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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Kinsale, Ireland: Christmas Eve, 1601 As thunder crashes and lightning rakes the sky, three very different commanders line up for a battle that will decide the fate of a nation. General Juan del Águila has been sprung from a prison cell to command the last great Spanish Armada. Its mission: to seize a bridgehead in Queen Elizabeth's territory and hold it. Facing him is Charles Blount, a brilliant English strategist whose career is also under a cloud. His affair with a married woman edged him into a treasonous conspiracy – and brought him to within a hair's breadth of the gallows. Meanwhile, Irish insurgent Hugh O'Neill knows that this is his final chance to drive the English out of Ireland. For each man, this is the last throw of the dice. Tomorrow they will be either heroes – or has-beens. These colourful commanders come alive in this true-life story of courage and endurance, of bitterness and betrayal, and of intrigue at the highest levels in the courts of England and Spain. Praise for The Stolen Village '...a harrowing tale that sheds light on the little-known trade in white slaves ... a fascinating exploration of a forgotten chapter of British and European history' Giles Milton - BBC History Magazine
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Praise for Hell or Some Worse Place
‘… a detailed narrative filled with heroism, treachery, dynastic politics, and adultery – the makings of a soap opera, except that all of it actually happened.’ Publishers Weekly
‘… the author’s gift for deep, comprehensive historical study and his ability to keep characters fresh in readers’ minds bring this battle between Spain’s best general and Queen Elizabeth’s favourite, Charles Blount, to the awareness it has been denied … A fantastic book that finally assigns Kinsale its rightful place in history.’ Kirkus
‘… lively and enthralling … Ekin is a wonderful guide through this engrossing tale’
Sunday Times
Praise for The Stolen Village
Des Ekin’s bestselling book on the taking of slaves from Baltimore, County Cork, by the Barbary pirates
Shortlisted for the Irish Book of the Decade award 2010
‘An enthralling read, not simply for the story of the raid itself, which Ekin recreates with bloodcurdling vividness, but for the parallels the author draws with the current geo-political situation.’ The Irish Times
‘… an irresistibly readable narrative … a compelling book.’ The Scotsman
‘This is a gripping account that’s exhaustively researched but wears its learning lightly, and proceeds along at a lively pace … proof, if it was needed, that fact is often more interesting than fiction.’ Metro
Dedication
For Grace
‘Truly I think that when the Devil took our Saviour Jesus Christ to the pinnacle of the Temple and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, he kept Ireland hidden … to keep it for himself. For I believe that it is the Inferno itself, or some worse place.’
– Don Juan del Águila, Spanish commander
Contents
A detail from this extraordinary sixteenth-century map depicts Ireland’s southwest coast and ‘The Spanish Sea’. With west topwards, it shows O’Sullivan Beare’s territory (top) and Baltimore, Castlehaven and Cork (to the right of the words ‘The’, ‘Spanish’ and ‘Sea’ respectively). Kinsale lies just to right of the ship: the black castle of ‘Barry Óg’ is Rincorran.
Preface
It is one of the great adventure stories of history – a siege drama that deserves to rank alongside the Battle of the Alamo and the heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift against the Zulu nation.
At 6pm on 21 September 1601, one of the strangest invasion forces in history sailed into the southern Irish harbour of Kinsale, a place its commander had never wanted to go. Battered by punishing storms and towering waves, it had lost contact with its best ships, most of its troops and some of its most important supplies. Although its ostensible purpose was to fight its way through Ireland and conquer England from the west, the expedition included hundreds of women and children. Its ranks contained scores of petrified young soldiers who had no idea how to shoot a gun. It had 1,600 saddles but no horses to put under them.
This was the last of the great armadas of the Elizabethan era – and the last Spanish armada ever to attempt an invasion of England through Ireland.
As the boats dislodged the 1,700 weary troops and the seasick civilians onto shore, the open-mouthed townspeople also saw a gaggle of nuns in their wimples and veils (and perhaps an occasional starched cornette) trip delicately across the rock and shingle. They were followed by a succession of bizarre religious figures. There was a much-feared Jesuit secret agent who was wanted by the English for allegedly organising a murder plot against Queen Elizabeth. There was a Franciscan friar who’d been appointed as Archbishop of Dublin – a city he would never visit, and a See he never saw. There were two more bishops, and a confusion of priests and friars. In this strange guns-and-rosaries expedition, the clerics enjoyed huge power. They immediately tried to order the veteran soldiers around. Even when it came to military matters, they felt they knew best.
As the townspeople soon found out, this wasn’t even purely a Spanish expedition. The ships – an odd mix of serious warships and requisitioned merchant vessels hauling cargos like salt and hides – carried a multinational mix of Spanish, Italians, Portuguese, Irish insurgents, and even a few English dissidents. Yet this oddball force was destined to be the most successful Spanish invasion ever mounted against England. Unlike the renowned Great Armada of 1588, this expedition actually established a bridgehead on English-controlled territory and captured a string of key ports.
The maestro de campo general or overall land commander of the expedition was an intriguing veteran named Don Juan del Águila. Today, he is relatively unknown. And yet Águila was the commander responsible not only for this last Spanish invasion of Ireland at Kinsale, but also, a few years earlier, for the last Spanish ‘invasion’ of England: a daring incursion into Cornwall from his base in Brittany.
