An Army of 4,000 Men Marched Out to Rescue a Fort - But Many Would Never Return

In my last Tudor post, we followed the Spanish Armada of 1597, which was scattered by storms before it could reach Cornwall. While Elizabeth I was dealing with the threat from Spain, she was also fighting a war in Ireland. One of her main opponents was Hugh O'Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, who had at one time been on good terms with the English government but was now leading a rebellion.

O'Neill had spent years building up his position in Ulster, and by 1598 he had become a serious problem. His men were besieging an English fort on the River Blackwater, where the garrison was running short of supplies. The authorities in Dublin decided that something had to be done, and an army of around 4,000 men was assembled under Sir Henry Bagenal.

Bagenal and O'Neill already knew one another, although they were certainly not friends. In 1591, O'Neill had married Bagenal's sister, Mabel, despite her brother's strong objections. The marriage had caused a great deal of ill feeling between the two men, and their differences had only grown worse over the following years.

On the 14th of August 1598, Bagenal left Armagh with his army and headed towards the Blackwater fort. Unfortunately for him, O'Neill knew he was coming and had prepared for his arrival. Along with his allies, including Red Hugh O'Donnell and Hugh Maguire, he had positioned his men along the route and prepared obstacles to make the march more difficult.

The English army had trouble moving through the uneven, boggy ground, particularly once the fighting began. Irish musketeers fired on the advancing soldiers, and the different sections of Bagenal's force became separated. Bagenal was shot and killed during the battle, while an explosion among the army's gunpowder supplies made matters worse.

The surviving soldiers eventually withdrew to Armagh, having suffered heavy casualties. The attempt to relieve the fort had failed, and the garrison surrendered soon afterwards. The battle became known as the Battle of the Yellow Ford, and it was one of the worst defeats suffered by Elizabeth's forces during the war in Ireland.

O'Neill's victory encouraged further rebellion, particularly in Munster, and Elizabeth's government now had an even bigger problem on its hands. The following year, she sent Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, to Ireland with a large army and instructions to bring the rebellion under control.

Essex had been one of Elizabeth's favourites for years, but his time in Ireland would do little to improve their relationship.

Had you heard of Hugh O'Neill and the Battle of the Yellow Ford?

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Image info:

Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone. Engraving by William Holl (before 1871). Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

A BRITISH BANK CLERK PRETENDED TO BE A GESTAPO OFFICER - AND PEOPLE TRUSTED HIM WITH WARTIME SECRETS.

On the 4th of July 1940, Eric Roberts left his job at Westminster Bank to undertake secret work for British intelligence. His employers had been told that he was needed for duties of national importance, although they struggled to understand why this ordinary clerk had been chosen. What they did not know was that Roberts had already spent years secretly reporting on extremist political organisations.

Roberts lived with his family in Epsom, Surrey, but his wartime work would take him into a dangerous world of deception. By early 1942, MI5 had given him a new assignment. Using the false identity Jack King, he was to pretend to be a Gestapo representative left behind in Britain to organise people willing to help Germany.

Armed with a forged identification card, Roberts made contact with Marita Perigoe, a committed German sympathiser whose husband had been interned. She believed Jack King was a genuine German agent and began introducing him to others who wanted Britain to lose the war. Roberts carefully maintained his disguise while reporting everything to MI5.

He operated from a flat on London's Edgware Road, where hidden microphones allowed British intelligence officers to monitor conversations. Those visiting him believed they were supplying valuable information to Germany. Perigoe obtained details of military equipment and factory security arrangements, while other members of the group offered information about Britain's military preparations.

Among them was Hans Kohout, who worked for a company involved in secret defence contracts. He supplied Roberts with information about WINDOW, a system being developed to confuse enemy radar. Another sympathiser, Hilda Leech, worked for the Petroleum Board and provided details about fuel storage sites across Britain.

MI5's intention was to identify people prepared to help Germany and prevent sensitive information from reaching the enemy. Although the operation uncovered serious security risks, prosecuting those involved presented difficulties. British intelligence feared that defence lawyers could argue their clients had been encouraged to act by an undercover officer.

Roberts continued his deception for years, maintaining the confidence of people who believed he was working for Germany. His remarkable wartime role remained largely unknown until the release of secret intelligence files in 2014 revealed the identity of Jack King.

