The Relief Of Londonderry

Frightful was the state of Londonderry. "No surrender" was the ultimatum

of its inhabitants, "blockade and starvation" the threat of the

besiegers; the town was surrounded, the river closed, relief seemed

hopeless, life, should the furious besiegers break in, equally hopeless.

Far off, in the harbor of Lough Foyle, could be seen the English ships.

Thirty vessels lay there, laden with men and provisions, but they were

a le to come no nearer. The inhabitants could see them, but the sight

only aggravated their misery. Plenty so near at hand! Death and

destitution in their midst! Frightful, indeed, was their extremity.



The Foyle, the river leading to the town, was fringed with hostile forts

and batteries, and its channel barricaded. Several boats laden with

stone had been sunk in the channel. A row of stakes was driven into the

bottom of the stream. A boom was formed of trunks of fir-trees, strongly

bound together, and fastened by great cables to the shore. Relief from

the fleet, with the river thus closed against it, seemed impossible. Yet

scarcely two days' supplies were left in the town, and without hasty

relief starvation or massacre seemed the only alternatives.



Let us relate the occasion of this siege. James II. had been driven from

England, and William of Orange was on the throne. In his effort to

recover his kingdom, James sought Ireland, where the Catholic peasantry

were on his side. His appearance was the signal for fifty thousand

peasants to rise in arms, and for the Protestants to fly from peril of

massacre. They knew their fate should they fall into the hands of the

half-savage peasants, mad with years of misrule.



In the north, seven thousand English fugitives fled to Londonderry, and

took shelter behind the weak wall, manned by a few old guns, and without

even a ditch for defence, which formed the only barrier between them and

their foes. Around this town gathered twenty-five thousand besiegers,

confident of quick success. But the weakness of the battlements was

compensated for by the stoutness of the hearts within. So fierce were

the sallies of the desperate seven thousand, so severe the loss of the

besiegers in their assaults, that the attempt to carry the place by

storm was given up, and a blockade substituted. From April till the end

of July this continued, the condition of the besieged daily growing

worse, the food-supply daily growing less. Such was the state of affairs

at the date with which we are specially concerned.



Inside the town, at that date, the destitution had grown heart-rending.

The fire of the enemy was kept up more briskly than ever, but famine and

disease killed more than cannon-balls. The soldiers of the garrison

were so weak from privation that they could scarcely stand; yet they

repelled every attack, and repaired every breach in the walls as fast as

made. The damage done by day was made good at night. For the garrison

there remained a small supply of grain, which was given out by

mouthfuls, and there was besides a considerable store of salted hides,

which they gnawed for lack of better food. The stock of animals had been

reduced to nine horses, and these so lean and gaunt that it seemed

useless to kill them for food.



The townsmen were obliged to feed on dogs and rats, an occasional small

fish caught in the river, and similar sparse supplies. They died by

hundreds. Disease aided starvation in carrying them off. The living were

too few and too weak to bury the dead. Bodies were left unburied, and a

deadly and revolting stench filled the air. That there was secret

discontent and plottings for surrender may well be believed. But no such

feeling dared display itself openly. Stubborn resolution and vigorous

defiance continued the public tone. "No surrender" was the general cry,

even in that extremity of distress. And to this voices added, in tones

of deep significance, "First the horses and hides; then the prisoners;

and then each other."



Such was the state of affairs on July 28, 1689. Two days' very sparse

rations alone remained for the garrison. At the end of that time all

must end. Yet still in the distance could be seen the masts of the

ships, holding out an unfulfilled promise of relief; still hope was not

quite dead in the hearts of the besieged. Efforts had been made to send

word to the town from the fleet. One swimmer who attempted to pass the

boom was drowned. Another was caught and hanged. On the 13th of July a

letter from the fleet, sewed up in a cloth button, reached the commander

of the garrison. It was from Kirke, the general in command of the party

of relief, and promised speedy aid. But a fortnight and more had passed

since then, and still the fleet lay inactive in Lough Foyle, nine miles

away, visible from the summit of the Cathedral, yet now tending rather

to aggravate the despair than to sustain the hopes of the besieged.



The sunset hour of July 28 was reached. Services had been held that

afternoon in the Cathedral,--services in which doubtless the help of God

was despairingly invoked, since that of man seemed in vain. The

heart-sick people left the doors, and were about to disperse to their

foodless homes, when a loud cry of hope and gladness came from the

lookout in the tower above their heads.



"They are coming!" was the stirring cry. "The ships are coming up the

river! I can see their sails plainly! Relief is coming!"



How bounded the hearts of those that heard this gladsome cry! The

listeners dispersed, carrying the glad news to every corner of the town.

Others came in hot haste, eager to hear further reports from the lookout

tower. The town, lately so quiet and depressed, was suddenly filled with

activity. Hope swelled every heart, new life ran in every vein; the

news was like a draught of wine that gave fresh spirit to the most

despairing soul.



And now other tidings came. There was a busy stir in the camp of the

besiegers. They were crowding to the river-banks. As far as the eye

could see, the stream was lined. The daring ships had a gauntlet of fire

to run. Their attempt seemed hopeless, indeed. The river was low. The

channel which they would have to follow ran near the left bank, where

numerous batteries had been planted. They surely would never succeed.

Yet still they came, and still the lookout heralded their movements to

the excited multitude below.



The leading ship was the Mountjoy, a merchant-vessel laden heavily with

provisions. Its captain was Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry.

He had long advised such an attempt, but the general in command had

delayed until positive orders came from England that something must be

done.