Águila held out in the walled city of Kinsale for a hundred days, enduring a crippling siege imposed by English commander Charles Blount. Pinned down in one of the least defensible towns in Europe, the Spaniards shivered and starved under the relentlessly pounding English artillery and the equally pitiless Irish weather.
Monstrous guns hurled down fire and death from the hills into the narrow streets. Cannonballs tore breaches in their walls. Besieged from sea and land, the invaders had been reduced to eating dogs, cats and knackered horses – indeed, those were described as ‘treats’ and ‘the best victuals within the town’. Their troops died in their hundreds from hypothermia, malnutrition and dysentery.
Yet they held out and never surrendered.
There were bitter disappointments for the invaders: the locals initially gave them little help, despite confident promises; reinforcements despatched from Spain failed to get through to the town; and a huge relieving force of Irish insurgents from the north of the island proved unable to smash the siege and unite with their beleaguered allies. Still, even after the Irish rebel force was routed at the Battle of Kinsale, and all hope of success had been dashed forever, the surviving invaders still clung grimly on, declaring their determination to die before surrendering the town.
With both sides battle-wearied, and neither relishing the idea of a bloody hand-to-hand fight through Kinsale’s narrow and claustrophobic streets, Águila eventually came to terms with his English counterpart. The proud Spaniard sailed home, undefeated, with his sword still at his side and his colours still flying. An honourable man, he insisted on one particular condition that almost broke the deal: although the English wanted to arrest and hang the Irish ‘traitors’ who’d fought on the Spanish side, he refused to hand them over.
—If you so much as mention such disgraceful terms again, he told Blount in haughty Castilian fury, you should return to your sword.
He said he would fight to the death rather than betray his comrades. Blount dropped his demand and the Irish sailed off to Spain with Águila.
This is an astonishing tale of courage, endurance and heroism (on all sides) that has long been lost in a mist of myth, legend and self-serving propaganda. One eminent nineteenth-century historian has described Águila’s defence of Kinsale as ‘the most brilliant example of combined pluck, skill and endurance’ in Irish history.
On a global level, the siege and battle at this remote port on the western fringe of civilisation altered the balance of world power and changed history – with consequences that we are still living through today. Spain suffered a major reputational defeat at Kinsale. At sea, its proud navy was outclassed by a superior English fighting fleet. On land, its supposedly invincible infantry was shown to be as vulnerable as any other force. These reversals, combined with the final proof that Ireland would never be an easy back-door route to England, created a much more decisive turning point than the celebrated defeat of the Great Armada of 1588. It led to England’s expansion as a naval power and Spain’s decline.
The impact in Ireland was even more dramatic. After Kinsale and the departure to Europe of the leading Gaelic noblemen, England finally enjoyed total control over its first colony. Determined to avoid another rebellion from the north, they flooded the northern Gaelic heartland of Ulster with their own people – English and Scots planters. This was intended to guarantee peace but the actual effect, as we know only too well, was almost exactly the opposite. This experimental human mélange of assertive Anglican colonists, uncompromising Scots Calvinists and disempowered and resentful Catholic Irish was to prove a volatile mix.
I first became interested in this story while researching my book The Stolen Village, the true-life account of the 1631 slave raid by North African pirates on the fishing port of Baltimore, County Cork. I am a journalist by profession – not an academic and certainly not a qualified historian – so I was surprised and intrigued to learn that Baltimore had become Spanish territory for several weeks in 1601 under this Last Armada. I couldn’t help wondering: what had life been like for them, these men from the lands of sunshine, fighting through the rigours of this bitterly cold northern winter?
When I began my researches, I became fascinated by the personalities involved at Kinsale. There was Juan del Águila, a grizzled veteran fighter with nothing to lose. He had been in deep trouble with the Spanish authorities, and was gambling his career on this last throw of the dice. There was the English commander Charles Blount, scandal-hit after an affair with a lethal femme fatale, and equally desperate in his need for rehabilitation after being caught up on the fringes of an abortive palace coup in London. And there were the Irish commanders: Hugh O’Neill, a complex figure whose decision to withdraw his troops at a crucial moment before a planned link-up with the Spaniards remains an intriguing mystery; and Red Hugh O’Donnell, a man of action whose dramatic mental breakdown in the aftermath of the Battle of Kinsale ruled out all chances of the insurgent forces regrouping and retaliating.
I have spent several years researching this story, poring over every relevant line of the main original English and Irish sources; reading a great deal of the extensive Spanish legajos, or bundles of correspondence; peering over the shoulders of the well-informed Venetian ambassadors; and tapping into some obscure 1600s histories to gain angles and insights which rarely make their way into mainstream books.
One important point: this is a post-Good Friday Agreement book. I am not interested in bitter recriminations, laments or partisan rants about what ought not to have happened in the past. Rather, I view the Kinsale saga as a bit like those beautiful Georgian houses that line Dublin’s squares. A generation ago, many were torn down and viewed as hated symbols of Ireland’s colonisation. Now, they are cherished and protected because we all appreciate that they are part of our shared history. The story of Kinsale – where Irish people fought with equal commitment on either side – belongs to us all.
I wanted to make this story come alive again – as an exciting and vibrant tale of human endurance under pressure; of epic personality clashes; of a Spanish commander whose courage went unrewarded by his unforgiving King; and of an English commander who gained hero status from his victory at Kinsale, but threw it all away for his forbidden love of a married woman.