The people who trusted him believed they were helping Germany defeat Britain. Instead, they had been handing their information directly to MI5.

Have a cuppa and let's discover history together. 

Image info:

Artist unknown, 1939–1945. Via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain – expired UK Crown copyright.

William the Conqueror Surrounded the English Rebels at Ely - But Hereward Escaped

In my last medieval post, we followed Hereward and his men as they attacked Peterborough Abbey in June 1070, burning its buildings and taking its treasures. The Danes who had been helping the English rebels eventually returned home, but Hereward stayed in the Fenlands. He was still fighting against William the Conqueror.

By 1071, Ely had become a place where Englishmen who opposed William could take refuge. It was surrounded by marshes and waterways, quite unlike the countryside we see there today. Anyone trying to reach the island had to find a way through the wet, difficult ground, and the local men knew the area far better than the Normans.

Several important Englishmen had made their way to Ely, including Earl Morcar, whose brother Edwin had been killed by his own followers. Bishop Æthelwine of Durham and Siward Barn were there too, along with many other rebels. William had been king for almost five years, yet there were still plenty of men who had no wish to be ruled by him.

William had already spent years putting down rebellions, and he now brought his army to Ely. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us that he also gathered a fleet of ships and had a bridge built across the marshes. The very landscape that had protected the rebels was no longer enough to keep his soldiers away.

Eventually, Morcar, Bishop Æthelwine and many of the others surrendered. William took their ships, weapons and treasures, and the bishop was sent to Abingdon, where he died later that year. Morcar was taken prisoner, but Hereward had somehow managed to escape with some of his men.

I would love to know exactly how Hereward got away, but unfortunately the Chronicle gives us very little detail about it. Stories written much later describe him using disguises and all sorts of tricks to escape the Normans. They make interesting reading, but we have no way of knowing how much really happened.

Ely had been one of the last places where a large group of English rebels could still hold out against William. With its surrender in 1071, their resistance had suffered another serious defeat. Hereward was still free, but we know very little for sure about the rest of his life.

Do you think Hereward was brave to keep fighting, or should he have surrendered with the other rebels?

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Image info:

William the Conqueror, British School (artist unknown), c. 1618–1620. Oil on oak panel. Dulwich Picture Gallery, London, via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

A German Spy Parachuted into Britain - Then Tried to Escape MI5 with a Canoe

During the night of the 5th and early hours of the 6th of September 1940, a German aircraft dropped a secret agent into the Northamptonshire countryside. His name was Gösta Caroli, a 37-year-old Swedish national working for German military intelligence. He was supposed to land near Birmingham, but his mission began badly when his equipment struck him during his parachute descent, apparently knocking him unconscious.

When Caroli recovered, he found himself near Denton, several miles from Northampton. He gathered his belongings and hid in a ditch, hoping to work out where he was. On the morning of the 6th of September, farm worker Paddy Daly discovered him and informed farmer Cliff Beechner, who was also a member of the Home Guard. Beechner took the stranger to the farmhouse and contacted the police.

Officers discovered that Caroli was carrying a wireless transmitter, maps, £200 in British currency, food, cigarettes and a loaded pistol. His assignment was to report information about bomb damage to British airfields in Northamptonshire, Oxfordshire and the Birmingham area. With the Battle of Britain under way, the Germans were particularly interested in learning how much damage their air attacks were causing.

Caroli was taken to London for questioning by MI5. He eventually agreed to work for British intelligence as a double agent, receiving the codename SUMMER. Instead of sending genuine intelligence to Germany, he began transmitting information controlled by MI5. His cooperation was not entirely willing, however, and the British soon had concerns about his reliability.

By January 1941, Caroli was living under supervision at the Old Parsonage in Hinxton, near Cambridge. On the 13th of January, he suddenly attacked his guard from behind with a length of rope and tied him up. He then helped himself to some belongings, took another guard's motorcycle and attempted to escape.

What made the escape particularly unusual was Caroli's decision to take a twelve-foot canvas canoe with him. With a suitcase strapped to the motorcycle and the canoe attached to its side, he set off along the road towards Newmarket. The arrangement proved difficult to manage, and he fell from the motorcycle. A road worker even helped him throw the canoe over a hedge.

Caroli eventually abandoned his escape and surrendered at Newmarket Police Station. MI5 decided that he could no longer be trusted as a double agent, and he remained in British custody for the rest of the war.

