 History of England, Chapter 12, Part 10. Rosen was recalled to Dublin, and Richard Hamilton was again left in the Chief Command. He tried gentler means than those which had brought so much reproach on his predecessor. No trick, no lie, which was thought likely to discourage the starving garrison, was spared. One day a great shout was raised by the whole Irish camp. The defenders of London Derry were soon informed that the Army of James was rejoicing on account of the fall of Ennis Cullen. They were told that they had now no chance of being relieved and were exhorted to save their lives by capitulating. They consented to negotiate, but what they asked was that they should be permitted to depart armed and in military array by land or by water at their choice. They demanded hostages for the exact fulfilment of these conditions, and insisted that the hostages should be sent on board of the fleet which lay in Loch Foyle. Such terms Hamilton durced not grant. The Governors would abate nothing. The treaty was broken off, and the conflict recommenced. By this time July was far advanced, and the state of the city was hour by hour becoming more frightful. The number of the inhabitants had been thinned more by famine and disease than by the fire of the enemy, yet that fire was sharper and more constant than ever. One of the gates was beaten in, one of the bastions was laid in ruins, but the breaches made by day were repaired by night with indefettigable activity. Every attack was still repelled, but the fighting men of the garrison were so much exhausted that they could scarcely keep their legs. Several of them in the act of striking at the enemy fell down from mere weakness. A very small quantity of grain remained and was doled out by mouthfuls. The stock of salted hides was considerable, and by gnawing them the garrison appeased the rage of hunger. Dogs, fattened on the blood of the slain who lay unburied round the town, were luxuries which few could afford to purchase. The price of a welp's paw was five schlings and sixpence. Nine horses were still alive, and but barely alive. They were so lean that little meat was likely to be found upon them. It was, however, determined to slaughter them for food. The people perished so fast that it was impossible for the survivors to perform the rites of sepulture. There was scarcely a cellar in which some corpse was not decaying. Such was the extremity of distress that the rats who came to feast in those hideous dens were eagerly hunted and greedily devoured. A small fish caught in the river was not to be purchased with money. The only price for which such a treasure could be obtained was some handfuls of oatmeal. Lepreces such as strange and unwholesome diet engenders made existence a constant torment. The whole city was poisoned by the stench, exhaled from the bodies of the dead and of the half-dead. That there should be fits of discontent and insubordination among men enduring such misery was inevitable. At one moment it was suspected that Walker had laid up somewhere a secret store of food and was reveling in private, while he exhorted others to suffer resolutely for the good cause. His house was strictly examined, his innocence was fully proved, he regained his popularity. And the garrison, with death in near prospect, thronged to the cathedral to hear him preach, drank in his earnest eloquence with delight, and went forth from the house of God with haggard faces and tottering steps, but with spirit still unsubdued. There were indeed some secret plottings. A very few obscure traitors opened communications with the enemy, but it was necessary that all such dealings should be carefully concealed. None dared to utter publicly any words save words of defiance and stubborn resolution. Even in that extremity the general cry was no surrender, and there were not wanting voices which in low tones added, first the horses and hides, and then the prisoners, and then each other. It was afterwards related, half in jest, yet not without a horrible mixture of earnest, that a corpulent citizen whose bulk presented a strange contrast to the skeletons which surrounded him thought it expedient to conceal himself from the numerous eyes which followed him with cannibal looks whenever he appeared in the streets. It was no slight aggravation of the sufferings of the garrison, that all this time the English ships were seen far off in Loch Foyle. Communication between the fleet and the city was almost impossible. One diver who had attempted to pass the boom was drowned, another was hanged. The language of signals was hardly intelligible. On the thirteenth of July, however, a piece of paper sewed up in a cloth button came to Walker's hands. It was a letter from Kirk, and contained assurances of speedy relief, but more than a fortnight of intense misery had since elapsed, and the hearts of the most sanguine were sick with deferred hope. By no art could the provisions which were left be made to hold out two days more. Just at this time Kirk received a dispatch from England, which contained positive orders that London Derry should be relieved. He accordingly determined to make an attempt which, as far as appears, he might have made with at least an equally fair prospect of success, six weeks earlier. Among the merchant ships which had come to Loch Foyle under his convoy was one called the Mountjoy. The master, Micaiah Browning, a native of London Derry, had brought from England a large cargo of provisions. He had, it is said, repeatedly remonstrated against the inaction of the armament. He now eagerly volunteered to take the first risk of suckering his fellow citizens, and his offer was accepted. Andrew Douglas, master of the phoenix, who had on board a great quantity of meal from Scotland, was willing to share the danger and the honour. The two merchantmen were to be escorted by the Dartmouth frigate of thirty-six guns, commanded by Captain John Leake, afterwards an admiral of great fame. It was the thirteenth of July. The sun had just set, the evening sermon in the cathedral was over, and the heartbroken