It is a tale from the era of Shakespeare, with all the elements of a Shakespearean tragedy, and yet it is also a contemporary story of politics and intrigue, of human weaknesses and strengths, that speaks clearly to us across the centuries. I hope you find it as captivating as I do.
A Note on the Text
This is a work of nonfiction. Nothing has been made up or ‘novelised’. Everything is attributable to an identified source.
Reading this book, you will notice that sometimes I use standard ‘curly’ quotation marks and sometimes Continental-style quotation dashes. This is a deliberate technique. Words in quotation marks are a direct quote, faithfully reproduced but sometimes edited back. Quotation dashes signify an indirect quote: that is, an honest and accurate reflection of what was said, but not using the actual words. In fact, sometimes I will use modern phrases to convey the same meaning. I find this helps to lighten the leaden plod of indirect testimony in official accounts, which were never intended for easy reading and rapidly become wearisome. However, both types of quotes are fully sourced and attributed. No dialogue has been invented.
I have modernised spellings for easier accessibility. Dates are kept in the Old Style (OS) Julian Calendar used by the English at the time.
For simplicity, I generally refer to the participants by their second names rather than their titles. For instance, in repeated references, Charles Blount, Lord Mountjoy, is ‘Blount’ rather than ‘Mountjoy’, and so on. No disrespect is intended. Similarly, Juan del Águila is simply ‘Águila’. I am aware that this isn’t actually his surname (any more than ‘da Vinci’ is Leonardo’s) but if Dan Brown can get away with it, so can I.
Des Ekin
Chapter One
‘Haste, Haste, for Your Life’
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 who’d 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 didn’t 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 Saxey’s own meagre force, plus maybe another sixty volunteers from among the townsfolk, he wouldn’t 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, Kinsale’s 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 – a child could stand up there and practically toss stones right into the streets.
The town’s 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 they’d 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.
‘The town is protected by only one wall, with turrets at intervals,’ 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 – 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 Spaniards’ arrival off the Old Head, and immediately composed a report to the English commander, Charles Blount. ‘A post from Kinsale came in this hour, advertising that 55 ships were seen this afternoon off the Old Head of Kinsale,’ he wrote. ‘They are, I expect, our enemies; and the wind serves them well for this harbour [Cork] or Kinsale.’
Meade sent that letter in the afternoon. Within a few hours, his speculation about the destination was settled. He wrote an updated note. ‘The Spanish fleet of 30 ships arrived at Kinsale on 21 September and landed their men at 6pm that day,’ he told Blount. He sealed the historic letter, and scribbled a frantic instruction to the messenger:
‘Haste, haste, post; haste, haste, post, for your life.’
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 ‘great ships’ 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 – 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.
—An 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 Águila 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 – Donegal, Sligo, Galway, Limerick – but, wait, then again it could be Carlingford in the east. Anyway, he didn’t 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.
Águila must have bitten hard on his tongue at this stage. He knew Brother Mateo’s 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 O’Neill and Hugh O’Donnell, 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.
Águila listened.
The warriors for Christ would sweep across Ireland, easily quashing the few thousand troops that the Queen’s 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.
Águila 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 O’Neill and O’Donnell 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, Águila 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 – O’Neill among them – 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 might proclaim. If there was such a thing as an Irish nation seeking liberation, it had yet to emerge. Instead, there were dozens of separate clans, some pro-English, some anti-, but most of them hopping back and forward across the fence with dizzying speed. These clans spent as much time fighting each other as they spent fighting the English.
Twenty years ago, the invaders of Smerwick had been given cast-iron assurances that ‘one fourth of Ireland had declared in their favour’ and that ‘the whole island would be with them’. That was all pie in the sky.
True, O’Neill and O’Donnell had gone further than anyone else with their ‘confederacy’ of insurgents, and they had chalked up some notable military successes. But they did not have the support of the major cities and towns, and large swathes of the country were hostile towards them. They said they were fighting a Catholic crusade, but most of the Catholic clergy in Ireland had declared against them.
No, Águila concluded silently, there had to be another reason why he was being sent to Ireland. It had nothing to do with invading England, at least not directly. Even helping the northern rebels was secondary to the main aim.
If invading England had been a real possibility, there would be no shortage of volunteers to lead the troops to glory. But Águila happened to know that the obvious candidate, General Antonio de Zuniga, had turned the job down. Zuniga had estimated that it would take a minimum of 8,000 troops and 1,000 cavalry just to survive in Ireland. Not possible? Then, no thanks.
Don Antonio was no fool, either. Why was he, Águila, being selected? After all, he was being pilloried for his actions in Brittany, where he had established a crucial bridgehead near Lorient, fortified it strongly, and held out for years against combined French and English forces. He had never surrendered.
A career soldier with nearly four decades of experience, Águila had fought the campaign as he saw fit, not always in accordance with the complex politics of the French wars of religion in which his country had become embroiled. His critics felt he should have been more proactive, hazarding his hard-won fortress with vainglorious attacks on other cities.
Was this a plan where Águila’s supposed deficits had suddenly become regarded as virtues? Did they want someone who could stoically dig in and hold a position, doggedly, against all odds; who was ready to die rather than surrender? Yes, that must be it. He wasn’t being sent to lead a triumphant wave of troops across Ireland. He was being sent on a near-suicide mission with a skeleton force to establish a foothold and then, like some beaten-down old streetfighter, to curl himself into a ball and take the kicks and blows for as long as it took, without giving in. Until … until what?
