“They call them Yeomanry,” Conall remarked. “I call them bandits.”
The purpose of the Yeomanry was to act as a local presence, something between a police force and a vigilante group. Their character and discipline depended on the local gentlemen who recruited and led them. They were manned, almost entirely, by Protestants. Budge’s younger son Jonah commanded the force that covered the area between Rathconan and Wicklow. As Rathconan was frequently visited by Arthur Budge now, and his old father, though walking a little stiffly nowadays, still kept a sharp eye on the place, there was little reason for Jonah Budge and his Yeomen to trouble the quiet of the hamlet much. But it meant that there were more eyes that might be watching, and Conall was always afraid that he might be stopped and searched on his way down to Wicklow.
The spring passed without incident. The work continued quietly through the summer. In August that year, he went to Dublin to see his children for two days. He visited both his sons and stayed with Patrick and Brigid. The night before he returned, John MacGowan came round and the three men talked together for some hours. The mood was cautious, but Patrick was optimistic.
“Lord Edward estimates that by the end of the year we shall have half a million men in Ireland who have taken the oath,” he told them. Since taking an oath to support the United Irishmen was now a criminal offence, this was a remarkable figure. But even if the figure was high, it suggested an entirely new level of commitment to the cause. “When the French come next time, so many will rise that no English force will be able to do anything at all.”
MacGowan was less sanguine.
“The English are equally determined to crush us before that happens,” he said. Certainly, a British army under a brutal commander named Lake was scouring Ulster in search of troublemakers, Presbyterian or Catholic. “They are terrifying Ulster,” he continued. “In one family I know, the Laws, two have been arrested, and one of those, a respectable man, was flogged. Some of the Belfast men are having second thoughts. And it will be our turn next.”
“All that will change when the French come and the rising begins,” Patrick assured him.
“When will that be?” asked Conall.
“We shall hear from Wolfe Tone. Have no fear. In the meantime, prepare.”
A part of MacGowan’s prediction, at least, appeared to be correct, for when Conall reached home the following day, he found that Jonah Budge and two dozen of his Yeomanry had arrived shortly before him. Jonah Budge was still mounted, watching while his men went from house to house. His father was standing beside him, looking cross. Jonah was a tall, square-faced man, a younger version of his father, though with the years, old Budge himself had mellowed somewhat.
“Where have you been?” Jonah asked Conall curtly.
“To Dublin, to see my children,” Conall answered calmly.
“They’ve searched your cottage already, Conall,” old Budge remarked, with an irritable look at his son.
“Did you find anything of interest?” Conall asked innocently, but Jonah Budge ignored him.
They found nothing in any of the other cottages, either. The weapons had been well hidden.
“I told them there was nothing here,” old Budge remarked to Conall after Jonah and his men had gone. It was clear that he resented the idea that his son thought anything could have gone on under his nose.
“I’m glad you did,” Conall answered, with perfect truth.
“Ah, Conall,” the landowner remarked with something approaching intimacy, “quite apart from anything else, I know you wouldn’t be such a fool.”
When Conall related the conversation to Deirdre afterwards, however, she declined to be amused.
“We must thank God they found nothing, Conall,” she said. “But it isn’t only the Budges you have to fear. Haven’t I said it to you before? It’s Finn O’Byrne you should watch.”
“You’ve a terrible prejudice against the man,” he replied. “I’ve no great liking for him myself, but he’s in as deep as any of us.”
And indeed, as the summer ended and autumn set in, Finn remained assiduous in bringing him items that he thought could be useful, and Conall continued to make his journeys down to Wicklow unmolested.
Even in the cloistered precincts of Trinity College, the new military aspect of affairs had permeated. The college had its own Yeomanry now. Students—and they were numerous—who desired to show their loyal convictions could now put on uniforms and parade up and down to their great satisfaction. On the other side, having now been outlawed, the United Irishmen could not form such an open faction, but it was quite the fashionable thing among the “Croppies” and their friends to take the secret and illegal oath: it was dangerous, romantic, and exciting. There were also students who enjoyed looking mysterious and let their friends suppose they were engaged in all kinds of revolutionary activity even if, in fact, they were not.
The position of Robert Emmet remained uncertain. Some believed he had taken the oath, some did not. As for William Walsh, he said nothing and he joined nothing. He listened to everyone, but he expressed no opinion that could be held against him.
It was in the second week of November that he received a visit at Trinity College from his father. Such a thing had never happened before. But having inspected his room, examined his books, and apparently approved of what he found, Lord Mountwalsh smiled quite amiably before addressing his son.
“I had a talk with Lord Clare this morning, William. We spoke about you.”
FitzGibbon, the feared leader of the Troika, had also become Lord Clare. As well as governing Ireland, he was also the Vice Chancellor of Trinity College, which meant that, albeit from a lofty height, he kept his eagle eye upon, it must be supposed, even the least among the students. But why, William wondered, should FitzGibbon be interested in him?
“He spoke to me,” his father continued, “as a friend—which was good of him. He was concerned about you. You are seen frequently with young Robert Emmet.”
