The Rebels of Ireland

  In the last three years, however, the usual fear had turned to alarm. The Catholic Defenders seemed to be spreading and merging with the United Irishmen. Wolfe Tone and his friends were clearly up to something—but what? The Castle men weren’t sure. Would revolutionary France try to foment trouble in Ireland? Quite likely. But nobody could find any clear evidence. FitzGibbon and the Troika did not intend to wait meekly for something to emerge. They took action. In every barracks, military men were drilled. A series of raids on suspect United Irishmen served to frighten many of their friends. Landowners were told to be vigilant. New justices of the peace were appointed and given extra powers of search and arrest.

  It was exactly this process that had caused the two men to undertake their present journey. Hercules was going to Wexford. None of the family had been down to Mount Walsh since the previous year, since his parents had decided to spend this summer in Fingal. And though his easygoing father had assured him that the Wexford countryside was quiet, Hercules had decided to go to see for himself. As for Arthur Budge, his journey was more official. His father had been urging him for some time to return to Rathconan and run the estate, and now he had also asked the government to appoint Arthur as local magistrate in his place. It was as a justice of the peace, therefore, with stern injunctions to watch out for trouble, that Arthur Budge was now on his way to spend a month at Rathconan. As they were on terms of friendly acquaintance in Dublin, Arthur had invited Hercules to accompany him and spend the night at Rathconan upon his way.

  Having parted from Patrick and MacGowan, Hercules turned to his companion.

  “I hate those men,” he remarked. “If they had their way, Ireland would be plunged into chaos.”

  “You fear chaos,” Budge replied grimly. “But don’t forget, I fear something worse.”

  “What is worse than chaos?”

  “Catholic rule. Remember, a century ago, when King James brought Catholicism back to Ireland, it only took months for the papists to start taking over everything. It can happen again, and it could be worse. If the Catholics come into power, they’ll throw every Protestant settler off his land. We Budges will be lucky if we escape naked with our lives.”

  “And what about their allies, the Protestant Patriots, and the Ulster Presbyterians?”

  “They will lead the Catholics to victory, then they will be overwhelmed by them. It is inevitable.” He grunted. “You think you are fighting for order. But I know I’m fighting for my life.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hercules quietly. “We’ll destroy them.”

  Patrick was glad to get back to his family. The household of Patrick Walsh and Brigid Smith was unusual, but it seemed to suit them both. The pretence that she was his housekeeper had been quietly dropped as time went on, but in its place had been substituted something else.

  She had taken to the stage. The old Smock Alley Theatre had closed now, but the Crow Street Theatre, well-placed off Dame Street just halfway between the Castle and Trinity College, was a large and lively place which catered to an audience of all classes. Brigid’s slim figure, her dark hair and green eyes, had created quite a stir when she first appeared there; her voice, when she had learned to project it, had a pleasing resonance; and she had shown an unexpected talent for comedy. She was a popular performer, and her appearances were all the more attended because they were occasional—for she always put the needs of her children first. There were four children now: two boys and two girls, the eldest thirteen, the youngest three.

  With this change in role had come a change in status. Dublin society was genial. Even in the greatest aristocratic houses, the atmosphere was far more easygoing than in the proud mansions of London. In the public assemblies at such places as the Rotunda Gardens by the lying-in hospital, the fashionable world mixed freely with merchants and tradesmen. If she wanted to go about in her own right, as a beautiful and talented actress she would find a friendly welcome in many places; and if she happened to be a gentleman’s mistress—well, such things were to be expected in people connected with the stage. More problematic, however, was her connection to Patrick. The difficulty for the respectable residents of Dublin’s Georgian terraces and squares was well summed up by Georgiana: “People feel that they can’t invite her as his mistress, and she can’t go as his wife.” In the convention of the time, it would have been easier if she were safely married to someone else.

  As it happened, this hardly mattered, because Brigid had little interest in visiting people whom, for the most part, she secretly despised. Georgiana herself would visit her from time to time, and she liked her. She had her own friends whom she saw as she pleased. And if Patrick was asked to dine in this house or that, she was glad that he should go without her.

  At first it had suited Patrick very well to have her as his mistress. If he had withdrawn politely from the courtship of two women, either of whom would have been a good marriage, it was not only because he had become obsessed with the green-eyed servant girl. Something within him had also rebelled against the bonds of matrimony. Perhaps it was only the normal selfishness of the bachelor; but perhaps, also, he was drawn to something beyond—a need for larger spaces, wilder shores—that the love of this strange girl from the mountains could satisfy in a way that the companionship of the others never could. His love affair with Brigid had been passionate, and still was. He had seen her transformed from a lonely girl to a confident beauty with a public face. Their children were handsome, and she had brought them up wonderfully.

  “Do you not think, after all these years, that for the sake of the children you should marry Brigid?” Georgiana had occasionally taxed him. Yet to his surprise, when he had finally made the offer to Brigid, she had laughed at him and refused.

