When Elizabethan England blazed with glory, martial and poetic, when the booty of the Spaniard enriched her adventurers, and the genius of her minstrels charmed every heart, the hills and valleys of the “sister island” echoed with horror, and her pleasant places were filled with the groans of wounded men. A group of Devon captains waged there a fearful war, led by the Queen’s Deputy, Lord Mountjoy. Reckless of their own lives, their deeds of valour scarcely noted by their countrymen, they ended their stubborn task, after a nine years’ death-grapple, by the levelling of every hostile stronghold and the reduction of the clansmen and their shielings into “carcases and ashes.”

At the moment when the victors expected to reap their reward and take possession of the domains of their enemies the course of history was changed by the death of Queen Elizabeth. As her successor the Privy Council selected the King of Scots, who had at times been the secret ally of the Irish chieftains. This choice baulked many a warrior’s hope of prey. James I. forgave O’Neill and O’Donnell (who, indeed, had never offended him), summoned them to London to receive pardon, and restored them to their honours and estates. They had rebelled, as he knew, to save their possessions from covetous officials who, by inventing charges of treason against them, deceived Elizabeth in order to make confiscation a virtue in her eyes.

In her reign the settled plan of the Executive was: to affect to further the interests of the Crown by promoting forfeitures, and then to divert them to the benefit of officials. The disgrace was a legacy bequeathed to her Majesty, her heirs and successors; the booty they kept for themselves. To-day the Crown lands of Ireland, despite three general confiscations, yield only £19,000 a year. In England, where, since the Wars of the Roses, there have been no wholesale spoliations, the Crown estates enrich the Exchequer by £488,000 a year. The cost of prostrating the Irish was borne by the British taxpayer. The profit from it went into private pockets.

James I. tried to reward the conquerors without beggaring the conquered. Lord Mountjoy, who, on the 6th June, 1603, led O’Neill and O’Donnell through London, was given grants of lands and Custom duties in England and was made Earl of Devonshire. His main assistants in the rebellion were two other Devon men—Sir George Carew, who commanded in Munster, and Sir Arthur Chichester, who ravaged Ulster. Between Mountjoy and Carew a close friendship existed. Mountjoy’s letters in the “Pacata Hibernia” manifest the warmth of their relations. Carew was equally confidential with his comrade-in-arms. His cipher of 1602 apprises Mountjoy of the dispatch of a poisoner to follow Red Hugh O’Donnell into Spain, after the defeat at Kinsale. Another tells of the murderer’s success, as O’Donnell was about to secure fresh aids from the Spanish King. Such secrets are entrusted only to bosom friends.

Sir Arthur Chichester was also the intimate of Mountjoy. He had, as a short-cut to end the rebellion, tried to compass the assassination of Hugh O’Neill; and, when this failed, he atoned for his ill-success by devices equally ruthless. The Deputy supported them in everything; and, when the Scotch succession came about, he wished that James I. should repay them royally. Cecil, the most influential Minister of the King, was the friend of all three; and he found it natural that, when James took back to favour Irish noblemen lately in arms, the recompense of those who had reduced them to submission should not be stinted. Chichester came to London from Ireland to push his claims and, accordingly, on the 8th August, 1603, he received in fee the Castle of Belfast, with lands adjoining of undefined extent, and was appointed Life Governor of Carrickfergus at 13s. 4d. a day.

Carew’s worth was recognised in what seemed a less grateful fashion, for on the 28th September, 1603, he was allowed an estate of the value only of £100 a year. This looked an unworthy return; but it represents in present money £1,000 a year. Neither Chichester nor Carew was content with his requital, for each believed that, if the reconciliation between James and the Northern chiefs had not taken place, their swords would have reaped a richer harvest. With this feeling Mountjoy (now Earl of Devonshire) sympathised. So it came to pass that a system was established by which the royal demesne was stripped, for their benefit, and his own. There was at least plenty of monastery plunder to be divided.