He was finally repatriated to Sweden in 1945. His wartime spying career, which had begun with an unsuccessful parachute landing in a Northamptonshire field, had ended with an equally unsuccessful attempt to escape on a motorcycle carrying a canoe.

Image info:

Local Defence Volunteers learning German commands during WW2. Imperial War Museums, HU 50154, via Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

Queen Victoria Didn’t Invent the White Wedding Dress - But She Helped Make It a Tradition

When Queen Victoria married Prince Albert on the 10th of February 1840, she chose a wedding dress that would influence bridal fashion for generations. It was made from white silk satin, with lace from Devon and a long train decorated with orange blossom. White wasn’t a new choice for brides, but Victoria’s wedding gave it an enormous amount of attention.

In my last Victorian post, we explored how Victoria and Albert’s relationship developed. On their wedding day, thousands of people lined the streets of London despite the rain, hoping to see the young couple. Victoria was just 20 years old and had been Queen for nearly three years. The ceremony took place at the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace.

As a reigning monarch, Victoria could have worn her crimson velvet robes of state. Instead, she chose to dress as a bride rather than emphasise her position as Queen. Her silk came from Spitalfields in London, while the handmade Honiton lace supported lacemakers whose industry was struggling. She wore a wreath of orange blossom and a lace veil instead of a royal diadem.

Before Victoria’s wedding, brides had worn all sorts of colours, including blue, red, pink, brown and black. Some had worn white too, particularly those who could afford it. Many women simply married in their best dress, which could be worn again afterwards. A white gown was not especially practical if you needed your clothes to last.

Victoria’s wedding was widely reported, and pictures of her bridal outfit appeared in prints and publications. It wasn’t only her dress that attracted attention, but the idea of a romantic bride in white. Fashion illustrations and advertisements helped spread that image, although not everyone rushed out to copy it.

The Victoria and Albert Museum even holds a patterned wedding dress worn by Sarah Maria Wright in 1841, just a year after the royal wedding. Coloured dresses remained common, especially among women who couldn’t afford an outfit for one occasion. Over the following decades, white became increasingly fashionable, particularly among brides who could afford it.

So Victoria didn’t invent the white wedding dress. She helped make it fashionable, and the custom developed gradually from there.

Did you know brides wore such a variety of colours before white became the usual choice?

☕ Have a cuppa and let’s discover history together!

Image info:

Queen Victoria in Her Wedding Dress, Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1847. Royal Collection, RCIN 400885. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

A German Spy Lived Undetected in Cambridge for Nearly Five Months - And MI5 Never Caught Him

On the 3rd of November 1940, a parachute was discovered in a field near Haversham, Buckinghamshire. Somebody had clearly landed, but despite a search of the surrounding area, there was no sign of the parachutist. The missing man had already made his way towards Cambridge, where he would remain undetected for almost five months.

His real name was Engelbertus Fukken, a Dutchman recruited by German military intelligence, the Abwehr. Using the name Jan Willem ter Braak, he arrived in Cambridge on the 4th of November and found lodgings with a couple in St Barnabas Road.

Ter Braak told his landlords that he had escaped from the Netherlands during the Dunkirk evacuation and was helping the Free Dutch movement produce a newspaper in London. They accepted his explanation, and he soon settled into his new surroundings.

He had arrived in Britain carrying false identity papers, money and a wireless transmitter concealed in a suitcase. He also rented an office in Green Street, although he apparently made little use of it. During his time in Cambridge, he travelled around the surrounding area and made several visits to London.

Under wartime regulations, foreign nationals were required to register with the police. Ter Braak never did, although his landlord had informed the authorities that a Dutchman was staying at the property. The police apparently assumed he would register himself, and nobody followed up.

In January 1941, the Food Office began questioning his ration card after discovering that its details belonged to somebody else. Ter Braak told his landlady that he was leaving for London, but instead moved to another address in Cambridge.

By March, his money was running out, and he was struggling to pay for his accommodation. His wireless equipment showed signs of use, but whether he had successfully transmitted information to Germany remains uncertain.

On the 29th of March, Ter Braak left a large suitcase at Cambridge railway station. Three days later, on the 1st of April 1941, an electrician discovered his body inside an air-raid shelter at Christ's Pieces. Investigators concluded that he had taken his own life.

