The Irish had, this time, determined to defend not only that portion of Athlone situated on the west of the river, but the English town on the east. The fortifications here were repaired and added to, and the town was abundantly supplied with stores and ammunition. It was, however, unable to resist the heavy artillery which Ginckle brought to play against it. Walls, buildings, and towers crumbled beneath the heavy cannonade; and although the Irish repelled, with great slaughter, several assaults upon it, the place became at last untenable, and they abandoned that part of the town, and retired by the bridge across the river to the Irish town.

The British, on entering the eastern town, found it a mere mass of ruins, with the dead bodies of the soldiers lying everywhere, half covered with the wreck of the works they had died in defending. The taking of this portion of Athlone had cost Ginckle dearly, and he was but little nearer the object of his efforts, for he was separated from the Irish town by the Shannon, and the western arch of the bridge was broken down by the defenders.

Eleven large guns and three mortars now came up from Dublin, and he erected a succession of batteries upon the ruins of the English town, and opened fire upon the castle of Athlone, which, although a building of great strength, soon crumbled into ruins beneath the fire of the heavy artillery brought to bear upon it. A mill, which stood in the river, and was connected with the bridge, was set on fire, and the sixty soldiers posted in it, being unable to escape, were all burned. Night and day, seven great batteries played incessantly upon the town.

On the 26th of June, thirty waggons loaded with powder and a hundred carts with cannon balls arrived from Dublin, and enabled the besiegers to keep up their fire without intermission. The interior of the town was reduced to ruins–nothing remained erect save the city walls, in which the breaches, as fast as they were made, were repaired by the Irish. The slaughter among those so employed was very heavy; but there was no lack of men, the places of those who fell being at once supplied by others willing to give their lives in the defence of the town.

At last, there was nothing more that the besiegers could do. The town was reduced to ashes, but the river and the broken arch still separated them from the ruins. To remain much longer where they were was impossible, for the country on every side was exhausted, and no longer afforded food for man or horse. The country people had fled, from the cruelty and spoliation of Ginckle's foreign soldiery, carrying with them all their effects; and the Irish light troops and armed peasantry hovered round the camp, laid the country waste, and intercepted their supplies and communications with Dublin.

Ginckle held a council of war, to consider what was to be done. It was admitted that they must force the passage of the river without loss of time, or submit to the alternative of retreat, and the utter failure of the campaign. It was finally resolved to attempt the passage of the bridge by throwing a wooden gallery over the broken arch, and forcing their way across, at all cost. Additional batteries were now raised on the bank of the river, and a heavy fire was poured, without intermission, upon the Irish on their side of the broken arch.

Both parties had erected a breastwork on the bridge, at their respective sides of the breach, and from behind this, day and night, a continued musketry fire was kept up, the grenadiers of the English army throwing grenades into the enemy's works. After some days, the breastwork on the Irish side was set on fire by the continued assault of shot and grenades. The wattles of which it was composed, dried by the hot weather, were soon in a blaze, and, under cover of the flames and smoke, the English ran forward the great beams they had prepared in readiness, and threw them across the gap in the bridge.

The fire from all the batteries on the English side was directed against the burning breastwork, while the grenadiers hastened to lay planks across the beams to complete the bridge. The work was well-nigh done when an Irish sergeant and ten men, all clad in armour, leaped through the flames of the breastwork, and began to hew with their axes at the beams and planks.

For a moment, the British were paralysed at the daring action. Then the batteries and musketry fire again opened, a storm of shot and bullets swept across the bridge, and the whole of the gallant fellows fell dead; but in a moment another party, similarly armed, dashed through the flames and took their places.

Regardless of the fire they whirled their axes. Nine fell, but the last two gave the final stroke to the beams. The bridge fell with a crash into the river below, and the two survivors recrossed the breastwork and joined their friends within, amid the wild enthusiasm of the defenders; an enthusiasm in which even the baffled assailants joined, for the British grenadiers gave a cheer, in token of their admiration at the gallantry and devotion of the deed.