congregation had separated. In the sentinels on the tower saw the sails of three vessels coming up the foil. Soon there was a stir in the Irish camp. The besiegers were on the alert for miles along both shores. The ships were in extreme peril, for the river was low, and the only navigable channel ran very near to the left bank, where the headquarters of the enemy had been fixed, and where the batteries were most numerous. Leake performed his duty with a skill and spirit worthy of his noble profession, exposed his frigate to cover the merchantman, and used his guns with great effect. At length the little squadron came to the place of peril. Then the mountjoy took the lead, and went right at the bottom. The huge barricade cracked and gave way, but the shock was such that the mountjoy rebounded and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph rose from the banks. The Irish rushed to their boats, and were preparing to board, but the Dartmouth poured on them a well-directed broadside, which threw them into disorder. Just then the phoenix dashed at the breach which the mountjoy had made, and was in a moment within the fence. Meantime the tide was rising fast. The mountjoy began to move, and soon passed safe through the broken steaks and floating spas, but her brave master was no more. A shot from one of the batteries had struck him, and he died by the most enviable of all deaths, in sight of the city which was his birth-place, which was his home, and which had just been saved by his courage and self-devotion from the most frightful form of destruction. The night had closed in before the conflict at the boom began, but the flash of the guns was seen and the noise heard by the lean and ghastly multitude which covered the walls of the city. When the mountjoy grounded and when the shout of triumph rose from the Irish of both sides of the river, the hearts of the besieged died within them. One who endured the unutterable anguish of that moment has told that they looked fearfully livid in each other's eyes. Even after the barricade had been passed, there was a terrible half-hour of suspense. It was ten o'clock before the ships arrived at the key. The whole population was there to welcome them. A screen made of casks filled with earth was hastily thrown up to protect the landing-place from the batteries on the other side of the river, and then the work of unloading began. First were rolled onshore barrels containing six thousand bushels of meal, then came great cheeses, casks of beef, flitches of bacon, kegs of butter, sacks of peas and biscuit, anchors of brandy. Not many hours before, half a pound of tallow and three-quarters of a pound of salted hide had been weighed out with niggardly care to every fighting man. The ration which each now received was three pounds of flour, two pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. It is easy to imagine with what tears Grace was said over the suppers of that evening. There was little sleep on either side of the wall. The bonfires shone bright along the whole circuit of the ramparts. The Irish guns continued to roar all night, and all night the bells of the rescued city made answer to the Irish guns with a peel of joyous defiance. Through the whole of the thirty-first of July the batteries of the enemy continued to play. But soon after the sun had again gone down flames were seen arising from the camp, and when the first of August dawned a line of smoking ruins marked the site, lately occupied by the huts of the besiegers, and the citizens saw far off the long column of pikes and standards retreating up the left bank of the foil towards Straban. So ended this great siege the most memorable in the annals of the British Isles. It had lasted a hundred and five days. The garrison had been reduced from about seven thousand effective men to about three thousand. The loss of the besiegers cannot be precisely ascertained. Walker estimated it at eight thousand men. It is certain, from the dispatches of Avau, that the regiments which returned from the blockade had been so much thinned that many of them were not more than two hundred strong. Of thirty-six French gunners who had superintended the cannon-aiding, thirty-one had been killed or disabled. The means both of attack and defence had undoubtedly been such as would have moved the great warriors of the continent to laughter, and this is the very circumstance which gives so peculiar an interest to the history of the contest. It was a contest not between engineers, but between nations, and the victory remained with the nation which, though inferior in number, was superior in civilisation, in capacity for self-government, and in stubbornness of resolution. As soon as it was known that the Irish army had retired, a deputation from the city hastened to Loch Foyle, and invited Kirk to take the command, he came accompanied by a long train of officers, and was received in state by the two governors, who delivered up to him the authority which, under the pressure of necessity, they had assumed. He remained only a few days, but he had time to show enough of the incurable vices of his character to disgust a population distinguished by austere morals and ardent public spirit. There was, however, no outbreak. The city was in the highest good humour. Such quantities of provisions had been landed from the fleet, that there was in every house a plenty never before known. A few days earlier a man had been glad to obtain for twenty pence a mouthful of carrion scraped from the bones of a starved horse. A pound of good-beef was now sold for three half-pence. Meanwhile all hands were busyed in removing corpses which had been thinly covered with earth. In filling up the holes which the shells had plowed in the ground, and in repairing the battered roofs of the houses, the recollection of past dangers and privations, and the consciousness of having deserved well of the English nation, and of all Protestant churches, swelled the hearts of the townspeople with honest pride. That pride grew stronger when they received from William a letter acknowledging, in