The looseness of the times, the feeling aroused among angry captains at the favour shown to surrendered rebels, the grasping example of the Scotch adventurers who swarmed over the Border after King James, the readiness of his consort to lend herself to their petitions—all tended to excite men in power in an unsettled land to batten on the public treasure. The Earl of Devonshire knew that it was illegal for him, as Deputy, or for his officials, to take or possess estate without royal licence. Still the chances offering were too alluring to be thrown away. Yielding to temptation, he abused his trust and soiled his hands.

The plan on which he and his friends worked bore the semblance of legality. A “King’s Letter” was employed to mask every fraud. Such a Letter was a warrant obtained by a petitioner for royal favour. It was usually submitted in draft by the applicant to his Majesty engrossed on parchment. Sometimes two or three skins were sewn together, making it of great size. Its terms, if approved, defined the royal bounty or prescribed the royal will. It was sent to the Signet Office in London when perfected, and was there copied into the Signet Book. Then it was dispatched to Dublin, where a fiant (or order) of the Law Officers to make it “patent” was issued. The Patent was supposed to put the Letter into legal form, but, by official connivance, it often included grants that had never been authorised. When sealed under the Great Seal of Ireland by the Lord Chancellor, a copy was generally “enrolled” in Chancery. This merely meant that its words were inscribed in the vellum rolls kept by the Court officials.

In Stuart days no system of comparing or checking the King’s Letters with the Patents existed, unless the Crown lawyers chose to direct that precaution. If they were corrupt, the Crown was robbed. In that era, official corruption was almost universal. No register of Patents was kept, and grantees constantly strove to extend the limits of their Letters, so as to secure more than the King intended. With influential backing, any fraud was possible. If the grantee did not enrol his grant the Crown was left without even a copy, and could not always tell which of its possessions had been given away. Looseness was fostered by lack of system as well as by lack of honesty.

The Attorney-General and Solicitor-General were supposed to oversee the Patents. They were often needy adventurers, imported from some London Inn of Court on the nomination of accomplices in the Executive. The Lord Lieutenant was their master, and they did not pretend to independence, but obeyed their superiors without question. Honesty injured their prospects, and they seldom affected to practise that unusual virtue. It was a time when much ecclesiastical property was forfeit, especially in Ulster, where the downfall of the Gael enabled the Statutes of Henry VIII. against the monasteries to be at last enforced. St. Mary’s Abbey, Dublin, at its dissolution by Henry VIII. reputed to be the richest in Ireland, held valuable possessions in every province, and several fraudulent Patents made raids on them. Many of these were given over to the Lord Lieutenant and his confederates on flimsy pretences. Public advantage from the confiscations was nil.

The King’s entourage was not fettered by vows of poverty. Courtiers who boasted no virtue themselves did not look for shining examples from Irish officials. They knew these men had left England for their advancement, to make what they could out of a conquered country. The Castle in Dublin was a coarse replica of the Court in London. The spendthrift habits of James I. bred extravagance in his underlings. To deceive that slobbering pedant seemed a small demerit to the Anglo-Irish harpies who regulated their profligacy by London standards.

The clearing-house of corruption in the metropolis for the sale of offices and favours was kept by Michael Hicks of Ruckholt, son of a Cheapside shopkeeper, who had been Burleigh’s secretary in Elizabeth’s reign. Hicks was Cecil’s playfellow in youth; and at his mart much was to be learnt of the schemes and foibles of great men.

After Devonshire’s arrival in England in June, 1603, he was held in thrall by a love affair with the wife of Lord Rich, and never returned to Ireland. He was made Lord Lieutenant by James I., and was able at Court to lend countenance to the malpractices of his friends. To hide his own share in them he worked behind nominees, the principal being henchmen named John Wakeman and John King. The latter he sent over from England to a post in Dublin. Devonshire’s participation in the loot began on the 8th November, 1603. He then secured a King’s Letter for a grant of lands to the value of £100 a year in favour of John Wakeman, on the plea that it represented the Royal gratitude for “services done unto Us and to be done and also in regard to a valuable consideration in money paid and to be paid by our order to an ancient and well-deserving servant of ours in Scotland” by Wakeman. The “old servant” was a myth. So was the money payment by Wakeman to him. So was the £100 a year limit of recompense. From November, 1603, till the Earl’s death in April, 1606, a stream of grants, nominally to John Wakeman, but really for the Lord Lieutenant, flowed from this source. In yearly value they amounted to several thousands of pounds.