In all history, there is no record of a more gallant action than this, performed by two sergeants and twenty men, who thus encountered almost certain death to maintain their post. The destruction of the temporary bridge filled Ginckle and his officers with consternation, and the manner in which their design had been baffled showed the spirit of the defenders, and the magnitude of the task which they had undertaken.

But it was resolved, at another council which was called, to attempt one more effort before abandoning the enterprise. A finished platform was constructed. This was to be thrown over the arch, and a chosen body of the bravest troops in the army were to throw themselves across, and try to force a passage. At the same time, a division was to cross the river by a ford near the bridge, and another to attempt to cross by a bridge of pontoons, prepared in readiness.

The Irish were informed, by French deserters, of what was going on in the English camp, and early on the morning of the assault, several strong divisions of the Irish army were seen marching down from the camp, two miles away, into the town. Here they were drawn up, in readiness to repulse the assault.

The British were some time before they were ready for the attack, but at ten o'clock the whole army stood in close order, ready to advance.

The first to move forward were those who were to carry the bridge. The Irish guns, which still remained intact, opened upon them, but they pressed forward along the bridge to the broken arch, and, with less trouble than had been anticipated, threw the platform across it. Instead of rushing forward at once, the grenadiers stood behind their breastwork and hurled their grenades at the Irish grenadiers, who stood in close order on the opposite edge.

These, however, stood their ground, and hurled their grenades with great effect into the column. One of these exploded against the English breastwork and set it on fire. It at once blazed up. A strong west wind was blowing, and drove the smoke and flames into the faces of the English grenadiers, who for some time strove in vain to extinguish the flames, notwithstanding the heavy fire which the defenders poured into them. They had at last to fall back, and the Irish, sallying from behind their breastwork, pulled down the burning timbers on to the bridge, which was soon in flames.

The other divisions of the English army, finding that the grenadiers on the bridge made no progress, did not attempt to perform their part of the work, and finally the whole retreated to their camp.

That evening, another council of war was held. Matters now looked desperate, and the fact that the enterprise had, this time, failed owing to the hesitation of the troops to push forward to the attack of the enemy, made the prospect appear more hopeless. Nevertheless, in spite of the opposition of Generals Ginckle and Mackey, the council determined that one more attempt should be made, and that this should be carried out at daylight next morning, in the hopes of taking the Irish by surprise.

It was accordingly given out that the army would retreat in the morning, and the heavy guns were withdrawn from the batteries. Saint Ruth, who was convinced that Athlone could not be taken, and who had spent the greater portion of his time in entertaining the ladies and gentry of the neighbourhood with balls and fetes, fell into the trap, and, contrary to the opinion and advice of the Irish generals, recalled from the town the regiments which had marched in that morning, and replaced them with only three battalions of inferior troops. The Irish officers remonstrated warmly, but Saint Ruth, to show his disdain for their opinions, invited a large party of ladies and gentlemen to an entertainment in the evening.

In the night, the British army prepared for the attack. The commanders of the respective divisions all led their troops in person.

The garrison of the town were all asleep. In Saint Ruth's camp the festivities were over, and the general and his officers had retired. The Irish sentinels, who noted the movement in the British camp, supposed that they were mustering to retreat, and thus the three British columns drew up inside the town wall, in readiness to advance, without a notion of their purpose being entertained on the opposite side of the river.

One column, headed by sixty chosen men in complete armour, was to cross the bridge and throw a platform over the arch; another to cross by the ford: the third by a pontoon bridge. When the church bell tolled six, the three columns advanced simultaneously, and, before the Irish were thoroughly awake, the leading battalions had forded the river, the platform was in its place, and the troops pouring into the town.