  “People in Dublin tolerate me,” she answered. “But they always remember who you are. To your friends, I’m still the servant girl whose father’s a carpenter up at Rathconan. They’ll never accept me as your wife. I’m better off as I am. Besides,” she smiled, “as things are, Patrick, I’m always free to leave you and take the children back to the mountains if I want.” And because of the streak of stubborn pride in her, he knew she meant it, every word.

  So now, after his children had finished climbing over him affectionately, he gave her an account of his journey with MacGowan, and told her privately what had passed between himself and her parents.

  Though Brigid had always been aware, in a general way, of his activities for the United Irishmen, there had been no need to tell her all the details. With the way things were progressing now, however, he felt that he ought to warn her that the business could become more dangerous. “At some point,” he explained, “it’s likely that we shall be issuing arms.” She listened to him carefully, and when he had finished, she only asked him one question.

  “Do you truly believe in what you are doing, Patrick?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “I do.”

  “Don’t forget to give me a gun when it starts,” she said. That was all.

  Georgiana’s party took place early the following week. It had been arranged at short notice after she and her husband had come into Dublin earlier than expected. Like his father before him, Lord Mountwalsh had made it plain that, in his genial way, he intended to have an active old age, and some legal business had drawn him back into the city. Since he liked to entertain people at the house on Merrion Square, she had made it her business to discover quickly who else was back in town, so that she could find some congenial company for him.

  As the morning of the party arrived, she felt pleased with the company she had invited. There would be her daughter Eliza Fitzgerald and her husband, a couple of political men, both of moderate opinions, an amusing lawyer, a clergyman from Christ Church, and one of the Talbots of Malahide—all with their wives. Patrick was invited, alone; also a charming old gentleman who resided on St. Stephen’s Green, named Doctor Emmet, and a few other old friends. Twenty people would sit down to dine in all.

  She had asked old Docto
r Emmet for a particular reason. While Hercules was down in Wexford, his wife and two sons had remained up at the old estate in Fingal. His elder son William, however, had wanted to come into Dublin with his grandparents. As he was about to go to Trinity College for the first time that autumn, Georgiana had thought to ask Doctor Emmet to bring his own youngest son with him to the dinner, since the boy had already been up at Trinity for several years. Her husband, who knew a number of the professors at Trinity, had already reported, “They say he’s a quiet, studious boy, with a talent for mathematics—well-liked, but as he lives at home with the old doctor, he doesn’t get involved in any of the wilder parties.” Young Emmet would be a nice, quiet young man for her grandson to know, she thought.

  Of all her grandchildren, she loved young William the best. She didn’t want to admit it, but all the family knew. And so she was especially glad that it was he who carried her own dear husband’s name. As a baby he had strongly resembled Patrick; but as so often happened with children, his face had changed as he grew up, and now, at fifteen, he was starting to look just like old Fortunatus. So strongly did he bring back the memory of the dear old man she had been so close to that, more than once, catching sight of the boy that summer, she had caught her breath and then, to hide her sudden emotion, been forced to turn away. But in particular, it was the boy’s generous nature that she loved. Once, when still a young boy, he had encountered some youths hurling stones at a stray puppy in a Dublin street, and without a thought for himself, he’d bravely driven them off, rescued the animal, and taken it home. The dog had been devoted to him ever since. The previous summer, when his younger brother had been sick for several weeks, William, who loved to be active, had sat with him every day by the hour, reading to him, playing cards, and keeping him amused. The doctors said the young fellow’s recovery was largely due to his elder brother.

  The only moment of doubt she had experienced about the party, however, had been on William’s account.

  “Can I invite old Doctor Emmet?” she had consulted her husband. “He’s the most harmless of men, but he was always a Patriot. And what about Patrick? What would Hercules say about his son meeting people he hates at our house?”

  But Lord Mountwalsh had been firm.

  “Our house has always been a place where people of any persuasion are welcome, as long as they express their views with courtesy,” he pointed out, “and we shall not change for Hercules. Besides, young William is going to encounter people of every kind of opinion at Trinity. As for Patrick, Hercules may not like him, but of course William should meet his cousin once in a while.”

  On the morning of the party, however, he complained that he had slept badly and felt unwell, and Georgiana had asked him if he wanted to cancel it.

  “Not at all, my dear,” he had announced stoutly. “I shall take a cure. I shall go to Mr. Joyce’s Turkish Baths.”

  If the English town of Bath had become fashionable for setting up a spa on the site of an old Roman baths, Dublin now had a Roman bathhouse of its own—except that, in the modern fashion, it was called a Turkish baths. The colourful entrepreneur who had set it up had been a Turk, wonderfully named Doctor Borumborad, whose thick beard and oriental robes had caused quite a stir in Dublin—until he had finally abandoned the disguise and revealed himself as a Mr. Patrick Joyce from Kilkenny. His baths had continued to flourish, however. They contained the usual steamy rooms and a magnificent plunging bath. Having been persuaded by a friend to try it once, Lord Mountwalsh had become quite a patron of the establishment, and the management were always delighted, naturally, to receive a visit from him. By early afternoon, they had returned him to her looking rosy-cheeked and contented.

