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.
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