A few guns were hastily discharged, and then the men of the three Irish regiments in the town fled in haste, to avoid capture by the columns pouring across the river by the ford and pontoon bridge. Many, indeed, were captured whilst asleep. Saint Ruth, roused from sleep by the sound of cannon, ordered the troops to arms, but it was too late. The town, or rather its ruins, were in the possession of the British, and the brilliant success, which had been won by the valour and determination of the Irish troops, was forfeited by the carelessness, folly, and self-confidence of the French general.

Had he listened to the advice of the Irish officers, the attempt, like those which had preceded it, must have failed, and in that case there was nothing remained to Ginckle but a precipitous retreat to Dublin, with the loss of the whole of the advantages gained in the previous campaign, and the necessity of bringing the war to an end by the concession of the rights and privileges of the Irish Catholics and landowners. The whole course of history was changed by the folly of one man. Ginckle had taken Athlone, but it was at a vast cost of life, and he was more than ever impressed with the magnitude of the task of subduing Ireland, so long as the people were driven to desperation by the threatened confiscation of all their lands, and by the persecution of their religion. King William, too, was more anxious than ever for the termination of hostilities, and, on the very day that the news of the fall of Athlone reached him, he issued a proclamation offering protection, security of all possessions, and continuance in any offices which they held under James, to all who would lay down their arms in three weeks' time.

The issue of such a proclamation as this, a year before, would have satisfied the Irish and put a stop to the war; but it was now too late. The promises made had been broken, over and over again, and the Irish had but too much reason to fear that, when all opposition ceased, the council and their train of greedy adherents would again obtain the ascendency, and would continue their work of spoliation and robbery.

Moreover, the Irish army did not feel itself in any way beaten. It was not its fault that the second siege of Athlone had not terminated as the former siege and that of Limerick had done, and that Ginckle's army was not hurrying back, defeated and disorganized, to Dublin. They felt that, at the battle of the Boyne, they had suffered no defeat, although, in accordance with the general plan, they had fallen back, and they eagerly desired to fight one battle to prove that, in the open field, they were more than a match for the mercenaries of King William.

The council and lords justices, who were aghast at the proclamation, which threatened to destroy their hopes of dividing among themselves and their friends all the lands of the Catholics of Ireland, did their best to prevent its acceptance, by spreading rumours that it was a mere bait, and that its promises would not be fulfilled; while Saint Ruth and his French officers did their best, also, to set the Irish against it.

Saint Ruth, who was really a good officer, was conscious that, so far from having gained credit, as he had expected from a command in Ireland, the misfortunes which had happened were entirely attributed to him, and he longed for an opportunity of wiping out the slur on his military reputation. He therefore urged upon the Irish generals that Ginckle had indeed gained but little; that all the hopes of William rested upon that army alone; and that, with its defeat, they could demand and obtain any terms they liked to lay down; besides which, he was able to assure them, by his advices from France, that Louis was making preparations for assisting them on a vastly larger scale than he had previously done. Thus, from a combination of circumstances, the proclamation elicited no response.

While the siege of Athlone was being carried on, the main body of Sarsfield's cavalry remained, for the most part, in the camp near the town; but commanders of small bodies of men, like the corps of Captain Davenant, which were regarded as irregulars, had liberty of action. Some made long raids to the east, and often spread confusion and dismay among the enemy, by appearing suddenly when no Irish troops were believed to be within a hundred miles. Some went down and joined the peasants, who were keeping up desultory fighting in the neighbourhood of Cork, harassing the English whenever they moved from one point to another, or sent out parties to collect forage or provisions.

Captain Davenant, who had more than once respectfully urged upon Sarsfield the immense benefit which would result, were the whole of the Irish cavalry to place themselves upon the line of the enemy's communication, finding that the Irish general was unmoved by his arguments, several times endeavoured to carry out his ideas, as far as could be done with his own small force.

