Uprising

by C R Dempsey

  “We have a long way to go yet,” said Art, trying to state his importance.

  “This is no time to trust traitors. I have to go on this journey on my own.”

  Art went for his dagger hidden beneath his jacket, but Seamus had long predicted this move. A swift blow to the head, but gentle enough not to lodge his axe in Art’s skull, had Art tumbling down the rock face and onto the rocks below.

  “Forgive me, Dervella,” said Seamus as he bent over to clean his axe on the grass.

  * * *

  Seamus knocked on the door of the hideout several hours later.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Do you have to relive minor victories in faraway countries at every available moment?”

  Sean opened the door.

  “We’ve got to have some security,” he protested.

  “Shut up and get your things. We have no time for horseplay. We need to leave.”

  “Where’s Art?”

  “He gave his life in service of his country for once.”

  “You only get one life.”

  “Then he gave it better than he lived it. Are we ready to go yet?”

  The men hurriedly packed their thing.

  Hugh Boye was most displeased.

  “Did he tell you where he hid my baggage?”

  “He was otherwise engaged receiving an axe to the head. Put your baggage down to casualties of war.”

  Hugh Boye howled in mourning for his baggage. He was an itinerant rebel once again.

  22

  Becoming his own man

  On the mainland by the shore of the lake was Eunan’s horse and a guide waiting to take him to the Maguire and his forces. The horse looked plump and content; the guide looked stern and impatient. Hugh Maguire had taken to the forests of western Fermanagh once more to evade detection by the Crown’s forces. The trees bent their naked limbs and greeted Eunan as he rode through the familiar countryside. The puddles seemed shallower that appeared, and the muddy paths beckoned him forward. The cold barely penetrated the blanket sent by the Maguire, and even the grey inflated clouds appeared as a comfort rather than the bringer of rain and cold. Eunan was ready to return.

  Once in the camp, he got directions to the men of south Fermanagh. Eunan ignored the camp of the O’Cassidys, for he knew his welcome was as worn out as their few tents. Óisin was waiting for him in the disorganised camp of the men he had recruited and assembled in Eunan’s absence. He ran and clasped Eunan by the forearm.

  “It is good to see you again, lord.”

  “I am your friend, not your master,” replied Eunan. “But it is good to see you too.”

  Óisin extended his arm to show the village of tents that surrounded them.

  “Let me show you what a good job I have done for you in your absence. Men! Form a line and meet your constable!”

  Curious heads popped out from the slits of tents and faces stacked together as heads peered out from behind each other.

  “Form a line, not a gaggle of geese,” Óisin shouted. “And bring your weapons!”

  Men and boys leaned into and behind the tents and picked up whatever implements they had brought with them, which they thought, or hoped, could yield English blood. An age elapsed before Eunan could witness his men form a crooked line. The occasional man stood in line with three or four boys on either side. Some axes, mainly of the wood-cutting variety, the occasional sword, but mainly hay forks and the sporadic long-sharpened stick impersonating a pike, made up Eunan’s new arsenal.

  A sarcastic laugh came from behind him as Cillian O’Cassidy, in free chain mail and helmet, smirked at him. Cillian slapped the shoulder of a newly recruited Galloglass, who stood beside him and joined his master’s smirk.

  “I see you are planning to run away from the next battle as well,” called out Cillian before he disappeared behind the tents in his own campsite.

  Óisin looked at Eunan and decided he needed some reassurance.

  “We were all naïve farm boys once.”

  “But we had time to grow up before the next battle,” grumbled Eunan.

  Eunan sat by the campfire that evening and caught up with all his old comrades. Óisin told him they expected Cormac MacBaron to re-enter Fermanagh any day now and link up with the Maguires. Eunan soberly accepted the news, much to the disappointment of Óisin. That night Eunan retired to his bed, weary from travel, ale and disappointment. As he pulled his blanket over himself, among the turmoil of a sleepless night, he thought to himself:

  “What would Seamus do?”

