By November, it was the mood among the local farmers that was most noticeable. The Troika’s military activity was costing money. New taxes were being raised. She knew very well from the accounts at Mount Walsh that the new levies on salt and malt were hitting the landowners and farmers. In Wexford in particular, the malt levies had driven down the value of the region’s precious barley crop. Everyone was grumbling. “If one of the Troika caught fire,” a neighbouring landowner remarked to her, “I don’t know a single local farmer who’d oblige him with a bucket of water.”
Thinking of her dear Patrick, she was curious about the attitude of the local Catholics, and here it was Kelly who enlightened her.
It had rather surprised her that, after Patrick had apparently courted his sister and then dropped her, Kelly and Patrick should have remained on such friendly terms, but Kelly’s sister had long ago been married, and the Wexford man had only good words for Patrick. During her visits, she had found him one of her most congenial neighbours. He was also perfectly frank with her.
“We Catholics have lost all hope in the Dublin Parliament now,” he told her. “It’s become impossible to hold the middle ground anymore. And the consequences of that could be serious.”
“Yet the Catholic Church isn’t stirring up trouble, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. Because the Church fears the radicals. It fears anything that looks like a revolution. As far as Rome is concerned, the French revolutionaries are atheists who murdered a Catholic king— not to mention the massacres of priests, monks, nuns, and loyal Catholics—and who want to destroy the natural order. The Church would rather deal with Protestant King George. All the priests I know in this region preach patience and obedience. But that doesn’t mean their flocks are listening to them.” He grinned. “Half of them would rather hear a good ballad about a daring highwayman than a sermon. And if it comes to a rising, they will need little persuading.”
Kelly provided a further insight in January.
One evening, Hercules had unexpectedly arrived at Mount Walsh and announced that he wanted to spend a few days there. She wasn’t pleased to see him, but did her best to be pleasant and avoid any discussion of politics. But the next morning, unaware of Hercules’s arrival, Kelly had come by. He was ushered into the library, where he found both Georgiana and her son.
Many people hated or feared Hercules, but though he could not possibly have liked her son, Kelly had seemed to be mildly curious about him and had engaged him easily in conversation. His lordship had been prepared to speak, had soon started upon his favourite subject of maintaining order; he had also, just as easily, made it clear that if he said anything to offend their guest, he couldn’t care less. Indeed, it was not long before he had made an insulting remark concerning Catholic priests. Georgiana wouldn’t have blamed Kelly if he’d struck her son, but the Wexford man preferred to say nothing and to listen patiently. “The problem with you Irish papists,” Hercules went on, “is not so much your priests as the army of hedge school masters. They’re the ones that cause the trouble.”
At this, far from being angry, Kelly smiled and remarked to her: “He’s absolutely right, you know.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Hercules continued. “They encourage the natives to have too high an opinion of themselves by teaching them in their native tongue.”
But now Kelly laughed.
“There, your lordship will forgive me, you’re entirely incorrect. It’s true that, when I was a boy, the hedge schools made extensive use of Irish. But in the last generation there’s been a change. The parents haven’t wanted their children taught in Irish, because they think it a disadvantage to them. They want them taught in English. And do you know the result? Those of the native Irish that can read—and there are many—have been reading the revolutionary tracts from America and the radical English broadsheets out of Belfast and Dublin.” He smiled at Hercules blithely. “If the revolution comes, my lord, and sweeps you away—God forbid—it will be French troops and the English language that bring it about. Of that I can assure you.”
This did not please Hercules at all, and with a curt nod, he left Kelly and Georgiana in the library. Kelly did not stay long, but promised to return another day. After he’d gone, Hercules remarked: “That man needs watching.” But that evening, he also said something else which, when she thought of Patrick, filled her with fear for him.
“This revolution won’t happen. We are better informed than these damned people imagine.”
Mercifully, Hercules had departed by the time Kelly called again. She had a pleasant talk with him, and was glad to have the chance to apologise for her son’s manners. Before the Wexford man left, she asked him:
“If the French come, what do you think will happen to us here at Mount Walsh?”
In reply, he gave her a careful look.
“You are well-liked around here,” he told her. “I don’t think you’d be harmed. But you might be better in Dublin.”
“I see.” She felt herself go a little pale. “Do you think I should leave soon?”
“Truthfully,” he told her, “I have no idea.”
As she went into her garden after he had gone, and saw the snowdrops growing, she decided there was no hurry. February came and there were crocuses: purple, orange, and gold.
A March day and the afternoon was wearing thin, a wet wind slapping the windowpanes, while Brigid sat within.
Rat-a-tat at the door. Nobody heard.
She knew there were soldiers in the Dublin streets. Martial law had been declared a little while ago, whatever that meant. A curfew at night, supposedly, though the theatre was still playing and the inns were doing business. But today, she had heard, more patrols were out.
Rat-a-tat. She glanced through the window, saw a scatter of rain-drops dashing against the grey stone steps, but no soldiers. Then, close by the door, she saw the corner of a hat.
She opened the door herself and the tall figure came in hurriedly. He was wearing a heavy cape; his large tricorn hat hid his face. Only when he entered the parlour did he remove the hat to reveal his fine, aristocratic features.