The answer was obvious. Until La Inglesa died.
The people best informed about European politics were the Venetians. Masters of intelligence-gathering, they maintained a network of well-paid informants in every royal court. One of their ambassadors, Marin Cavalli, was quick to identify the real reason for the Spanish invasion plan. Joining with the Irish rebels was a lesser aim. It was a diversion to draw English troops away from Spain’s long-drawn-out conflict in the Low Countries, where Queen Elizabeth was supporting a Protestant rebellion against Spanish rule. But it was also an attempt to establish a Spanish foothold in Ireland.
‘There are even greater objects,’ Cavalli wrote perceptively, ‘for the Queen is 68 years old, and in the natural course of events she cannot continue much longer … and in the case of her death, this foothold in Ireland would allow the [Spanish] King either to acquire the country or to assist the Catholics, and by supporting his own nominee among the pretenders to the Crown, he can render England dependent on himself.’
In other words, the astute Venetians believed that Águila was being sent to hold the fort – literally – in expectation of the Queen’s imminent death, at which stage the Spanish King, Felipe III, would announce a successor to Elizabeth and already be in a position to act to support the claim with arms.
The Spanish Council of State had already recommended a suitable candidate: the Infanta Isabella, the devoutly Catholic daughter of the late King Felipe II, and the reigning King’s half-sister. Distantly descended from English royalty, she had a plausible claim to the throne. Spain was determined to block Isabella’s strongest rival, the Protestant King James VI of Scotland. Although rumoured to be sympathetic to the Catholic cause for which his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had been executed, James was mistrusted by the Spanish and regarded as ‘false and shifty’.
The Venetians were in no doubt: the plan to invade Ireland was Mission Impossible. As their Ambassador to Spain, Francesco Soranzo, wrote home: ‘There is little certainty of success; every certainty of failure and the destruction of these poor fellows.’ They were not unique in their scepticism. A contemporary Spanish diarist named Luis Cabrera de Córdoba wrote that, while the aim of the armada was to help the Irish insurgents in their battle against the English, ‘there are those who say that the effect will be very different.’
Águila could have turned down the assignment, as Zuniga had, but that wasn’t his style. In his thirty-eight years as a soldier, he had never backed down from a challenge. There were other reasons why he should accept Mission Impossible. At fifty-six, he was nearing the end of his long and venerable military career. However, his reputation had been sullied by the accusations made against him. If he could pull off this mission, he could retire with honour. It was his all-or-nothing, his last throw of the dice.
Why had he been put into this position? If there was any justice, Águila would have been welcomed back from Brittany as a hero – not punished like a criminal. What he had achieved there in eight years had been remarkable. The Spanish had intervened in a convoluted French religious war, ostensibly to help the local Catholics but really to establish a string of forts along the Brittany coastline from which to attack southern England.
Águila had set up two superbly constructed fortresses, one near Lorient and the other near Brest. He had defended the first one right until the bitter end, leaving only when the political situation had shifted and he was ordered out. The other port had fallen, with horrific loss of life. However, Águila’s signal achievement while in Brittany was to mastermind a military invasion of southern England, sacking and burning several towns in Cornwall before pulling out. It was one of Spain’s most successful raids on England – in fact, it was to be the last Spanish invasion of England – and by right, that act alone should have earned Águila an equestrian statue in his home town of El Barraco.
El Barraco … Águila longed to retire in the little hilltop township where he had spent his childhood. He had a dream of leaving a bequest to future generations – giving hope to other children who played in those same rugged hills and valleys that he had roamed as a child.
Situated 100km from Madrid, and a thousand metres high in the Sierra de la Paramera, El Barraco lies amid a magnificent wildscape of moorland, pine woods and ancient reservoirs. On the horizon are the Sierra de Gredos mountains, where the rare Spanish Imperial eagle can still be seen hovering and diving over the peaks. Águila, his family name, is also the Spanish word for ‘eagle’ and that seemed to be reflected in Juan’s soaring, independent mindset and indomitable personality. An early portrait shows a young man whose intelligent and alert brown eyes lock the viewer’s in a good-humoured yet assertive challenge. His forehead is high, his hair neatly cropped, and his chin juts out challengingly under a short, pointed brown beard.
Juan del Águila had been born into a noble family with a strong military, political and religious tradition. Its menfolk either went to war or ruled cities. Its womenfolk patronised, founded or ran convents.
The family’s most famous patriarch, Nuno Gonzalez del Águila, was a colourful individual. As Lord of the castle of Villaviciosa, twenty miles from Avila, he had not only presided over a substantial estate but also held the religious role of canon and archdeacon of the cathedral. In addition, he had his hands full with his family and with a mistress, Doña Elvira Gonzales de Medina, who bore him four other children. Just before Nuno died, he sold a large chunk of his property to pass on to Elvira – a move that outraged his ‘formal’ family.
Even more frustratingly for them, Elvira decided to give the money to God. She established a small Carmelite convent, which developed into the Monastery of the Incarnation in Avila. Among its 140 nuns was a young sister named Teresa who, between 1535 and 1574, experienced the ecstatic visions that later elevated her to sainthood. Interestingly, the prioress who admitted her to the order was Doña Francesca del Águila, another member of the ubiquitous family.