The inactivity of the Irish horse, throughout the long sieges of Athlone and Limerick, except only upon the occasion of the raid upon the siege train, is almost inexplicable. They had nothing to fear from the enemy's cavalry, to whom they proved themselves immensely superior, whenever they met during the war, and they had it in their power, for months, to cut the British communications and so oblige them, either to detach so large a force to keep the roads open that they would have been unable to push on the siege, and would indeed have been in danger of being attacked and destroyed by the Irish infantry; or to raise the siege, and fall back upon their bases, Dublin and Waterford.

The only possible explanations that can be offered are–first, that Sarsfield, although a dashing commander in action, was possessed of no military genius whatever; second, that he was prevented from moving by the jealousy of the French commanders-in-chief, who did not wish to see the credit of compelling the enemy to fall back monopolized by the Irish cavalry; or, third, that Sarsfield saw the advantages which could be obtained by throwing himself, with his cavalry, in the rear of the enemy, but deliberately remained inactive rather than leave the French generals to act, unchecked by his presence at headquarters. It can never be decided to which of these alternatives it was due that the Irish cavalry remained for so long a time inactive, and that William, and after him Ginckle, were permitted, unmolested save by a few detached bodies of horse, to maintain their long line of communications to their base, unchecked.

Upon one of his excursions in the rear of the English army, Captain Davenant's troops dashed down upon a convoy of waggons. The dragoons who were escorting them were killed or driven off. The drivers were collected in a group, for Captain Davenant always ordered that these men should not be injured, as they were not combatants, and were in most cases obliged to accompany their teams, which had been requisitioned for the service.

The men were collecting the waggons together, preparatory to setting them on fire, when Walter, on riding near the group of drivers, heard himself called by name. Turning round, he leapt from his horse and ran up to one of the prisoners.

"My dear John!" he exclaimed, "I am glad indeed to see you. Why, what brings you here?"

After exchanging hearty greetings, Walter led him away from the group, and the two sat down together on a bank.

"What brings you here?" Walter repeated.

"All the waggons within miles round Dublin have been requisitioned," John said; "and as our three were called for, my father suggested that I should accompany them, to see that the horses were fed and cared for."

"Which are your waggons?" Walter asked.

"The three last in the column."

Walter immediately ran to his father, told him what had happened, and begged that the three waggons should be exempted from the general destruction. Captain Davenant at once rode up to the men, and ordered the waggons to be unloaded and their contents added to the pyre which was being prepared, but that the waggons themselves should be taken back a quarter of a mile along the road, and left there under the charge of their drivers, who were not to move until joined by their owner. He then rode back, and shook hands with John.

"I am glad to see you," he said. "All are well, I hope, at both our homes?"

"Quite well, sir."

"Thank God for that! Now, I must leave you to see that our work is thoroughly carried out. You will find your waggons safe, a quarter of a mile along the road. I will leave you to tell all the home news to Walter, who will retell it to me afterwards."

"Now tell me all the news," Walter said, when they were together again.

"The news is not altogether pleasant," John replied. "The whole of the country round Dublin is being harried by the cavalry in garrison there. They pay no attention whatever to papers of protection, and care but little whether those they plunder are Protestant or Catholic, friend or foe. They go about in small parties, like bands of brigands, through the country; and those who go to Dublin to obtain redress for their exactions are received with indifference, and sometimes with insult, by the authorities. Then, too, we have had trouble at home.

"My grandfather became more bigoted than ever, and would, if he had the power, have annihilated every Catholic in Ireland. My father and he had frequent quarrels, and I was in daily expectation of an open breach between them, and of my father giving up his share of the property, and taking us to England. He was a backslider, in my grandfather's eyes. The tales of battle, plunder, and murder seemed to have taken the latter back to his own fighting days; and he was rather inclined to consider the generals as lukewarm, than to join in the general indignation at their atrocious conduct.

"Even the sufferings of the Protestants did not seem to affect him. The Lord's work, he said, cannot be carried on without victims. It horrified me to hear him talk. If this was the religion of our fathers, I was fast coming to the conclusion that it was little better than no religion at all.