The suitcase was eventually recovered, and inside was his wireless equipment. Ter Braak was quietly buried at Great Shelford in an originally unmarked grave. Many years later, his family sought permission for a memorial bearing his real name.

For nearly five months, a man working for German intelligence had lived among ordinary British civilians without being arrested. His story exposed just how easily an enemy agent could slip through the security measures intended to protect wartime Britain

Image: Keep It Under Your Hat! Careless Talk Costs Lives - U.S. Army, Second World War. Franklin D. Roosevelt Presidential Library and Museum / Public Domain.

A SPANISH ARMADA CAME DANGEROUSLY CLOSE TO CORNWALL - WHILE ENGLAND’S WARSHIPS WERE AWAY.

In my last Tudor post, we followed the Spanish Armada of 1596, when King Philip II attempted another expedition against England, only for a violent storm to scatter his ships. Despite losing vessels, men and valuable supplies, Philip was determined to try again. In 1597, he prepared another fleet, and this time the Spanish came alarmingly close to the English coast.

Philip’s plan was to land troops at Falmouth in Cornwall, establish a military base and threaten Plymouth. He also hoped that English Catholics might support the invasion and rise against Elizabeth I. However, there was little reliable evidence that England’s Catholic population would welcome a foreign army, something Philip’s advisers appear to have overestimated.

Around 136 vessels were assembled, carrying approximately 9,000 soldiers and 4,000 sailors. The expedition was commanded by Don Martín de Padilla, who had also led the unsuccessful Armada of 1596. Preparations were delayed by unfavourable winds, and the fleet did not finally leave the Spanish coast until October 1597.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth had sent Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, on an expedition towards the Azores, accompanied by commanders including Sir Walter Raleigh. Their aim was to attack Spanish interests and intercept valuable shipping returning from the Americas. Unfortunately, the expedition achieved little, and with so many English warships away, the south-western coast was left particularly vulnerable.

With Essex’s ships absent, Philip had an opportunity to strike. The Spanish fleet initially made good progress across the Bay of Biscay, approaching the waters off Cornwall. Some historical accounts place the vessels within approximately 30 miles of the Lizard, although the surviving evidence differs over their precise position.

The fleet was making progress when the weather turned. A violent gale struck the Spanish ships, bringing powerful winds and dangerous seas that scattered the vessels across the Atlantic. For several days, the commanders struggled to maintain formation, until Padilla finally abandoned the expedition and ordered a return to Spain.

Although most of the fleet eventually reached safety, several ships were lost or driven onto the coasts of Cornwall and Wales. One vessel, the Nuestra Señora Buen Viaje, reached Milford Haven, where the English recovered sailing instructions that revealed important details about the Spanish plans.

Philip had even gone as far as preparing a proclamation in English, intended to be issued if his troops landed. It promised protection for private property and favourable treatment for those who supported the invasion, while also appealing to Catholics dissatisfied with Elizabeth’s religious settlement. The proclamation was designed to win support beyond England’s Catholic population, but it was never issued.

What I find particularly interesting is how late the warning reached Elizabeth’s government. On the 26th of October 1597, news of the Spanish fleet’s approach reached the royal court, prompting urgent preparations for defence. By then, the storm had already forced the Spanish to abandon their expedition.

England had known that Spain was preparing military operations, but the immediate danger to Cornwall had taken the government by surprise. With much of the English fleet away and coastal defences poorly prepared, a successful Spanish landing could have created a very serious problem for Elizabeth.

The Armada of 1588 is remembered as one of the great events of Elizabeth’s reign, but it certainly did not end Spain’s attempts to challenge England. The expedition of 1597 came much closer to the English coast than many people realise, and once again the weather played a decisive part in preventing Philip’s plans from succeeding.

Philip II died on the 13th of September 1598, but the war between England and Spain continued under his son, Philip III. Peace would not finally come until 1604, after Elizabeth’s death.

Had you heard about the Spanish Armada that nearly reached Cornwall in 1597, or did you think the defeat of 1588 had ended the threat?

☕ Have a cuppa and let’s discover history together!

Image info:

A Coloured Chart of Falmouth Haven and the River Fal, c.1590-1600. Unknown artist. British Library, Cotton Augustus I.i, folio 37. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.