Nuno – who was Juan del Águila’s great-grandfather – had built himself a romantic turreted castle in Villaviciosa. It remains standing today, bearing the family coat of arms showing a lion rampant over an eagle.
Young Juan joined the army at age eighteen. Even though he was a nobleman, he began as a basic infantryman and was willing to work his way up through the ranks. As we’ll see, that was part of the spirit of the elite Spanish regiments to which he would devote his life. During a career spanning nearly four decades, Águila saw action in almost every conceivable scenario – fighting Ottoman pirates in the Mediterranean, quashing a rebellion in Corsica, guarding the mighty galleons from the Americas, escaping across frozen polder dams in the Low Countries, and scrimmaging street by street through the embattled cities of northern Europe.
His abilities were soon noticed. ‘[In the Netherlands] Juan del Águila and [another commander] did signalise themselves,’ wrote one contemporary. At the Siege of Antwerp, Águila arrived with his troops at a critical moment, hurled himself into the fight, and carried the day. The commanding general instantly made him a Maestro de Campo – a regimental colonel – in gratitude. He was still in his late thirties.
Águila was a harsh disciplinarian. He had to be, to survive. This was a bleak era in which a commander had to maintain order among hungry, ill-equipped men who went for months without pay. Mutinies were commonplace. Victorious troops could decide to pay themselves by looting conquered cities – once, in Antwerp, seven thousand people died in a three-day orgy of violence known as ‘the Spanish fury’. Each commander walked a thin line between imposing tyranny and unleashing anarchy.
One story speaks volumes about the man’s personality. After a Spanish lieutenant surrendered a key post, the enemy – hoping for a ransom – asked Águila what they should do with the prisoner.
—Do what you like with him, Águila replied crustily. But if I had him here I’d know what to do with him: hang him.
However, he said he was willing to pay a ransom for another officer who was captured while fighting.
His own courage was never questioned. After suffering serious wounds in Flanders, he was presented to King Felipe II with the words: ‘Your Majesty, meet the man who was born without fear.’
Águila was lined up to lead one of the follow-up regiments for the Great Armada’s invasion of England in 1588. However, since the fleet never made landfall, he was never needed. In 1597, he was chosen as land commander for a subsequent armada, which was beaten back by bad weather.
By this stage, Águila had become a legendary figure. Spanish War Secretary Esteban de Ibarra was later to write: ‘When I remember who Don Juan del Águila is, my heart is lightened and I begin to hope for great things.’ Felipe II’s successor, the young Felipe III, once said that the ‘high opinion’ he had of Águila relieved any anxieties he had about the mission to Ireland. A contemporary Spanish writer said he was one of the greatest luminaries that war had produced.
Internationally, his standing also remained high. The Venetians referred respectfully – and uncritically – to his long service in Flanders. A prominent Irish clan chieftain called him ‘a wise man and a skilful commander’. But the greatest tribute to Águila was the praise of his enemies. The English commander Charles Blount described him as ‘one of the greatest soldiers the King of Spain hath’. Blount’s second in command, General George Carew, said he was a man of quality and honour, and praised his coolness under pressure: ‘He is a cold commander. I wish he were more hare-brained.’
So, with such a distinguished career behind him, why was Águila jailed at all? One source says he was imprisoned ‘to answer some actions of his in Brittany’. Yet the arrests happened in 1600, several years after the events in Brittany. And towards the end of his stint there, Águila had been entrusted with the command of twelve thousand men in the 1597 Armada – hardly a job to allocate to a man with a bad military reputation. Another source, the diarist Luis Córdoba, says he was ‘put in the sheriff’s prison … with his wife and an army accountant, for having unfairly taken advantage of the King’s revenue’. In the moral maze of Spanish politics, where corruption was rife in the highest circles, this financial offence could have been as simple a matter as failing to give kickbacks to the right people. Whatever the reason, Águila now walked out of the jail to freedom.
At the time, Águila was regarded as the right choice to lead the new expedition. One early-seventeenth-century writer said that the Spanish sent troops to Ireland ‘under General Juan del Águila, a man that conceived great hopes’.
As an eminent English historian later summed it all up: ‘It was [Águila] who had established the Spanish footing in Brittany, which for years had been a thorn in the side both of England and France, nor was he ever dislodged by force of arms. So high was the reputation he had won that, though at the time he was in disgrace and under arrest, he had been called out of prison to take command of the new expedition. What he had done in Brittany he intended to do in [Ireland’s] Munster.’
Águila reported for duty in Lisbon in July 1601. His journey there was probably a horrific experience in itself. Famine had ravaged the area, and bubonic plague had wiped out one in ten of the population. Lisbon was ‘a wilderness’, according to one authority, ‘with most of the population having died or fled’.
On arrival, Águila was given his own personal priest to accompany him and to hear his confessions. But Father James Archer, a militant Jesuit from Kilkenny, was no ordinary pastor. Although he had been recommended to Águila as ‘a very fervent and apostolic man’, he was actually high on the English authorities’ most wanted list after allegations that he had conspired to kill Queen Elizabeth and participated in the kidnap of a prominent Irish nobleman. Archer had regularly slipped in and out of Ireland in disguise. While there, he would live ‘in the woods and hiding places’ as he encouraged the insurgent fighters. In Spain he was a legendary figure. ‘Of the priests, Archer was in the best reputation with the Spaniards,’ one expatriate Irishman later testified.