  * * *

  In the days after, Eunan organised training for his shambolic group. Óisin had done his best to recruit as many men as possible, but had neglected to apply a selection process that involved sifting for readiness, never mind suitability for combat. As long as they were from south Fermanagh and would accept Eunan as their leader, they were in. Eunan selected a periphery field, away from prying eyes, especially those of Cillian O’Cassidy, to begin his selection process. Sixty men and boys followed Eunan and Óisin to the field.

  Eunan ordered them to surround him in a circle, and he threw down a long wooden axe shaft with no head in front of him. He stood ten feet back and placed a similar shaft in front of himself.

  “Men of south Fermanagh. You have come here to fight the English for the Maguire. You are here to defend your way of life and your homes. But we only want those who are willing and able to fight, for it will give me no pleasure to tell your kinsfolk we had to bury you from fatal wounds in your back. Therefore, each one of you will take up the shaft on the other side of the circle and come and fight me. I will then assign you a role based on your performance. Does everybody understand me?”

  There was a general silence.

  “Does everybody understand me?!”

  “Yes,” murmured the circle.

  “Right then, who’s first?”

  Nobody moved.

  “Óisin, if you would, please.”

  “Eyes forward!” said Óisin.

  Óisin crept along the outer perimeter of the circle behind all the men and boys who faced inwards. He pushed a random man in the back and into the ring, which then closed behind him. The man stood terrified in front of Eunan.

  “Well? Battles don’t wait. Pick up the shaft!”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Pick up the shaft!” ordered Eunan.

  The man reluctantly picked up the shaft. Eunan went for him. One shift blow from the butt of the shaft, and the man was down.

  “Baggage train!” shouted Eunan.

  “What?” answered the man as he sat up and held his head.

  “Baggage train. You now work in the baggage train.”

  “But?!”

  “I told you the rules. Get out of the circle before my men drag you out. Next.”

  The man walked out of the circle, and Óisin told him where to sit. Óisin patrolled the perimeter again and selected Eunan’s next victim.

  The boy fell into the arena, picked up the shaft and swiftly dropped it again.

  “Baggage train.”

  Another came and soon dropped the shaft.

  “Baggage train.”

  Some parried his blows.

  “Kern.”

  Some even exchanged a few blows.

  “Galloglass.”

  The morning went quickly, and Eunan remained standing. When the last of his men had been assigned a group, Eunan dusted himself down and dabbed his bruises with water from his bottle. Óisin apologetically approached him.

  “It’ll be some baggage train we’ll be guarding.”

  Eunan could not contain his fury.

  “They can’t all be this bad. Surely these men know how to defend themselves? I cannot go to the Maguire with results like this. Let us see how good the baggage train guards are with the bow. Óisin, fetch some bows.”

  Eunan’s trusted men brought back bows from the camp and set up some targets. One by one, the men assigned to the baggage
train queued up to show what skills they had with the bow. Those that passed inflated the ranks of the kern until they became the largest group. Eunan now permanently split the men up into their assigned groups and forced them to lodge together to foster comradeship.

  As they marched back to the camp, Cillian and his Galloglass sneered at them.

  “Don’t bother with the axe or bow; just teach them how to run.”

  Eunan ignored them, but Óisin went to face them off.

  “One day, O’Cassidy, there is going to be a reckoning in south Fermanagh.”

  Cillian laughed.

  “I’ll ask my father to extend the cemetery in Eunan’s former village.”

  Eunan turned around to Óisin.

  “Leave him. First, we deal with the English.”

  * * *

  Eunan spent the next few weeks training his men, begging and borrowing as much armour and weaponry that he could, considering its general scarcity. He almost groaned with disappointment when he was told that they were moving out, as he was making some progress. However, they only marched for two days and took up residence in their campsite of the previous year, where the siege of Enniskillen had taken place alongside Cormac MacBaron and his O’Neill soldiers. Eunan settled into a routine of training and scavenging as he waited for the instructions of the Maguire.