Lord Edward Fitzgerald stood before her.
“Is Patrick here?”
“I expect him shortly.”
“Thank God. Nobody saw me come here. I took care.” He took off his cape, but he did not want to sit down. He began to pace the room. “They came for me at a meeting. Some of us got out by a back way. But they’ll be looking for me. I’ll need to hide.”
“Cannot your family . . . ?”
“No.” He shook his head. “If the Troika mean to arrest me, even the duke can’t help me. They’d tear down Leinster House if they had to.” He continued to pace. “I’d better not stay for long. Do you think they’ll come for Patrick?”
Brigid considered.
“Probably not,” she said. Patrick was a useful man in the cause, and a friend of Fitzgerald, but he was not one of the council. There would surely be many others they’d want before they got to him. Besides, she had other information. She smiled. “I’ve spies in the Castle, you see.”
She did not go about much; but all the same, as an actress, it was natural that she should have admirers. And, as an actress, she knew how to deal with them. She had never been unfaithful to Patrick, but she had skilfully developed romantic friendships with a number of men. She didn’t flirt with them. She never gave them hope. But she allowed them to entertain the unstated thought that, if it hadn’t been for Patrick, they might have had a chance. And there were several men who were glad to enjoy her company on that basis. They were men she liked, and whose friendship she valued, and if she made use of them from time to time, they wouldn’t have minded. They also served another useful purpose: if Patrick knew that he could trust her, he could never for a moment forget that she was desirable.
It was an admirer from the Castle who had been good enough to caution her, a year ago, that Patrick was suspected of conspiracy. She had immediately turned her dark-
eyed gaze upon him.
“Why?”
“His cousin, the new Lord Mountwalsh, says so.”
“I suppose you know that Hercules hates him. He has since they were boys, the malicious devil.” She smiled. “I’d never let him do such a thing.” Then she’d laughed. “In any case, I can assure you, Patrick wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Some time later, her friend had remarked: “By the way, about Patrick: I passed on what you said to FitzGibbon himself.”
“What did he say?”
“He just nodded and said, ‘I know.’”
The men at the Castle no doubt assumed that Patrick was sympathetic to the United Irishmen, but so were all kinds of people. He’d always been careful. It was unlikely that they had evidence for anything more. Indeed, she had thought wryly, the known malice of Hercules had probably made Patrick less of a suspect than he might have been otherwise.
All the same, she was relieved when the next sound at the door turned out to be Patrick.
He was glad, but not surprised, to find Lord Edward there. The news was already out that a number of the United Irish leaders had been captured together. He also agreed at once that Fitzgerald should not stay there long.
“I’d trust our servants not to give you away. But sooner or later, even if no one gives me away, there’s a chance this house will be searched, and there’s nowhere to hide you.”
The two men considered, and discarded, several deserted places inside and outside the city. “There’s no use looking for a ship, either,” Patrick said, “because all the ports will be watched.” It was Brigid who finally came up with the solution.
“The safest place isn’t out of the way at all. It’s right in the middle of Dublin, not a mile from the Castle itself.” She smiled. “If you don’t mind the surroundings, you should go to the Liberties.”
The Liberties: the teeming, stinking warrens that once had been the Church’s feudal enclaves and were now home to Dublin’s poorest. You might be an honest Catholic weaver, a Protestant labourer, a whore or a common thief; you might love your neighbour, or plan to kill him; but whoever you were in the Liberties, there was one thing you had in common with everyone else there: a loathing and distrust of the authorities. Even the military patrols preferred to stay out of the Liberties.
Lord Edward asked only one question.
“How?”
“Leave it to me,” promised Brigid. “But be ready before dusk.” Then she went out, and did not return for more than an hour.
No one disturbed the two men as they sat together. There was much to discuss. Depending on how many the Troika had arrested, the leadership of the United Irishmen would clearly be a smaller group. “I shall rely upon you, Patrick,” Lord Edward said, “to be my link with the world.” An immediate question was that of arms. “There are so many caches in the city that I don’t think they will all be discovered,” Fitzgerald declared, “but I want you to keep this list in your safekeeping. Hide it well, for it has them all. If anything happens to you,” he continued, “Brigid will have to pass the information on.”
Above all, they both agreed, after today, it would be critical to keep up everybody’s spirits, so that they would be eager and ready to fight when the time came.
But when would that be? Patrick wanted to know. Had Fitzgerald any news from Wolfe Tone in Paris?
“Nothing definite. But both Talleyrand, who is in charge of all their external affairs, and General Bonaparte are well inclined towards us. Tone hopes for an expedition before the summer.”
“I see.” To Patrick this seemed promising.
Lord Edward looked at him thoughtfully.
“No, Patrick. You do not see. In fact, it was that very matter we were to discuss at the meeting of the council today. My view, you see, is different. If the Troika continues to close in upon us, I believe that another course of action may be necessary.” He paused. “We should rise very soon, with or without the French.”
“By ourselves? Without a trained army?”
“Taking Ireland as a whole, I think we could arm a quarter of a million men.”
“I had never considered such a thing,” Patrick confessed. “The risks . . .”