When Águila went to the nearby port of Santa Maria del Belém to inspect his troops, he was aghast. Both the numbers and quality were even lower than he had expected. He needed more food, more ammunition, more money and more soldiers, he wrote to King Felipe III in mid-August. And it was too late in the season to mount such an expedition.
But Felipe was determined that the force should leave before autumn.
The King’s motives were complex – he had promised his father on his deathbed that he would continue the wars of religion, and he was under constant pressure from his pious wife to intervene on behalf of the Irish Catholics. He was also ‘headstrong’ and determined to make a grand gesture to demonstrate his maturity as an international statesman. He was, after all, only twenty-three.
Chapter Three
‘For God, All Difficulties Must Be Overcome’
Valladolid, Capital of Spain, 1601
FELIPE III, King of Spain, King of Portugal, and emperor of the greatest dominion the world had ever known, gazed with satisfaction on his royal bride as she ate and drank at table.
Queen Margaret never reached for a cup herself, which was how it should be. Instead, if she wanted to drink, she would sign discreetly to the most senior of the three ladies-in-waiting who stood by her table, each with a napkin draped precisely over their shoulder. The first lady made a signal to the second lady. The second signed to the third. The third lady signed to the mayordomo or steward, who signed to a page, who in turn signalled the wish to a lowly servant. Together the page and servant left the room to fetch a capped goblet on a golden tray. The page gave it to the mayordomo, who inspected it before allowing the page to present it to the first lady. Kneeling before the Queen, the first lady would pour a little of the liquid into the cover of the goblet and taste it via a napkin – she must never touch it with her lips – before offering the goblet and tray to her royal mistress. After the Queen had supped, the goblet was removed by the same elaborate route.
Six people to enable one woman to sip a drink. Yes, this was how it should be. It was the way things worked in Felipe’s Spain, a country where the lavish opulence and overstaffing at the royal court stood in stark contrast to the grinding poverty of many of Felipe’s overtaxed subjects.
Felipe was just three years out of his teens. His Queen, the Austrian daughter of the Archduke Charles, was only sixteen. Yet together they ruled over a vast empire that stretched from Peru to the Philippines.
Almost three years before, while aged just twenty, Felipe had inherited the world’s first global superpower. He owned Spain, Portugal, parts of Italy, parts of North Africa, a piece of Asia, and by proxy a chunk of Europe’s Low Countries. A century beforehand, the world’s biggest empire had belonged to the Incas in South America. Spanning five thousand kilometres and ruling twelve million people, it was bigger than China’s or Turkey’s. Spain had swallowed it whole and added it to its territories.
However, decay had set in and was spreading rapidly. Felipe was well aware that he had inherited a basket-case economy. There was no industry to speak of. Nobody had seriously tried to bring farming methods out of the dark ages. Harvests had failed and famine was becoming a permanent way of life. Corruption and jobbery were rampant. One in ten people claimed noble status and refused to pay taxes. So did the hundreds of thousands of clerics who held 20 percent of the land. Just five years earlier, Spain had declared itself bankrupt for the third time, but that hadn’t stopped Felipe’s father, Felipe II, from splashing out millions of ducats on his splendid new palace at El Escorial.
For ordinary Spanish citizens, it was difficult to believe that Spain was taking in a fortune in gold and silver from its American colonies. Ships would arrive in Seville, their timbers groaning under the weight of New World bullion: 35 million ducats’ worth in one year alone; historians now estimate that in the course of three hundred years the Spanish treasure fleets brought home the equivalent of ten trillion US dollars today. But the money all went on lavish cathedrals and unwinnable wars. And the sheer size of the cargoes made them less valuable. Ridiculously, Spain had to degrade its own coins using cheap metal imported from elsewhere in Europe. As one writer lamented: ‘Spain is poor because she is rich.’
The image of the monarchy had hit an embarrassing new low when royal officials were despatched to beg door-to-door, asking householders to donate small saleable items. And yet Spain still continued its triumphal procession across the world stage, acknowledged as the richest, most powerful and most expansive empire in history. Spain was still Spain – the big dog of the global backyard. It dominated the world culturally, linguistically, financially and (it liked to think) militarily. Broke it might have been, but, for the moment at least, the rich bankers of Genoa were still ready to back Spain with loans, even though they knew that most of the cash would go to gilded palaces and costly religious conflicts. They had invested too much already, and the empire was too big to fail.
The twenty-three-year-old to whom all this wealth and power had been bequeathed was an unimposing figure: contemporary portraits show him as a pale, rusty-haired youth whose arrogantly tilted head seems to compensate for an inner nervousness. His goatee beard hides a sharp chin, both nearly smothered by an enormous ruff. He is cultivating an extravagant military moustache.
Felipe came across as an eccentric figure: amiable enough, pious to the extreme, but incapable of making his own decisions. Old Felipe II had gone to such lengths to subdue and mould his son’s personality that the boy had been left with little identity he could call his own.
When it had been time to choose a wife for his son, the elder Felipe presented him with portraits of three equally acceptable sisters and instructed him to select the one he found most attractive. Young Felipe, terrified of the responsibility, said he would leave the choice up to his father. No doubt heaving an exasperated sigh, Felipe II pointed out that choosing a lifetime bedmate was a highly personal matter.