  The Maguire army reassembled its strength of the previous year as men flowed in from Fermanagh and the surrounding territories after the crops were planted.

  One morning, a group of twenty young men armed with bows and axes walked into Eunan’s camp. They walked with a youthful bounce more attuned to the spring than the current depths of winter, so they were immediately out of kilter in both looks and spirit. Instantly drawn to such enthusiasm, Eunan recognised the faces but could not recollect where from.

  “Good day, sir,” said the young man who led the group’s approach. “We have come to serve under you again.”

  “Again?” exclaimed Eunan, for they did not resemble any O’Cassidy cowards.

  “Devenish Island?”

  Eunan leapt from his seat and stuck out his hand.

  “Welcome!” he exclaimed as he greeted the young men who, in return, stuck out their hand. “I am honoured that you would come and seek me out when I am in such esteemed company.”

  “We asked the Maguire, and he directed us here. You led us when most had abandoned the cause. When we heard you were in the camp, we came straight away.”

  “We are mainly kern here, and we are training to harass and harry the enemy. I also train Galloglass, but that is a privilege to be earned if you perform well enough.”

  “Few would provide us with such an opportunity, so we are glad to join. Do you have any accommodation for us?”

  “The men will help you pitch tents. Be ready for the next morning when training begins early.”

  “We look forward to it.”

  Eunan smiled as his recruits went and assimilated themselves with the men who were already there.

  * * *

  Hugh O’Neill had retaken to his horse and travelled to Dundalk to arrange negotiations. The Irish Council invited the individual lords of the north to make submissions of their grievances to the Queen. The Crown claimed not to know of any maltreatment by her officers and let the lords know their assertions would be investigated, and if found to be true, the lords would be compensated. Donnacha O’Cassidy drafted a submission that Hugh Maguire duly signed and submitted.

  While these submissions were being made, O’Neill’s subordinate captains and lords carried out a series of raids in Leinster along the borders of the Pale as a show of strength before the talks started. What remained of the English allies in the north had their lands raided alongside those of Sir Henry Bagenal. With the garrisons in Enniskillen, Monaghan, and the Blackwater Fort surrounded, Lord Deputy William Russell was under pressure to act.

  23

  Departure

  They travelled by day and by night, fearing every crack of a twig and rustling of a bush. The wind proved more foe than friend; she heightened, and in her strength caressed the tops and bodies of trees, fanned the paranoia of the men below, and masked the sounds of the forests. They penetrated further and ran into the patrols of Fiach MacHugh O’Byrne somewhere in the central Wicklow mountains. There was no need to declare themselves to Fiach, for the men immediately recognised Seamus and welcomed him back. It was a stroke of luck as some men in Seamus’s party were seeing through the bluff that he knew where he was going. Hugh Boye complained all the way, but Seamus had long since given up listening to find out if he saw through the deception, for he no longer cared.

  It delighted Fiach to host the legendary Hugh Boye MacDavitt and wanted to hold a feast in his honour. Still, Seamus advised against it as he wanted to keep Hugh Boye’s presence a secret. He knew the outlaws of Wicklow were riddled with spies and persuaded his compatriot to stay hidden. Fiach was furious.

  “What’s the point in bringing me Ireland’s greatest tactician if he has to stay hidden in his tent?”

  “I didn’t bring him for you. He is merely sheltering here as I work out how to smuggle him north,” replied Seamus.

  “What about the alliance? What’s theirs is mine and all that?”

  “He will make a massive difference to the much larger armies up north and only a minuscule one to you, for you are already the greatest ambusher in Ireland!”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. I still want his help.”

  Seamus could see how determined Fiach was and that he would have to appease him somehow.

  “I will speak to him and see how he can help you. But he has to remain hidden.”

  Fiach bit his lip.

  “Agreed, but I want to see some results from this so-called strategic genius of yours,” and Fiach stormed off.