“Emmet has been kind to me, Father, but I cannot claim him as a particular friend.”
“Quite so. His father, as you know, has abominable views but is relatively harmless. His older brother, Tom Emmet, is another matter. He is known to be a close associate of the leaders of the United Irishmen. He is dangerous,William. Do you know him?”
“No, Father.” He didn’t.
“I did not think so. Nor does Lord Clare suppose any such association, by the way. But you do know young Robert. It is feared that he might go the way of his brother. A natural fear, I’m sure you’ll agree. Has he spoken of political matters to you?”
“He does not confide such things to me, Father. But he is rather quiet and studious.”
“Perhaps. There was concern that he might try to lead you astray. I explained that there is no possibility that he could succeed. Your mind and character, I know, are far too strong.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“And Lord Clare accepts that such is the case. But I was able to give him a further assurance. I explained that you and I had long ago agreed that, should you see or hear anything that made you suspect the loyalty of anyone here, you would confide it to me. Is there anything you can tell me now, about Emmet in particular?”
“No, Father, there is nothing.”
“You surprise me. However, I have assured Lord Clare that you will increase your vigilance. I should hope that we may be able to contribute something. Meanwhile, I do not think that you need curtail your association with young Emmet. Indeed, quite the reverse. It is entirely possible that, in an unguarded moment of friendship, he may let something fall that would be of interest, even of real importance to our country, William. I shall ask you, therefore, to be assiduous in your observations. I know how good your heart is, so I am sure you understand?”
“Yes, Father. Is that all?”
“Your studies progress well, I trust?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well done. I shall hope to hear something concerning E
mmet. Goodbye, my boy.”
“Goodbye, Father.”
There were a few days of November left when Patrick Walsh received an unexpected visitor. It was his kinsman, young William. The boy seemed to be in a somewhat emotional state and asked to speak to Patrick alone.
“Do you know what my father has asked me to do?” he burst out.
“I have no idea,” Patrick replied kindly.
“He has told me to spy on my friends at Trinity. In case they are traitors—as he would call them. Isn’t that despicable?”
“It’s not a pleasant task, I grant you.”
“My father is a villain.”
“I do not agree,” replied Patrick. “Your father and I dislike each other, but he believes that he is right, and he believes it deeply. Any man, William, will do such things for a cause he truly believes in. You should not blame him.” Though I wonder, he thought to himself, if the roles were reversed, whether Hercules would have spoken so generously of me.
“Well, I won’t make a friend of Emmet just so that I can betray him to my father and FitzGibbon. I’m not a Judas.”
As Patrick received this valuable information, his face was a mask. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“You know, at Trinity, I’ve heard every argument for and against the United Irishmen.”
“I imagine you have.”
“And I like the arguments of the United Irishmen better.” William looked down. “In fact, I should like to take the oath. But not in Trinity. I don’t want them to know.”
“Why do you come to me?”
“Because I’m sure you must be one of them.”
“I see. And even if that were true, how would I know you weren’t a spy?”
The look of horror and mortification on William’s face was so complete that Patrick almost laughed. The best actor in the world— which this innocent boy was not—could not have dissembled like that. He gazed at the young fellow who looked so like old Fortunatus, and felt a wave of affection.
“Your honesty and your courage do you credit,” he said kindly. “But you are too young for such things, William. Come to me again, if you like, in a few years. Your friends at Trinity are young, too, and scarcely know what they are doing. The best course you can follow is to attend to your studies and wait. Your time will come. But I am flattered that you have confided in me.”
“You will not give me the oath?”
“I won’t. Leave it alone.”
When young William had departed, crestfallen, Patrick sat back, closed his eyes, and smiled.
By the time the boy was of age, he thought, God willing, there would already be a new Ireland. And young William Walsh would be a natural leader, one of the finest. He felt a little surge of family pride.
It is not an easy thing for a woman to hate her only son. But Georgiana did, and there was nothing she could do about it. She blamed him for the death of his father—the scene that Hercules had made in their house had undoubtedly caused his apoplexy. And it was no use anyone saying that if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else: her kindly husband had not been upset like that in years, and given his easy, tranquil life, he might have been good for another ten years or more. At the funeral, Hercules had looked suitably grave, but she didn’t believe he really felt much grief; and when in a moment of anger a day or two later she had cried, “You killed him,” he had curtly told her not to be absurd. Nor was the fact that the whole of fashionable Dublin agreed with her any comfort.
But it was no use dwelling on her feelings, and for the sake of the family dignity, she tried to hide them. No one seeing her and Hercules in public together would have guessed at the cold and bitter hatred in her heart.
For comfort, she had her daughter Eliza living nearby, Patrick, whom she saw quite frequently, and her grandchildren. And of these, of course, the favourite was young William. Perhaps her greatest joy was one of her visits to him at Trinity. But though the young fellow knew she was very fond of him, she took care not to burden him with the full weight of her affection. “I can’t bother the boy all the time,” she remarked to Eliza.