the most affectionate language, the debt which he owed to the brave and trusty citizens of his good city. The whole population crowded to the diamond to hear the royal epistle read, at the close all the guns on the ramparts sent forth a voice of joy, all the ships in the river made answer. Barrels of ale were broken up, and the health of their majesties was drunk with shouts and volleys of musketry. Five generations have passed away, and still the wall of London Derry is to the Protestants of Ulster what the trophy of Marathon was to the Athenians. A lofty pillar rising from a bastion which bore during many weeks the heaviest fire of the enemy is seen far up and far down the foil. On the summit is the statue of Walker, such as when, in the last and most terrible emergency, his eloquence roused the fainting courage of his brethren. In one hand he grasps the Bible, the other, pointing down the river, seems to direct the eyes of his famished audience to the English top masts in the distant bay. Such a monument was well deserved, yet it was scarcely needed, for in truth the whole city is, to this day, a monument of the great deliverance. The wall is carefully preserved, nor would any plea of health or convenience be held by the inhabitants sufficient to justify the demolition of that sacred enclosure which, in the evil time, gave shelter to their race and their religion. The summit of the ramparts forms a pleasant walk. The bastions have been turned into little gardens. Here and there among the shrubs and flowers may be seen the old culverines which scattered bricks cased with lead among the Irish ranks. One antique gun, the gift of the fishmongers of London, was distinguished during the 105 memorable days by the loudness of its report, and still bears the name of Roaring Meg. The cathedral is filled with relics and trophies. In the vestibule is a huge shell, one of many hundreds of shells which were thrown into the city. Over the altar are still seen the French flag-staves, taken by the garrison in a desperate sally. The white ensigns of the House of Bourbon have long been dust, but their place has been supplied by new banners, the work of the fairest hands of Ulster. The anniversary of the day on which the gates were closed, and the anniversary of the day on which the siege was raised, have been down to her own time celebrated by salutes, processions, banquets, and sermons. Lundy has been executed in effigy, and the sword, said by tradition to be that of Momont, has on great occasions been carried in triumph. There is still a walker-club and a Murray-club. The humble tombs of the Protestant captains have been carefully sought out, repaired, and embellished. It is impossible not to respect the sentiment which indicates itself by these tokens. It is a sentiment which belongs to the higher and purer part of human nature, and which adds not a little to the strength of states. A people which takes no pride in the noble achievements of remote ancestors will never achieve anything worthy to be remembered with pride by remote descendants. Yet it is impossible for the moralists or the statesmen to look with unmixed complacency on the solemnities with which London Derry commemorates her deliverance, and on the honours which she pays to those who saved her. Unhappily the animosities of her brave champions have descended with their glory. The faults which are ordinarily found in dominant castes and dominant sects have not seldom shown themselves without disguise at her festivities, and even with the expressions of pious gratitude which have resounded from her pulpits have too often been mingled words of wrath and defiance. The Irish army which had retreated to Straban remained there but a very short time. The spirit of the troops had been depressed by their recent failure and was soon completely cowed by the news of a great disaster in another quarter. Three weeks before this time the Duke of Berwick had gained an advantage over a detachment of the Enescalinas and had, by their own confession, killed or taken more than fifty of them. They were in hopes of obtaining some assistance from Kirk to whom they had sent a deputation, and they still persisted in rejecting all terms offered by the enemy. It was therefore determined at Dublin that an attack should be made upon them from several quarters at once. McCarthy, who had been rewarded for his services in Munster, with the title of Viscount Mount Cachal, marched towards Loch Urn from the east with three regiments of foot, two regiments of dragoons, and some troops of cavalry. A considerable force which lay encamped near the mouth of the river Drows was at the same time to advance from the west. The Duke of Berwick was to come from the north, with such horse and dragoons as could be spared from the army which was besieging London Derry. The Enescalinas were not fully apprised of the whole plan which had been laid for their destruction, but they knew that McCarthy was on the road with a force exceeding any which they could bring into the field. Their anxiety was in some degree relieved by the return of the deputation which they had sent to Kirk. Kirk could spare no soldiers, but he had sent some arms, some ammunition, and some experienced officers of whom the chief were Colonel Walsley and Lieutenant Colonel Berry. These officers had come by sea round the coast of Donegal and had run up the line. On Sunday, the 29th of July, it was known that their boat was approaching the island of Enescalina. The whole population, male and female, came to the shore to greet them. It was with difficulty that they made their way to the castle through the crowds which hung on them, blessing God that dear old England had not quite forgotten the Englishman who upheld her cause against great odds in the heart of Ireland. Walsley seems to have been in every respect well qualified for his post. He was a staunch Protestant, had distinguished himself among the Yorkshiremen who rose up for the Prince of Orange and a free parliament, and had, if he is not belied, proved his zeal for liberty and pure