Wakeman was a servant of the Levant Company who in 1603 had returned from trading with the Emperor of Morocco. That he had made any payment among the Moors to “well-deserving” Scotchmen in Elizabeth’s reign was unlikely, yet over a dozen Patents of enormous value were passed in his name, on pretence of rewarding him to the extent of £100 a year. Devonshire’s second go-between, John King, was made Clerk of the Crown in Dublin on the 12th July, 1603, and received much property on pretexts equally flimsy.

In order that these practices might be safely carried out, the Lord Lieutenant arranged with Cecil to dispatch to Ireland, as soon as John King was appointed, a law officer on whom they could rely. This was John Davies, a hungry lawyer from the Middle Temple, who afterwards was knighted for his part in fleecing Hugh O’Neill. Davies was nominated in September, 1603, and was sworn-in in Dublin during November, 1603. His unscrupulousness and cunning were beyond the common even of those spacious days. To him must be ascribed the feats of conveyancing, the multiplication of Patents, the shady trusteeships, the magnification of grants, and the plunder of the Gaelic gentry, which defile the reign of James I. His arrival worked an immediate improvement in the fortunes of Chichester and Carew.

On the strength of a warrant for £100 a year, Carew received three Patents. Each included lands far exceeding that sum in annual value. Like John King and John Wakeman, Sir George served as agent for others in the obtainment of grants. In one case, on receiving a King’s Letter in his own favour, he two days later assigned all rights under it to Richard Boyle, the notorious Earl of Cork. This helped Boyle to enlarge the huge estate in Munster which he had snatched from Sir Walter Raleigh—who had himself seized it from the Earl of Desmond. Other officials who dredged in the same muddy tide were Hibbots, Chancellor of the Exchequer; Cooke, Secretary of State; St. John, afterwards Deputy; and the law officers, Davies and Jacob, with many besides.

Before any Patent could legally be made out, the law required conditions to be fulfilled which these worthies entirely disregarded. Notice should first be given to the public, and an inquiry held into the nature of the grant, and the power of the King to make it. So strict was Statute on this point that Patents issued in default of prior inquiry were declared to be “void and holden for none.” This did not trouble Davies or his confederates, who set aside legal safeguards as lightly as moral principles. King James knew naught of their devastations, and it would have touched him nearly to hear the fate of St. Mary’s Abbey—which his predecessors were firm in retaining. Neither Henry VIII. nor Elizabeth would permit its possessions to be recklessly squandered.

Founded by a Gaelic Prince, its revenues were increased after the Conquest by successive Norman Kings. The Abbey gave hospitality to strangers who came overseas, and was frequently used as a lodging by the Viceroys. Deputy Leonard Gray strove to save it from confiscation, but he was recalled by Henry VIII., who suspected him, and had him beheaded. Henry ordered the Dublin portion of the Abbey to be reserved for the Royal ordnance; and Elizabeth, although she gave a site to Trinity College out of its possessions, rejected in 1567 the prayer of the Mayor and Burgesses of Dublin that some portion should be let to them “in consideration of their loyal and dutiful services.” The Queen requited their loyalty by a grant of other lands; but her hold on St. Mary’s Abbey she would not lightly relax.

This made the trick played on King James the more scurvy. Mere monastery pickings, however, were trifles compared with the other colossal thefts carried out under the new regime. At no period before or since was there anything to equal them in hardihood. The operations of Chichester were more extensive and ingenious than those of his co-mates, and entailed larger historic consequences.