Chapter One
âHaste, Haste, for Your Lifeâ
Kinsale, Monday, 21 September 1601
The Arrival
CAPTAIN WILLIAM Saxey stared at the approaching warships and cursed his luck.
Saxey was just one of around a dozen English army officers whoâd been sent to guard the small towns dotted around the southern Irish coastline in preparation for a long-anticipated Spanish invasion. His own posting, to the quiet town of Kinsale, had never been regarded as a key target, so he had been given a mere hundred men to maintain a token presence.
Suddenly, the idea of a hostile landing at the sleepy County Cork harbour didnât seem so far-fetched after all. A belligerent armada of more than two dozen Spanish warships, led by the mighty 900-ton galleon San Andres, had been spotted sailing past the promontory known as the Old Head. At first, Saxey had assumed that the ships were trying to tack their way up to the nearby port of Cork city, but, if they were, the gods of weather had other ideas. The blustery autumn winds were making the short journey next to impossible. Whatever the intention, one thing was certain: they were now headed into Kinsale.
How many soldiers were on board the ships? Six thousand? Five thousand? Fewer? Nobody knew for certain. But with Saxeyâs own meagre force, plus maybe another sixty volunteers from among the townsfolk, he wouldnât be able to hold them off for five minutes.
Saxey looked around the town and considered his options. Kinsale had the paradoxical qualities of being a nightmare to attack and an even worse nightmare to defend. It had a great harbour, but control of that port depended on holding two forts on either side of the sea approach. If those fortresses fell into enemy hands, Kinsaleâs fate would be sealed, because it could not rely on help from the sea.
Defending the landward side depended upon controlling the heights above the town. Kinsale lay in a virtual pit backed by steep hills and was wide open to attack from cannon â a child could stand up there and practically toss stones right into the streets.
The townâs ancient stone walls were crumbling and dilapidated and needed reinforcing before they would be fit to defend the city against even the basic mediaeval weapons theyâd been designed to withstand, never mind the heavy artillery of modern warfare. The streets were barely wide enough for two men to pass each other.
âThe town is protected by only one wall, with turrets at intervals,â one expert wrote later, adding that it was inconceivable that such a place could withstand a long siege. On the plus side, Kinsale had two mills to grind corn and enough ovens to bake bread for thousands of troops.
Was it worthwhile to attempt a defence? Saxey knew only too well the deal that the Spanish were likely to offer â it was the standard arrangement of a merciless age: surrender, and we let you live; try to resist, and we will put everyone to the sword.
But there was a good reason why the Spanish should withdraw even this basic concession. They had a grudge to settle. Just two decades before, a Catholic expedition of six hundred Spaniards and Italians had occupied Smerwick in County Kerry. Pinned down by thousands of English troops, the invaders had surrendered in the belief that their lives would be spared. Instead, the English had cold-bloodedly massacred almost the entire force.
As Saxey watched the approaching Spanish ships, he must have felt a deep sense of dread. Whatever he decided to do, he might not survive to see another dawn in Kinsale.
John Meade, the mayor of Cork city, was a worried man. And with good reason. Cork had never been a bastion of loyalty to English rule. If the Spaniards landed here, it would be touch and go whether the citizens would fight them or embrace them.
Meade looked at the scribbled letter from his counterpart in Kinsale, warning him of the Spaniardsâ arrival off the Old Head, and immediately composed a report to the English commander, Charles Blount. âA post from Kinsale came in this hour, advertising that 55 ships were seen this afternoon off the Old Head of Kinsale,â he wrote. âThey are, I expect, our enemies; and the wind serves them well for this harbour [Cork] or Kinsale.â
Meade sent that letter in the afternoon. Within a few hours, his speculation about the destination was settled. He wrote an updated note. âThe Spanish fleet of 30 ships arrived at Kinsale on 21 September and landed their men at 6pm that day,â he told Blount. He sealed the historic letter, and scribbled a frantic instruction to the messenger:
âHaste, haste, post; haste, haste, post, for your life.â
Not long afterwards, a Scottish merchant ship hauling a cargo of salt arrived in Waterford. The master, a Silvester Steene from Leith, hurried ashore and breathlessly informed the authorities about the invasion fleet. Steene had been in Lisbon when the Spanish fleet set sail in August. He claimed that fifty-five ships had left Portugal. Five of them were âgreat shipsâ with the flagship a massive thousand tons. But the fleet also included French, Scottish and Flemish vessels, as well as four from Ireland. Steene identified the sea commanders by name â Admiral Don Diego de Brochero and his Vice-Admiral, Don Pedro de Zubiaur.