—I have no choice, his son stammered. Whoever seems most beautiful to Your Majesty will look the most beautiful to me.
On his deathbed the elder Felipe had fretted that his son would be too easily influenced by others. ‘Ah, I fear they will rule him,’ he predicted.
The shrewd old King had anticipated this problem and had recruited a group of reliable advisors to guide him. But it was too late. Felipe junior was already putty in the hands of the ambitious and deeply corrupt Don Francisco de Sandoval, a member of one of Spain’s most prominent families. Sandoval – better known as the Duke of Lerma – had groomed the youngster for years. As soon as the courtiers brought him his first papers to sign, the new King gave a bored wave of the hand that signified that they should all be passed over to Lerma.
The simple gesture heralded a seismic shift in Spanish politics. For the next two decades, Lerma would hold undisputed sway as the real monarch of Spain. Felipe didn’t mind. ‘[He] has helped me sustain the weight of state affairs,’ Felipe wrote to the once powerful Council of State. ‘I order that you obey the Duke in all matters.’
The Council of State was no longer allowed to approach the King directly – everything had to be filtered through Lerma. Although he loved reading and approving the paperwork, Felipe was happy to let the Duke take the decisions. This allowed the new King to devote himself to his favourite pastime: spending money.
He was very, very good at it. Within a few months he had granted more knighthoods than Felipe II had dispensed in a decade. For his own wedding to Margaret, he had embarked upon an outrageously expensive grand tour throughout Europe. Freed from the boring business of actual kingly rule, Felipe’s life was enjoyably devoted to hunting, travelling and holding lavish parties. Yet he was also extremely devout. He would spend hours in prayer and ritual, and agonised over the fate of his fellow Catholics in Northern Europe. Pious and yet hedonistic, Felipe was half priest, half party animal.
As his confidence increased, Felipe began to change personality. He assumed an air of brusque arrogance. Observers in England worried that he was becoming dangerously ‘headstrong’. However, attitude meant nothing without action. Felipe feared that he was still regarded as a weak and ineffective king, a shadow of his powerful father. He needed a grand gesture, a major success to show the world that he should be taken seriously.
And as he scanned the international horizon for a suitable setting, his eye settled inexorably upon Ireland.
It was not a new idea. The concept of using Ireland as ‘the King of Spain’s bridge into England’ had been around for a long time. A famous prophesy predicted that ‘he that England will win, through Ireland must come in’. Even the Great Armada of 1588 had been originally due to attack Ireland, before the plans were changed.
The old King had been keen on the idea, in theory. Irish expatriates and clerical zealots like the Franciscan Mateo de Oviedo had convinced Felipe II that he had a realistic chance of ousting the English from their first colony. Oviedo, a fifty-four-year-old theologian from Segovia, was regarded as an expert on Ireland’s confusing politics. He had made several trips there and had forged close contacts with the insurgent leaders. However, his enthusiasm for their cause often blinded him to the complex realities of a dirty war, and his impatient attitude – and his belief that God would solve all practical problems – often created serious friction between him and the military commanders.
The problem for the Irish was that they weren’t the only faction lobbying for Spanish intervention. The Scots Catholics were pushing for an invasion of Scotland. And many English Catholics wanted to place Felipe II’s daughter, the Infanta Isabella, on the throne when Elizabeth died.
By 1596 the Spanish navy had been rebuilt to its former glory. When the English Earl of Essex made a pre-emptive strike on the Spanish port of Cadiz, Felipe II responded by sending two more armadas north in 1596 and 1597. The first, bound for Ireland, was smashed apart by storms with the loss of three thousand men. The second, featuring Don Juan del Águila as land commander, was driven home by relentless headwinds.
A year later, the old king, Felipe II, was on his deathbed when he heard news which lent his pain-racked face a fleeting smile of satisfaction. Irish insurgent forces had defeated the English at the Yellow Ford in Armagh. The Irish – for so long dismissed as opportunistic woodland raiders – had shown that they could defeat their ancient enemy on equal terms. With Spanish help, anything was now possible.
By the turn of the century, Spain had assembled an awe-inspiring fleet of 35 galleons, 70 other ships and 25,000 men. A new king was on the throne, and the Spanish were back in the game.
Felipe III had sworn to honour his father’s promises to help the Irish earls, and Hugh O’Neill had promised to yield up the crown of Ireland in exchange for his support. Encouraged by Oviedo, and eager to demonstrate his strength, the new king began to demand action. In the summer of 1600 he ordered the immediate assembly of a strong army and a substantial fleet to invade Ireland. His Council of State agreed, but asked where bankrupt Spain would find the money. Felipe, however, was determined to establish his reputation. ‘This is the first great enterprise the King has undertaken since his coming to the Crown,’ George Carew would remark later. ‘He feels himself bound in honour to see the enterprise through.’
Felipe dismissed any objection. ‘As the expedition is so entirely for the glory of God,’ he wrote, ‘all difficulties must be overcome … I will sacrifice what I need for my own person so that it may go this year.’
But the royal cutbacks never happened, the money never materialised and it was to be another thirteen months before Felipe’s command was obeyed.
At the dining table, Queen Margaret returned her husband’s gaze with genuine fondness. Despite their arranged marriage, the couple had developed a true affection for each other. Yet she was increasingly finding that a third person was coming between them.