On hearing of this, Browning immediately volunteered. He was eager to

succor his fellow-townsmen. Andrew Douglas, captain of the Phoenix, a

vessel laden with meal from Scotland, was willing and anxious to join in

the enterprise. As an escort to these two merchantmen came the

Dartmouth, a thirty-six-gun frigate, its commander John Leake,

afterwards an admiral of renown.



Up the stream they came, the Dartmouth in the lead, returning the fire

of the forts with effect, pushing steadily onward, with the merchantmen

closely in the rear. At length the point of peril was reached. The boom

extended across the stream, seemingly closing all further passage. But

that remained to be seen. The Mountjoy took the lead, all its sails

spread, a fresh breeze distending the canvas, and rushed head on at the

boom.



A few minutes of exciting suspense followed, then the great barricade

was struck, strained to its utmost, and, with a rending sound, gave way.

So great was the shock that the Mountjoy rebounded and stuck in the mud.

A yell of triumph came from the Irish who crowded the banks. They rushed

to their boats, eager to board the disabled vessel; but a broadside from

the Dartmouth sent them back in disordered flight.



In a minute more the Phoenix, which had followed close, sailed through

the breach which the Mountjoy had made, and was past the boom.

Immediately afterwards the Mountjoy began to move in her bed of mud. The

tide was rising. In a few minutes she was afloat and under way again,

safely passing through the barrier of broken stakes and spars. But her

brave commander was no more. A shot from one of the batteries had struck

and killed him, when on the very verge of gaining the highest honor that

man could attain,--that of saving his native town from the horrors of

starvation or massacre.



While this was going on, the state of feeling of the lean and hungry

multitude within the town was indescribable. Night had fallen before the

ships reached the boom. The lookout could no longer see and report

their movements. Intense was the suspense. Minutes that seemed hours

passed by. Then, in the distance, the flash of guns could be seen. The

sound of artillery came from afar to the ears of the expectant citizens.

But the hope which this excited went down when the shout of triumph rose

from the besiegers as the Mountjoy grounded. It was taken up and

repeated from rank to rank to the very walls of the city, and the hearts

of the besieged sank dismally. This cry surely meant failure. The

miserable people grew livid with fear. There was unutterable anguish in

their eyes, as they gazed with despair into one another's pallid faces.



A half-hour more passed. The suspense continued. Yet the shouts of

triumph had ceased. Did it mean repulse or victory? "Victory! victory!"

for now a spectral vision of sails could be seen, drawing near the town.

They grew nearer and plainer; dark hulls showed below them; the vessels

were coming! the town was saved!



Wild was the cry of glad greeting that went up from thousands of

throats, soul-inspiring the cheers that came, softened by distance, back

from the ships. It was ten o'clock at night. The whole population had

gathered at the quay. In came the ships. Loud and fervent were the

cheers and welcoming cries. In a few minutes more the vessels had

touched the wharves, well-fed sailors and starved townsmen were

fraternizing, and the long months of misery and woe were forgotten in

the intense joy of that supreme moment of relief.



Many hands now made short work. Wasted and weak as were the townsmen,

hope gave them strength. A screen of casks filled with earth was rapidly

built up to protect the landing-place from the hostile batteries on the

other side of the river. Then the unloading began. The eyes of the

starving inhabitants distended with joy as they saw barrel after barrel

rolled ashore, until six thousand bushels of meal lay on the wharf.

Great cheeses came next, beef-casks, flitches of bacon, kegs of butter,

sacks of peas and biscuit, until the quay was piled deep with

provisions.



One may imagine with what tears of joy the soldiers and people ate their

midnight repast that night. Not many hours before the ration to each man

of the garrison had been half a pound of tallow and three-quarters of a

pound of salted hide. Now to each was served out three pounds of flour,

two pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. There was no sleep for the

remainder of the night, either within or without the walls. The bonfires

that blazed along the whole circuit of the walls told the joy within the

town. The incessant roar of guns told the rage without it. Peals of

bells from the church-towers answered the Irish cannon; shouts of

triumph from the walls silenced the cries of anger from the batteries.

It was a conflict of joy and rage.



Three days more the batteries continued to roar. But on the night of

July 31 flames were seen to issue from the Irish camp; on the morning of

August 1 a line of scorched and smoking ruins replaced the

lately-occupied huts, and along the Foyle went a long column of pikes

and standards, marking the retreat of the besieging army.



The retreat became a rout. The men of Enniskillen charged the retreating

army of Newtown Butler, struggling through a bog to fall on double their

number, whom they drove in a panic before them. The panic spread through

the whole army. Horse and foot, they fled. Not until they had reached

Dublin, then occupied by King James, did the retreat stop, and

confidence return to the baffled besiegers of Londonderry.



Thus ended the most memorable siege in the history of the British

islands. It had lasted one hundred and five days. Of the seven thousand

men of the garrison but about three thousand were left. Of the besiegers

probably more had fallen than the whole number of the garrison.



To-day Londonderry is in large measure a monument to its great siege.

The wall has been carefully preserved, the summit of the ramparts

forming a pleasant walk, the bastions being turned into pretty little

gardens. Many of the old culverins, which threw lead-covered bricks

among the Irish ranks, have been preserved, and may still be seen among

the leaves and flowers. The cathedral is filled with relics and

trophies, and over its altar may be observed the French flag-staffs,

taken by the garrison in a desperate sally, the flags they once bore

long since reduced to dust. Two anniversaries are still kept,--that of

the day on which the gates were closed, that of the day on which the

siege was raised,--salutes, processions, banquets, addresses, sermons

signalizing these two great events in the history of a city which passed

through so frightful a baptism of war, but has ever since been the abode

of peace.