"I think my father and mother saw it in the same light, and the breach between them and my grandfather daily widened. But I have not told you the worst, yet. A party of cavalry rode up the other day, and were about, as usual, to seize upon some cattle. My father was out, and my grandfather stepped forward and asked them 'how they could lay it to their consciences to plunder Protestants when, a mile or two away, there were Catholics lording it over the soil–Catholics whose husbands and sons were fighting in the ranks of the army of James Stuart?'

"I was in the house with my mother, but we heard what was said; and she whispered to me to slip out behind, and find my father, and tell him what was being done. I made off; but before I had gone a quarter of a mile, I saw the soldiers riding off towards the castle, with my grandfather riding at their head. I was not long in finding my father, who at once called the men off from their work, and sent them off in all directions to raise the country; and in an hour two hundred men, armed with any weapon they could snatch up, were marching towards the castle, my father at their head. There were Catholics and Protestants among them–the latter had come at my father's bidding, the former of their own free will.

"We hurried along, anxiously fearing every moment to see flames rise from the castle. Fortunately, the soldiers were too busy in plundering to notice our approach, and we pounced down upon them and seized them unawares. They were stripping the place of everything worth carrying away, before setting it on fire. We burst into the hall, and there was a sight which filled my father and myself with anger and shame. Your grandmother was standing erect, looking with dignity mingled with disdain at my grandfather; while your mother, holding your brother's hands, stood beside her. My grandfather was standing upon a chair; in his hand he held a Bible, and was pouring out a string of denouncing texts at the ladies, and was, at the moment we entered, comparing them to the wicked who had fallen into a net.

"I don't think, Walter, his senses are quite right now. He is crazed with religion and hate, and I believe, at the time, he fancied himself in the meeting house. Anyhow, there he was, while two sergeants, who were supposed to be in command of the troop, were sitting on a table, with a flagon of wine between them, looking on with amusement. Their expression changed pretty quickly, when we rushed in.

"It needed all my father's efforts to prevent the whole party being hung, so furious were all the rescuers at the outrage upon the good ladies of the castle. But my father pointed out to them that, although such a punishment was well deserved, it would do harm rather than good to the ladies. They had orders of protection from the lords justices; and he should proceed at once, with four or five witnesses, to lay the matter before the general at Dublin, and demand the punishment of the offenders. But if the party took the law into their own hands, and meted out the punishment the fellows deserved, the facts of the case would be lost sight of. There would be a cry of vengeance for the murder, as it would be called, of a party of soldiers, and it would serve as an excuse for harrying the whole district with fire and sword.

"Having at last persuaded the angry tenants and peasantry to lay aside their project of vengeance, my father went to the soldiers, who, tied hand and foot, were expecting nothing short of death. He ordered all their pistols and ammunition to be taken away, and their bonds to be loosed; then told them that their escape had been a narrow one, and that, with great difficulty, he had persuaded those who had captured them while engaged in deeds of outrage and plunder to spare them; but that a complaint would at once be made before the military authorities, and the law would deal with them. Finally, they were permitted to mount and ride off, after having been closely examined to see that they were taking with them none of the plunder of the house.

"Everything was then carefully replaced as they had found it; and my father at once rode off, with six of the leading tenants–three Protestants and three Catholics–and laid a complaint before the general. The latter professed himself much shocked, and lamented the impossibility of keeping strict discipline among the various regiments stationed in the towns. However, he went down with them at once to the barracks of the regiment, ordered them to be formed up, and asked my father if he could identify the culprits.

"My father and those with him picked out fifteen, including the two sergeants, as having formed part of the body of plunderers; and the general had the whole tied up and flogged severely, then and there, and declared that, the next time an outrage upon persons who had received letters of protection came to his ears, he would shoot every man who was proved to have been concerned in it. He also gave orders that a well-conducted noncommissioned officer, and four men, should be sent at once to Davenant Castle, and should there take up their quarters as a guard against any party of marauders, with the strictest orders to cause no annoyance or inconvenience to the inhabitants of the castle.