religion by causing the Mayor of Scarborough, who had made a speech in favour of King James, to be brought into the marketplace and well tossed there in a blanket. This vehement hatred of potpourri was in the estimation of the men of Enescaline the first of all qualifications for command, and Walsley had other and more important qualifications. Though himself regularly bred to war, he seems to have had a peculiar aptitude for the management of irregular troops. He had scarcely taken on himself the chief command when he received notice that Mount Cashill had laid siege to the castle of Crumb. Crumb was the frontier garrison of the Protestants of Fair Manor. The ruins of the old fortifications are now among the attractions of a beautiful pleasure-ground situated on a woody promontory which overlooks Locke-Erne. Walsley determined to raise the siege. He sent Barry forward, with such troops as could be instantly put in motion, and promised to follow speedily with a larger force. Barry, after marching some miles, encountered thirteen companies of McCarthy's dragoons commanded by Anthony, the most brilliant and accomplished of all who bore the name of Hamilton, but much less successful as a soldier than as a courtier, a lover, and a writer. Hamilton's dragoons ran at the first fire. He was severely wounded, and his second in command was shot dead. McCarthy soon came up to support Hamilton, and at the same time Walsley came up to support Barry. The hostile armies were now in presence of each other. McCarthy had above five thousand men and several pieces of artillery. The Aniskelunners were under three thousand, and they had marched in such haste that they had brought only one day's provisions. It was therefore absolutely necessary for them either to fight instantly or to retreat. Walsley determined to consult the men, and this determination, which in ordinary circumstances would have been most unworthy of a general, was fully justified by the peculiar composition and temper of the little army, an army made up of gentlemen and yeoman fighting not for pay, but for their lands, their wives, their children, and their god. The ranks were drawn up under arms, and the question was put, advance or retreat? The answer was a universal shout of advance. Walsley gave out the word, No Popery. It was received with loud applause. He instantly made his dispositions for an attack. As he approached, the enemy, to his great surprise, began to retire. The Aniskelunners were eager to pursue with all speed, but their commander, suspecting a snare, restrained their ardour, and positively forbade them to break their ranks. Thus one army retreated, and the other followed in good order through the little town of Newton Butler. About a mile from that town the Irish faced about and made a stand. Their position was well chosen. They were drawn up on a hill, at the foot of which lay a deep bog. A narrow paved causeway which ran across the bog was the only road by which the cavalry of the Aniskelunners could advance. For on the right and left were pools, turf pits, and quagmires which afforded no footing to horses. McCarthy placed his cannon in such a manner as to sweep this causeway. Walsley ordered his infantry to the attack. They struggled through the bog, made their way to firm ground, and rushed on the guns. There was then a shortened, desperate fight. The Irish canoneers stood gallantly to their pieces till they were cut down to a man. The Aniskelun horse, no longer in danger of being mowed down by the fire of the artillery, came fast up the causeway. The Irish dragoons who had run away in the morning were smitten with another panic, and without striking a blow galloped from the field. The horse followed the example. First was the terror of the fugitives, that many of them spurred hard till their beasts fell down, and then continued to fly on foot, throwing away carbines, swords, and even coats, as incumbrances. The infantry, seeing themselves deserted, flung down their pikes and muskets, and ran for their lives. The conquerors now gave loose to that ferocity which has seldom failed to disgrace the civil wars of Ireland. The butchery was terrible. The fifteen hundred of the vanquished were put to the sword. About five hundred more, in ignorance of the country, took a road which led to Loch Urn. The lake was before them, the enemy behind. They plunged into the waters, and perished there. McCarthy, abandoned by his troops, rushed into the midst of the pursuers, and very nearly found the death which he sought. He was wounded in several places. He was struck to the ground, and in another moment his brains would have been knocked out with the butt end of a musket, when he was recognized and saved. The colonists lost only twenty men killed, and fifty wounded. They took four hundred prisoners, seven pieces of cannon, fourteen barrels of powder, all the drums, and all the colours of the vanquished enemy. The battle of Newton Butler was won on the same afternoon, on which the boom thrown over the foil was broken. At Straban the news met the Celtic army which was retreating from London Derry. All was terror and confusion. The tents were struck. The military stores were flung by wagon-loads into the waters of the Morn, and the dismayed Irish, leaving many sick and wounded to the mercy of the victorious Protestants, fled to Omar, and thence to Shalmont. Sarsfield, who commanded at Sligo, found it necessary to abandon that town, which was instantly occupied by a detachment of Kirk's troops. Dublin was in consternation. James dropped words which indicated an intention of flying to the continent. Evil tidings, indeed, came fast upon him. Almost at the same time at which he learned that one of his armies had raised the siege of London Derry, and that another had been routed at Newton Butler, he received intelligence scarcely less disheartening from Scotland. It is now necessary to trace the progress of those events to which Scotland owes her political and her religious liberty, her prosperity, and her civilisation. The end of History of England, Chapter 12, Part 10