  “And now, my dear,” he announced cheerfully, “I shall enjoy our party.”

  And he certainly did. As the guests arrived that evening, it pleased her so much to see how delighted he was to greet them. Patrick he greeted with particular affection. And it was clear that he was also rather proud to show off his young grandson, whom he insisted on keeping by his side as the guests arrived, and then as he made his way round them all again as they assembled in the parlour before the dinner.

  Doctor Emmet, grey-haired but sprightly, had duly obliged and brought his youngest son with him, and once young William had finally been disengaged from his grandfather, she brought the two boys together.

  It was interesting to observe the two of them together. Her grandson was actually the larger of the two, for Robert Emmet turned out to be a small, somewhat swarthy fellow, with a mop of black hair and small eyes that seemed to look out on life with a quiet but sharp intensity. Standing beside him, her grandson, with his friendly, open countenance, reminded her of a broad-faced gun dog beside a dark terrier. Robert Emmet seemed to be talking to her grandson pleasantly enough, however.

  Elsewhere in the room, her guests were all conversing happily. She had observed Patrick greet her daughter Eliza and Fitzgerald warmly, and talk to several of the other guests. Now he was deep in conversation with Doctor Emmet.

  Patrick liked old Emmet. Not that he was so old: he must be a little short of seventy, Patrick guessed. But he was in semiretirement now, spending a good portion of his time at a small but pleasant estate he owned just south of the city. For years he’d been the governor of the hospital set up by Dean Swift’s kindly legacy, and he had known Patrick’s father well, and he was always happy to supply Patrick with anecdotes of his father’s younger days. It was well-known that the good doctor supported the Patriot and Catholic causes. “Though I dare say,” he remarked to Patrick, “that we had better not speak too loudly of that in the present climate.” He gave Patrick a meaningful look. “Dangerous times, Walsh. Dangerous times.”

  “Ah,” said Patrick noncommittally. If old Doctor Emmet had been a supporter of these causes, his support, Patrick felt sure, had never gone beyond a florid speech or courteous argument. He couldn’t imagine the good doctor in the streets with a musket. Also, he was not entirely confident of the older man’s discretion.

  “You’ve brought your young son with you,” he remarked, to change the subject.

  “Robert. You’ve never met him?”

  “I haven’t.” He had not seen the boy before; but he knew his elder brother, Tom Emmet the barrister. And he also knew that Tom Emmet was a good friend of Wolfe Tone, and undoubtedly knew about his mission to France. But did the old doctor know of this? He guessed that he probably did not. So he listened quietly while the doctor pronounced upon Robert’s mathematical abilities, and the importance of mathematics in general, until dinner was announced.

  The dinner was a noble affair. The day before, a cart had arrived from the Fingal estate with every kind of produce from the estate. Vegetables, cheeses, a great side of beef, smoked ham, and fruits, fresh and potted, from which the chef had constructed several desserts, including a fruit jelly of such sumptuous architecture that all the company declared they had never seen anything like it. The meal was served by ten footmen; the dinner service from China, upon which the family’s arms and baronial coronet were handsomely featured, added a touch of magnificence to the friendly occasion. The Mountwalshes certainly did things very well, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t.

  Lord and Lady Mountwalsh liked to sit opposite each other at the centre of the big table, and there being more women than men in the party, Patrick and young William found themselves sitting together at one of the ends. Patrick had no objection to this. Thanks to Hercules’s antipathy towards him, he had scarcely ever had the chance to talk to William, and he was delighted to find him such a pleasant and open young fellow. He seemed to be intelligent, and his likeness to old Fortunatus was striking. He was careful to steer their conversation away from political subjects which might give offence to the boy’s father, and he was sorry that, for the same reason, he couldn’t invite the boy to visit him at home and meet Brigid and their children. They had just embarked together on the fruit jelly when, taking him by surprise, young William in
itiated the subject himself.

  “Why is it that you and my father are not friends?” he suddenly asked.

  Patrick hesitated. He wanted to be honest with the boy, but he had to be careful.

  “Your father is a fine man,” he began. It was, he considered, a necessary lie. “And I have a high regard for him.” Another lie. “But I come from the Catholic side of the family, and I support a political cause which he strongly believes is not only wrong but dangerous. He has every reason to dislike me, therefore, and rather than come to blows, he avoids me.”

  “Are such differences enough to break apart the bonds of kinship?”

  “They always have been. Yes.”

  “You don’t seem so bad to me.”

  “You don’t know me.” Patrick smiled. “If a cousin offends you, it may be better to cut him off. Your father’s probably right to do what he does.”

  It was at this moment that Hercules Walsh appeared in the doorway of the dining room.

  From where he was sitting, Patrick could see Georgiana’s face display a sudden look of apprehension. From the doorway, Hercules did not notice it. Lord Mountwalsh, however, with half a century of genial politics behind him, remained unfazed. You had to admire him. Collecting himself at once, he positively beamed at his son.

  “My dear boy. Did you just arrive? Welcome back. Join us. Bring him a chair,” he called to a footman. “I am most delighted to see you,” the old man splendidly lied.