He’d never met FitzGibbon in person before, so he couldn’t help observing him with some curiosity. The leader of the Troika was a formidable figure, yet for all the terror he inspired, William knew that as a lawyer he had earned a reputation as a fine advocate and judge, and even a fair one. It was as soon as he stepped into his governmental role that he became so dangerous. Strangely, this pillar of the Ascendancy had actually been born into a family that had converted to the official Protestant Church. However—perhaps because he came from a convert family—he seemed to have conceived a violent hatred of all Catholics as well as of radicals. As FitzGibbon stood before him now, in his academic gown, he might have been some grim Roman governor cast in bronze.
Yet seeing William, he held out his hand.
“Ah, William.” His first name, though they had never met before. The tall man even smiled. “Your father assured me I could rely upon you, and I see from your honest face that I can. We have important work to do today.”
“My lord?”
“I shall look to you for support.”
“I see,” said William, who didn’t.
“You are still young.” FitzGibbon spoke quite kindly. “But today, all will be tested. Today will be the day to stand up for what you believe. I count upon you.” He gave a brief nod to indicate that the interview was over, and William withdrew.
As he entered the great dining hall, William found it already crowded. On a platform at the far end stood a table and two chairs, like a pair of thrones, awaiting FitzGibbon and his fellow judge. Below, in the main body of the hall, the entire college sat on benches in hierarchical order: first the Provost and fellows, the scholars, graduates, undergraduates, even the college porters. He made his way quickly to a place. When everyone was assembled, the doors were closed. They all waited. Then, with an awful majesty, FitzGibbon and his fellow judge entered and assumed their thrones. For a moment, they sat in silence; then FitzGibbon arose.
He spoke clearly, like a prosecutor outlining his case. Let them remember, he pointed out, their privileged position. They were the future leaders of their country. Most of the important positions in Ireland were filled by graduates of Trinity College. Privilege, he reminded them, brought responsibilities. And also—a note of warning could be heard in his voice—it brought risk. To attend Trinity was to open up a bright path; to be expelled from it would destroy all hope of a successful career. And some of those present were about to learn that terrible lesson. For he knew, he told them, he had positive and irrefutable information that some of those before him had flirted with treason.
As he said this, his lawyer’s gaze travelled accusingly round his audience, as though he could see into the secrets of every heart.
So what did he want them to do? Why, only the simplest and most straightforward thing in the world. He would ask them all, one by one, to come up. “For a few of you, I may have some questions, which I advise you to answer honestly.” As for the rest, he would ask only that they take a simple oath. He nodded to his fellow judge, who, taking out a Bible, held it up, then laid it on the table. They must swear loyalty to the crown, and swear that they would give any information about their fellow students that they might be asked. There must be complete openness, he declared. No loyal man, he was sure they would agree, could have any objection to such an oath. Again, his eyes scanned the room. They rested for a moment, William thought, upon him in particular; and as he gazed back, it seemed to him that the Vice Chancellor’s eyes were like two dark whirlpools.
As the proceedings got under way, it was soon clear what FitzGibbon was up to. “He means to frighten us,” whispered William’s neighbour. Every one of the undergraduates he called up was widely believed to be connected with the United Irishmen, and each was publicly questioned.
The first man quietly denied that he was a member.
“Come, come, Sir,” cried FitzGibbon. “I have witnesses.” And he had backed up his claim. “On the tenth of February, you were seen entering a house in which, we have it from eyewitnesses who were present, a meeting of the United Irishmen was taking place. . . .”
The damning evidence met with silence.
“Will you now,” the Vice Chancellor proceeded, “take an oath to reveal your activities and those of your associates?”
“I will not.”
“You may sit down, Sir.”
Others were confronted in a similar manner, and gave similar responses. One brave soul decided to defy FitzGibbon.
“Upon whose authority is this inquisition made?” he demanded.
“Upon mine, Sir. There is none higher in this college.”
“You ask me to betray my friends?”
“I ask you, Sir, not to betray your country.”
“I refuse to recognise these proceedings, and I refuse to take your oath.”
“Then you shall be expelled, Sir.”
But if these, and a dozen others, were frightening spectacles, there was one that was pitiful.
He was only a little fellow, not five feet tall. His name was Moore. His mother was the widow of a poor shopkeeper, and for her son, therefore, the college meant a way out of the mean streets of poverty. Most of the undergraduates, being people of means, rather despised this sort of student, who often had to perform menial tasks about the college to defray expenses. But many felt a mild curiosity: had this timid boy really joined the United Irishmen? Not so far as anyone knew.
But Moore was guilty of another crime: he was a Catholic.