The Duke of Lerma saw Margaret’s ability to influence the King as a direct challenge to his own power. He had good reason to worry. Margaret was young, but she was astute and resolute. ‘She is capable of great things,’ reported the Venetians. ‘She would govern in a different manner to the King if she could.’
Margaret represented the interests of the powerful Austrian branch of the Habsburg family (Felipe was also a Habsburg) and was backed by two redoubtable female relatives. One was Margaret’s beloved aunt, the elderly Empress Maria, who was also the aunt (and grandmother) of Felipe III. The other was Maria’s daughter, a cloistered nun called Margaret of the Cross. This formidable female troika worked ingeniously to undermine Lerma’s control of the King. Margaret talked politics to him in the marital bedroom, and the other two pleaded their cases during Felipe’s frequent religious visits to their convent in Madrid. In effect, the convent had become an alternative royal court.
While Lerma pushed the King in one direction, the three women deftly steered him in the other. One major difference in opinion was the plight of the Catholics in England, Ireland and the Netherlands. Lerma was a realist: his instincts were to disengage. If Spain’s interests lay in making peace, religion would take second place. The women, all zealots, saw their mission as a holy crusade. The devout Felipe was not hard to persuade.
Lerma hit back, and hit back hard. At one stage he took Queen Margaret aside.
—You are forbidden to talk to the King about matters of state, he instructed. Especially in the bedroom, when you are alone.
Margaret had bristled. She was a royal Habsburg, not used to being ordered around by a mere Sandoval.
—And if I disobey?
—You will find that urgent duties will take the King away from you for increasingly lengthy periods of time.
He sacked Margaret’s Austrian servants and replaced them with his spies. Then he persuaded Felipe to move the royal court from Madrid to faraway Valladolid. The pretext was the unhealthy air – the real reason was the unhealthy political atmosphere in the convent.
This made the Queen even more determined. Pale and ascetic, Margaret would spend hours in prayer. One of her most fervent prayers was that the suffering Catholic subjects of the English Jezebel should be saved from persecution. She had to persuade Felipe to send them help. She owed it to them – and to God.
The Duke of Lerma stared thoughtfully at the report on his desk. It was just a despatch on the logistics of troop movements to the Netherlands, but to Lerma it was more than that. Much more.
It was August 1601 and everything had just changed. By sheer serendipity, a mere stroke of chance, the Spanish invasion of Ireland had become possible. It might be the way to keep the female troika happy and to satisfy his own aims at the same time. The cold war at court could finally be brought to an end.
Lerma stared at the despatch, but what he was really looking at was a redrawn map of Europe as it might appear a decade from now.
Spain was mired in a horrendously expensive religious conflict in the Low Countries – a war it could never win. All Lerma’s instincts told him to get out. Spain had quite enough on its plate protecting its interests in the Atlantic, America and the Mediterranean. Peace with England would pave the way to peace in the Netherlands; it would also end the relentless privateering raids that were disrupting the Spanish bullion fleets.
Taking the long view, Lerma understood that the bad blood between Spain and England was a temporary phenomenon. For centuries, the two countries had been intuitive allies, regularly cementing their friendship with royal marriages. Just a generation earlier, Elizabeth’s half-sister Mary Tudor, then Queen of England, had married Felipe II, father of Spain’s current monarch. Spain’s fingerprints were all over modern England. Felipe II, as consort King of England, had built up Henry VIII’s decaying navy – which, ironically, had later gone on to defeat his own Great Armada. And how many people in Ireland realised that King’s County – which the Irish called Offaly – had been named for the Spaniard Felipe II rather than after an English monarch?
Lerma had already put out some feelers towards peace, but the English terms had been too high. A Spanish presence in Ireland would mean that Lerma could negotiate from a position of greater strength. Crucially, it would also enable Spain to act swiftly to establish a Catholic successor when Elizabeth died. It would also divert English troops from the Netherlands, and the cost would force Elizabeth closer to bankruptcy. And finally it could all be depicted (as so many invasions are) as a humanitarian intervention to protect a persecuted underclass.
Lerma turned his attention back to his report. Yes, a new window of opportunity had opened. A shift in the ever-changing allegiances in mainland Europe had meant that a fleet of ships waiting in Lisbon to carry soldiers to the Netherlands were no longer needed. The vessels were now free for other use. At last the time was ripe. Through good fortune, the stars were now lined up: Lerma, the King, the Queen, the Irish earls, and churchmen like Oviedo would all get exactly what they wanted.
The new armada would soon sail out of Lisbon … and into history.
Chapter Four
The Last of the Great Armadas
Lisbon, August 1601
One month before the invasion
AT AROUND the same time, fortune smiled on an English galley slave named John Edie. The Cornish seaman had been captured by the Spanish in 1601 and forced into service at the oars. Smarting under the overseer’s whip, Edie had seemed destined to a short and brutish life on the hell ships. But fate had other ideas.
You are in luck, Ingleze, his Spanish overseers had told him as they struck off his chains. We are short of good seamen. You are going to the Azores.
At the Spanish-owned island of Terceira in the mid-Atlantic, Edie’s new transport ship collected a thousand veteran soldiers. This was his first inkling that major troop movements were under way.
As they entered the busy seaport of Santa Maria del Belém, at the mouth of