And who, demanded his interrogators, was the commander of the land forces? Steene shook his head. He had no name, just the most basic description imaginable.
âAn old man, he replied. An old man whom I do not know.
Chapter Two
The Man Born without Fear
Cadiz, Spring 1601
Four months before the invasion
THE OLD Eagle was caged in a prison cell when he was offered one last flight to glory.
It was hard to tell exactly why Maestro de Campo Don Juan del Ăguila was in jail: some said it was for taking liberties with army money during his controversial command in western France. Some said it was because of the notorious stubbornness that always landed him in trouble with his military masters. Some said the former was used by the authorities as a pretext for the latter.
It hardly mattered. But when his distinguished visitors outlined an audacious plan to invade England through Ireland, the Old Eagle had plenty of time to listen. He would lead an expeditionary force that would sail in a mighty armada from Lisbon, the top brass explained.
Six thousand hand-picked veteran fighters would be under his command. He would have devastating artillery. Neither would be needed when he landed in Ireland, because he would be welcomed by the cheering populace, who would steer him in a flow of jubilation towards their leaders. He didnât even need horses, because 1,600 fresh Irish mounts were to be placed at his disposal. All he needed were saddles.
The gritty old warrior was no fool and he didnât suffer fools gladly. So his irritation must have mounted as the madcap plan went from one height of fancy to another. No destination had been settled yet. It could be the west coast â Donegal, Sligo, Galway, Limerick â but, wait, then again it could be Carlingford in the east. Anyway, he didnât need to worry because he would have an old Ireland hand, a Franciscan Brother named Mateo de Oviedo, by his side to advise him on these matters.
Ăguila must have bitten hard on his tongue at this stage. He knew Brother Mateoâs military record and it was not a distinguished one. Should he mention Smerwick at this point? The lunatic invasion the good Brother helped to inspire, the horrific massacre which he escaped?
No. He carried on listening.
Once landed, his masters continued, he would join the victorious northern armies of the insurgent chieftains Hugh OâNeill and Hugh OâDonnell, who had the entire country on their side. Their troops would swell his invasion force to 16,000, perhaps even 20,000 as other wavering lords joined the rising.
Ăguila listened.
The warriors for Christ would sweep across Ireland, easily quashing the few thousand troops that the Queenâs commander could muster at short notice, until they reached the east coast, a mere twenty leagues from England. More ships would arrive from Spain. More veteran warriors. They would consolidate their position and gather their forces until ⌠the final killer move: invasion of England itself. If all went well, the bells of London town would ring out to celebrate a Spanish Christmas, and a Catholic monarch would replace La Inglesa, the heretical Englishwoman Elizabeth Tudor, on the throne of England.
Ăguila had not been born yesterday. He had never been to Ireland, but he knew all about the country. During his time as Spanish commander in France he had regularly been approached by starry-eyed envoys from OâNeill and OâDonnell asking him to invade Ireland directly from Brittany. The two chieftains, aware of his military reputation, had written to him personally requesting his help.
Like many Spanish officers, Ăguila was deeply sceptical about assurances of popular support in Ireland. The Irish constantly professed kinship with the Spanish through ancient blood and brotherhood through religion, yet many of their chieftains â OâNeill among them â had attacked the survivors of the Great Armada as they had staggered ashore half-drowned from the wreckage. The memory of those atrocities had festered in the minds of the Spanish veterans. That shattered trust would be difficult, if not impossible, to restore.
Besides, the idea that the entire island of Ireland was united in rebellion was nonsense, despite what that zealot Brother Mateo m...