  * * *

  Hugh Boye remained confined to a grand tent in Wicklow terms, but a hovel only fit for prisoners or a brothel for a man used to being a renowned officer in the Spanish Grand Army. Fiach posted some of his best guards (and least susceptible to bribes) around the tent, which drew almost immediate attention to it. They drove away anyone who lingered. Those who attempted subterfuge and offered bribes decorated the trees around the camp the next day. Yet Fiach soon abandoned this policy because of the damage it was inflicting on an already fragile camp morale.

  Fiach craved his peers’ respect as a military leader. That one of Ireland’s greatest living military strategists in his camp was too much for him to preserve both his dignity and decorum. Fiach smuggled himself into Hugh Boye’s tent at convenient times to discuss strategy and ordered his most trusted men to keep him abreast of the thoughts of the renowned Irish strategic genius, hoping that some of it would rub off on him. At first, Hugh Boye found it hard to be polite as he was frustrated with his living conditions and the fact that nobody had retrieved his lost baggage. But Fiach generously ladled the flattery out and sent every luxury he could lay his hands on. Soon they had the maps of Wicklow laid out before them, and they would spend hours discussing the strategic scenario. Fiach got some fine wines from the merchants of the Pale and regaled Hugh Boye with dinners of the finest Wicklow deer. Meanwhile, Hugh Boye retold tales of the Dutch wars and how much he thought of himself. Only occasionally did Fiach find the length of these stories challenging. He was even persuaded to send out some men to look for the baggage.

  Seamus disapproved of Fiach’s fawning. But he concerned himself with the continental veterans, restoring them to their previous health and fitness, and turning them into a formidable fighting unit. The slow but steady progress pleased him.

  * * *

  The return of Walter Reagh and Turlough O’Byrne disrupted the temporary lull in the war. They came up the mountain, with their followers reduced from twenty to fifteen. Fiach stood at the top, waiting for them.

  “I see you’ve swapped my warriors for farm boys and adventurous young fools. The tall tales you’ve had to tell to recruit them haven�
��t even been elaborate enough to replace what you lost. I’ve heard of what you’ve done, burning farms and homesteads of the English settlers. Commendable, but it only made me a more hunted man. Come in and tell me why you didn’t return sooner.”

  Fiach pointed towards his tent.

  Walter and Turlough’s hopes of being hailed as heroic rebels fell flat on their faces, but they followed Fiach, who signalled to Seamus and Rose to join him.

  The arriving men stood before Fiach like a pair of naughty boys caught thieving by a neighbouring farmer and sent to their father, resigned to their punishment.

  “So what have you to say for yourselves, those who have brought upon us the English’s wrath harder than ever?”

  Turlough stood forward.

  “We brought the fight to the English, father. That’s what we did. The Crown detained us, but we fought our way out. We hid out in the lowlands, lived off petty crime and assembled ourselves another gang before deciding enough time had passed before we could safely return. The English have seemed to diminish in numbers, and there appears to be growing an appetite for rebellion in Leinster.”

  Fiach composed his response.

  “Your mother-in-law and I have noticed that the old Gaelic lords of Leinster seem more willing to talk about alliances and are less stringent in their demands. However, you disobeyed me by going off and attacking Crumlin without my permission. A stint taking orders from your younger brothers should soon cure your rebellious streak, or at least hone its effectiveness!”

  “What! You cannot do that!”

  “I can, and if you wish to remain here, you will obey my instructions. The same goes for you, Walter. Now leave me before I change my mind and think of a punishment that I would give to someone who disobeyed me and was not my son!”

  They both looked displeased but bowed and left the tent.

  Clouds of concern creased Rose’s normally pleasant completion.

  “Those who escape the custody of the English unaided usually come back with a dagger beneath their cloak,” she whispered in her husband’s ear. “The son returning to topple his father for English gold, a coat of arms, and the protection of the Queen is a well-worn story.”