The death of her husband had occasioned one surprise. In frank admission of the source of the family’s wealth, and also of her own good sense, he had not only left Georgiana with a handsome widow’s portion and the right to reside as long as she wished in both the Dublin house and the Wexford estate, but he had also directed that she be shown all the accounts. These were a revelation.
For in his quiet, genial way, the first Lord Mountwalsh had shown himself to be a businessman of genius. Taking the large Law fortune at his disposal, he had used it carefully but with remarkable shrewdness.
Like others of his class, he had attended first to the land, and the last two decades had been kind to him. With rising population and a strong overseas demand, prices for Irish agricultural produce had risen sharply, and the great barley producers of Wexford had done particularly well. Reinvesting his income and speculating cleverly in land leases, he had greatly increased the family’s land holdings in the county. Georgiana discovered that they owned thousands of acres more than she had realised.
More surprising had been his interest in trade. Though Ireland’s trade and commerce were notoriously subject to sudden fluctuations, the decades since their marriage had seen a large growth. It had been normal enough for the younger sons of the gentry to be set up in Dublin, especially as commission merchants, where, with little risk, taking a small percentage on import and export shipments, a man might hope in twenty or thirty years to amass enough fortune to buy a modest estate and revert to the free-living, free-spending life of an Irish gentleman. Yet Lord Mountwalsh had not been too proud to do the exact reverse. He had a financial interest in two merchant houses, one exporting cloth to Britain in return for sugar, the other sending meat to sugar planters in America—best beefsteak for the planters themselves, inferior “French beef” for their slaves. Not only had he financed these houses, but she discovered that he had discreetly involved himself in their day-to-day operations. He had set up a Huguenot family manufacturer of silk-and-wool tabernet cloth; he had brought over some English glass-makers whose skill matched those of the Waterford glassmen; and more important by far, he owned a third share in a thriving bank that was looked upon with respect even by the mighty La Touche house in Dublin.
What pleased her most of all, he had gone back into her father’s trade, as a passive partner in a large Dublin linen factory. And with Ireland’s linen exports leaping ahead recently to a massive thirty-five million yards of linen a year, the profits had been huge.
All in all, her kindly husband had left three times the fortune he had received, and as she scanned his cautious, canny, and sometimes brilliant career, her father’s soul within her swelled with admiration and pride. Let brutal Hercules ever, in his whole life, exhibit a fraction of such intelligence and talent as his father had shown.
The death of her husband had changed her life in one other way. She had not realised how much he had protected her. Though she had always taken a lively interest in what was passing in the world, he had always been by her side. The doings of the Troika, the radical ideas of Patrick and his friends, and the brutal outbursts of Hercules might have been exciting or disturbing, but in her husband’s unflappable presence, and with his secure political position, she had always felt safe. Now, however, events seemed to impinge upon her more directly; she felt a new and disquieting sense of unease. And events themselves were taking an ugly turn.
She heard with horror, from Doyle, of the imprisonment and flogging of her Law kinsmen in Ulster. She was careful never to ask Patrick too much about his political activities—she guessed, yet did not want to know. But he did indicate to her that he fully expected the French to come again. What would that mean for them all? she wondered.
During the summer, she had not been sorry to retreat to Wexford. She had lived there quietly. Patrick had visited for a few days. He was proud of his library, and he h
ad suggested some additions. She had enjoyed his company and been sorry when he left. Young William and his brother had also come down briefly. She had not been lonely, however. She had become better friends with many of her neighbours. A short distance from the house, she had set up a small walled garden for fruit and herbs. She had found peace.
Returning to Dublin in the early autumn, she had not been happy. The usual social round was beginning—nothing ever interfered with that. But the parties were less enjoyable when one was alone without a husband, and the political tension in the air had robbed the gracious Dublin squares of their usual charm. Early in November, she had quietly left the capital and gone back to Mount Walsh for the winter.
And yet, in that colder season, even the gentle Wexford countryside seemed to have changed, as though the troubles of Ireland, like chill winds, were exposing under the green fields and groves another landscape that was bleak and harsh.
To her surprise, it was life in Wexford that gave her a greater understanding of the political storms she had witnessed in the capital. Even during the summer, she had noticed one thing. It had been a trivial matter: there had been a position for a new maid in the house. As usual, the housekeeper had selected two or three girls for Georgiana to choose from, but had also remarked that she could have chosen any of fifty girls she’d seen; and when Georgiana expressed surprise, the housekeeper told her: “At least fifty, my lady, and at half the wages we offer. There are so many young people nowadays that employers may have them for almost nothing.”
Georgiana had been watching Dublin grow in size and splendour all her life, and had seen the army of craftsmen, tradesmen, and servants that the great city had drawn in; but she had not fully realised the extent to which this supply of labour was serviced by a huge swelling of numbers in villages and hamlets all over the island. In the last five decades, the population of Ireland had doubled to five million souls.
“Are they in hardship?” she asked.
“They are angry, my lady, because of the high price of food, but they are not starving. But in my opinion,” the housekeeper’s voice took on a warning note, “it’s a bad thing when the simple people are discontented and have nothing to do.”