"I learned afterwards that Mr. Conyers, who had been interesting himself greatly on behalf of the ladies of the castle, is a great friend of the lords justices, and other members of the council, and is also acquainted with the general, which will account for the prompt measures taken to punish the marauders–a very rare and exceptional matter, I can tell you."

"I am sure we are greatly indebted to your father and you, for so promptly taking measures to assist my mother," Walter said. "I have no doubt the castle would have been burned, as well as plundered, if it had not been for your rescue of them."

"It is not worth thinking about, Walter. We are heavily your debtors, still, for the kindness of your father and yourself to me at Derry, and indeed on all other occasions. Besides, it was the least we could do, seeing that it was my grandfather's hatred of your family which brought the matter about."

"What became of your grandfather," Walter asked, "when you interrupted his sermon?"

"He fell down in a fit," John replied; "and perhaps it was the best thing he could do, for I don't know what my father and he would have said to each other, had it not been so. He was carried home, and he has not been the same man since. I don't think the subject was ever alluded to between my father and him; but I think that being balked, just at the moment when he thought he had obtained the object of his hopes and prayers for the last forty years, has almost broken his heart.

"He goes about the house, scarce speaking a word, and seems to have lost almost all his energy. He has ceased to read the family prayers, and to hold forth morning and night. I do think he considers that the Lord has cheated him out of his lawful vengeance. It is awfully sad, Walter, though it is strange, to see such a travesty of religion as the tenets of my grandfather and some of the old men who, like him, represent the views of Cromwell's soldiers.

"Their religion cannot be called true Christianity. It is the Judaism of the times when the Jews were among the most ignorant of peoples. To me it is most shocking, and I would infinitely rather be a Mohammedan than hold such a faith as theirs. I thank God that my father and mother have shaken off such a yoke, and brought me up according to the teaching of the New Testament, rather than that of the Old."

By this time the waggons, with the exception of those under John Whitefoot's charge, had been collected in a mass, and fire had been applied to them. They were now a pile of flame. A few of the best and fastest looking of the horses were set aside to be carried off by the troop. The rest were shot, as the great object of the raids was to deprive the English army of its means of transport.

The troop then mounted. Captain Davenant and Walter took a hearty farewell of John, and intrusted him with hastily-written letters for home; and as the smoke of the burning train would soon bring down any parties of the enemy who happened to be in the neighbourhood, the troop then rode off at full speed, and arrived safely at Athlone without meeting with any further adventures.

After the fall of the city, Ginckle remained inactive some time, but, finding that his proclamation had no effect in inducing the Irish to lay down their arms, he reluctantly prepared to advance against them. In the interval, he occupied himself in repairing the western wall of the city, and, as he had been joined by several regiments sent out to reinforce him, he resumed his advance with a force larger than that with which he had commenced the siege of Athlone. Before starting, he issued the most peremptory orders against a repetition of the acts which had so disgraced his army, and had done so much harm to the cause by banding the whole peasantry against them.

Saint Ruth chose his position with great skill. His camp extended more than two miles, along a range of hills called the heights of Kilcomeden. His right was protected by a rivulet, and by hills and marshes. On his left was a deep glen. Beyond this, along his whole front, a vast bog extended, in most places impassable for horse or foot. On the borders of the bog, on the left, stood the ruins of the little castle of Aughrim, occupying the only spot of firm ground which led to the camp.

To pass the bog at this point, it was necessary to go close by the castle wall, where there was a broken path only wide enough for two men to pass abreast. The passage on the right of the bog was more open, but it was marshy and unsafe.

This position was much stronger than that which the Irish had held at the battle of the Boyne, and whereas, on that occasion, they had been very inferior in numbers to their assailants, they were now superior by some regiments in number. In the point of artillery the English had here, as at the Boyne, an overwhelming superiority.