swept Tyrawley from end to end. Only once, in a defile of the Nephin range, did the rebels make a stand, and they burned their own villages without waiting to be attacked. The poor MacWilliam had cause to rue his blushing honours, for he had a foot cut off by one of Thomond’s soldiers, with a single blow of his sword. That Earl marched on foot through the mountains, and Clanricarde was also very active. The wounded chief lay for several days, without meat or drink, in an island in Lough Conn, and was afterwards drawn on a hurdle from place to place, to seek the alms of his clansmen. ‘It is not,’ said Bingham, ‘a halfpenny matter what becomes of him now.’ The Burkes all submitted, on Sir Richard’s own terms, and peace was concluded with them.[204]
O’Rourke is expelled,
surrendered by James VI.,
and hanged.
O’Rourke’s turn had now come. He may have supposed that his country was unassailable, but was quickly undeceived. Bingham had no doubt about being able to subdue him in ten days, but refused to move without written orders from the Lord Deputy, lest he might be disavowed afterwards. The order was given, and the Governor, who was suffering from dysentery, sent four divisions of soldiers into Leitrim under his brother George and Sir Henry Duke. Some malcontent O’Rourkes helped the English, and much damage was done. The mere presence of so large a force was enough to exhaust the district, and the subordinate chiefs were glad to make their peace, and perhaps glad to free themselves from O’Rourke, who fled to the MacSwineys in Donegal. Cuellar’s friend MacClancy was hunted down, and killed as he tried to swim to one of his islands. He had still fourteen Spaniards with him, and some of these were taken alive. O’Rourke remained during the rest of the year in Donegal, and then escaped to Scotland, but James gave him up to the English Government. In thanking her dear brother for this, Elizabeth wondered how his ‘subjects of Glasgow should doubt the stop of their traffic for so poor a caitiff, who was never of ability to make or give traffic.’ In London O’Rourke justified Sidney’s assertion as to his being the proudest man he had ever dealt with, for he demanded that the Queen herself should judge him. His refusal to surrender Spaniards after the proclamation was treason, and he was told the indictment was sufficient if he refused to plead. ‘If it must be so,’ he said, ‘let it be so,’ and he was accordingly condemned and hanged at Tyburn, with all the usual barbarities. He was attended on the scaffold by Miler Magrath, but refused his ministrations and upbraided the old Franciscan as an apostate. He had previously refused to bend the knee before the Council. ‘I have always thought,’ he said, ‘that a great distance separated you from God and the Saints, whose images alone I am accustomed to venerate.’[205]
Mutiny in Dublin.
Experience had shown the many evils of an ill-paid soldiery, but efforts at reform were not always wisely directed. New-comers and raw levies were sometimes better treated than the old garrison. Those whose services were yet to come got all the available money, while veterans, ‘who passed all the soldiers in Europe in the travel and hard diet they had endured,’ had to put up with scanty and irregular payments on account. Old soldiers saw their boys receive a shilling a day in punctual weekly payments while their own sevenpence was often in arrear. In May 1590, in the absence of their commander and without the knowledge of their officers, Sir Thomas Norris’s company of foot suddenly left Limerick, and appeared in Dublin with drums and fifes playing. At eight in the morning they assembled on the bridge at the Castle gate, and clamoured for their pay and allowances, many months in arrear. Fitzwilliam, whose passage was obstructed by them, at first thought of a whiff of grape-shot, but changed his mind, and sallied forth among the mutineers. Sir George Carew bore the sword before him. ‘Rather than let it go,’ said Archbishop Loftus, ‘your lordship may be sure he will do as the Mayor of London did.’ The services of a Walworth were not required, and, indeed, the poor soldiers seem to have had no evil intentions. They besought Fitzwilliam to be good to them, and only one man used some offensive expression. The Lord Deputy turned his horse upon him, calling him baggage and mutinous knave, and drew his blade when the man held up his piece in self-defence. Gentlemen and servants streamed out of the Castle and drew their swords, and Fitzwilliam cried out, ‘Disarm these villains!’ They made no resistance, but fell upon their knees, and sixty-one out of seventy-seven were imprisoned. Many of the arms were stolen in the confusion. Fitzwilliam soon pardoned the mutineers, and sent them back to Munster. ‘The choler,’ says Carew, ‘that his lordship was in was very exceeding abundant, yet so tempered that any man might discern that his valour did appear unspotted either with fear or cruelty, for he thrust himself into the midst of them all without respect of his person, and struck many with the flat of his rapier, yet hurt none saving one of them a little in the head, and holding the point of it at sundry of their breasts, forebore to thrust any of them into the body.’[206]
Tyrone and Tirlogh Luineach.
Tyrone hangs one of Shane O’Neill’s sons,