“Have faith, Patrick,” the aristocrat said.
When Brigid returned, she was feeling pleased. She was carrying a bundle under her arm. She had seen her brother, the tobacconist, and he had promised that by nightfall, he would have a room ready where Lord Edward could lodge, at least for the present. She noticed that Patrick, in particular, was looking concerned, and he asked her nervously if there were patrols in the streets.
“Everywhere,” she answered cheerfully. “But don’t worry. I know what to do.” And she began to unwrap the bundle.
It was as well, she thought, that she belonged to the theatre. It took her half an hour to complete her work, but when she had finished, she was proud of the results. In place of the tall, dark-haired, and youthful-looking aristocrat was a stooped, grey-haired figure in a dirty shirt and a shabby old greatcoat. His boots were scuffed, and he had to lean upon her shoulder in order to walk. As for herself, she was clearly a lady of the night who had once seen better days. “You’re my father,” she instructed him, “and I’m taking you home. Tomorrow,” she added, “we’ll get your own clothes to you, but you must never wear them out of doors.”
“Which way shall we go?” he enquired.
“By the one way that a fugitive would never choose,” she answered. “We’ll walk straight past the gates of Dublin Castle.”
As dusk was about to fall, they set out upon their way, crossing the Liffey to College Green, thence along Dame Street and past the Castle where the sentries regarded them with pity but no interest. They had gone a little farther on when a patrol appeared, and the officer advanced to question them. But Brigid told him sharply that she wanted her father home in the Liberties before dark, and let off such a string of obscenities that the fellow backed away rather than hear any more.
Normally, neither Brigid nor Lord Edward would have cared to walk unguarded about the city at such an hour. For when darkness descended upon Dublin, the city would show its night-time face: like a huge stage set, its houses would turn into black masses, punctuated by candlelight, streets would become canyons, alleys cave-mouths, dark or lamplit—and humans appear like flitting shades. Dangerous shades: from Christ Church to Dame Street, or even the fashionable quiet of St. Stephen’s Green, the figure slumped in an alley or by a tree might be a sleeping drunk or pauper, or it could rise up suddenly to rob you, with a knife at your throat. It was the same in every other great city—London, Paris, or Edinburgh was no different.
But as two poor folk themselves, Brigid and her companion seemed ready to merge with the tattered shadows as they continued westward and passed, unmolested, into the Liberties.
Turning down a small street, then into a stinking alley, Brigid led Lord Edward to a doorway where another shadow, this time her brother, awaited them. Taking them up a rickety stairs, he unlocked the door of a room, which, by the pale light of his lamp, was revealed to contain one wooden chair and some bedding on the bare floor. And here Lord Edward Fitzgerald, son of a duke, descendant of the greatest feudal dynasty and of half the native princes of ancient Ireland, and accustomed to life in the huge palace of Leinster House, prepared to spend a cold March night.
When young William Walsh heard, on the eighteenth of April, that every man in Trinity College was summoned to attend, without fail, a visitation of the dreaded Vice Chancellor in the great dining hall the following day, he was sure he knew why.
The arrest of the leading United Irishmen in March had been followed by a huge hunt for Lord Edward. Some said he was still in Dublin, others that he had fled abroad to France, or even America. Nobody knew.
But the arrests had also turned the harsh light of enquiry upon a fresh target: Trinity College. Several of those arrested, including Robert Emmet’s older brother Tom, had been graduates of the place. Indeed, Wolfe Tone h
imself had been a Trinity man, and had friends on the faculty still. To his fury, FitzGibbon found his colleagues telling him that the university of which he was Vice Chancellor appeared to be a seedbed of sedition. Redoubled efforts were made to weed out troublemakers. Two undergraduates who could be proved to have taken the Irishmen’s oath had already been expelled. Now, clearly, FitzGibbon meant to launch a public examination of the entire student body. So when, that afternoon, William happened to encounter his friend Robert Emmet, he was eager to know what he thought of it and what he intended to do.
“If the chance arises,” William asked, “do you mean to make a speech?”
For in recent months, Robert Emmet had sprung a surprise on the world of Trinity College. He’d always been such a quiet fellow that, when he had joined the Historical Society, no one had expected to hear much from him in their debates. Yet the first time he had risen to speak, he had shown a remarkable talent as an orator. “He sits there quiet as a mouse,” one of the members told William, “then gets up and turns into a lion.”
But to William’s enquiry, Emmet shook his head.
“FitzGibbon hasn’t come to debate with us, William. This is a ritual trial and execution. And I’m sure to be one of the victims. He’s always been suspicious of my family. Now my own brother’s been arrested. He means to expel me, I assure you. But I shall deny him the chance to bully me in public. I shall not go. I shall force him to condemn me without a hearing, and show himself for what he is.”
“You think him such a bully?”
“Isn’t our whole Ascendancy just a vast system of bullying?” Emmet smiled grimly. “Be ready to witness it tomorrow.”
There was one thing, however, that William was not ready for. The next day, as he prepared to go to the assembly, he received word that he was to report at once to the Provost’s. On arriving there, he was immediately ushered into a room where, instead of the Provost, he found himself alone with FitzGibbon himself.