Until five years ago, he would never have been admitted to Trinity at all. But when the British government had finally pressured the Dublin authorities to make some concessions to the Catholic community, FitzGibbon, much against his better judgement, had admitted a few Catholics into Dublin’s university.
The poor little fellow stood before the tall Vice Chancellor. He was trembling with fear, and who could blame him? Towering over him, FitzGibbon took the Bible, held it out, and ordered him to take the oath. William wouldn’t have blamed the boy if he’d done so. The thing was meaningless. Moore surely hadn’t anything incriminating to tell FitzGibbon, anyway. Take the oath and be done with it, he prayed under his breath. But Moore was shaking his head.
Something like a smile had appeared on FitzGibbon’s face. Was he amused? He pushed the Bible into the boy’s right hand, but Moore snatched his hand away and put it behind his back. FitzGibbon considered him, as a cat considers a mouse it has caught. He pushed the Bible at the boy’s left hand. Moore snatched that away, too, as though the holy book was infected. Both his hands were behind his back now. He was defenceless. But he wouldn’t give in.
All around the hall, even amongst a few of the Yeomanry, a feeling of sympathy for the plucky little fellow was starting to grow.
FitzGibbon was still regarding him, his head cocked to one side. Now he thrust the Bible at his chest. The boy backed away. Again. The boy edged back farther. Again and again: the Vice Chancellor and the little Catholic moved across the stage, the tall man making thrusts with his Bible, as the boy retreated before him. Finally, Moore was trapped with his back to the wall, and the Vice Chancellor either had to make him eat the holy book or desist. Some of the Yeomen were laughing. But William did not laugh. He was not even afraid. He felt only a rising tide of disgust.
“Sit down, Sir.”
FitzGibbon returned to the table and put down the Bible. Then he called out another name.
“Mr. Robert Emmet.”
Silence.
“Mr. Emmet.”
Silence.
“Mr. Emmet is not here?” FitzGibbon did not seem surprised. “We have ample evidence of his conspiracy.” He paused and gazed at the Bible. A thought seemed to strike him. Having so far dealt only with recalcitrants, perhaps he thought it was time to call up someone cooperative. He gazed over the audience.
“The Honourable William Walsh.” He looked straight at William. “Mr. Walsh.”
William came towards the platform slowly. He could feel
the eyes of the entire college upon him, and he could guess what their thoughts might be. Some, people who knew him, might be wondering if, despite his discretion, he had been led by Emmet into the revolutionary cause. Many more would assume that, as the son of Lord Mountwalsh, he must be close to the authorities. No doubt they imagined that this was prearranged, and that FitzGibbon had called him up to denounce someone. William took his time, because at this moment he hadn’t the least idea what he was going to say.
But now he was on the stage, and FitzGibbon was looking towards him, though not with any threatening appearance. Indeed, as he approached, William thought he detected from FitzGibbon’s fellow judge a faint but courteous inclination of the head.
“Mr. Walsh.” FitzGibbon seemed to be addressing the audience rather than himself. “You have heard a number of members of this college refuse to take the oath that has been offered. And there has, in each case, been a reason why they will not do so: namely, that they are, and can be proved to have been, involved in treasonable activities. But these are, if I may so put it, the bad apples in the basket. There are many members of this college—by far the majority, I should say—who are sensible and loyal fellows. They can have no possible reason to object to an oath that only commits them to abhor treason and to expose traitors, should they discover any in their midst. I shall now proffer you the Scriptures, Mr. Walsh, and ask you to take this simple oath.” And with a smile, he picked up the Bible and held it out, in a pleasant manner, towards him.
And still William did not know what he would do. He gazed at the book.
After a moment, seeing that he seemed to hesitate, FitzGibbon frowned, in puzzlement rather than in anger. He nodded towards the book, as if William had forgotten what he was about.
“Place your hand on the book,” he said quietly.
Still William did not move. Strangely, he was not afraid. He was only wondering what he was going to say. Just for a second, he saw a flash of dangerous anger in FitzGibbon’s eye. Then he knew.
“I cannot take the oath, my lord.” He said it calmly, but clearly. Even the college porters at the back would have heard him.
“Cannot, Sir?”
“The oath, my lord, is not one that any gentleman could take.”
“No gentleman, Sir?” The Vice Chancellor’s voice was rising, partly in anger, partly in sheer confusion. “I myself, Sir, should be proud to take the oath,” he cried.
“Then your lordship is not a gentleman,” William heard himself declare.
There was a gasp around the hall. FitzGibbon stared at him in stupefaction. Then, slamming the book down upon the table with a bang that almost shook the rafters, he shouted:
“And you, young man, we shall see what you shall be. Infamy! Infamy! Sit down, Sir, for you shall never sit in this place again.”
That day, about twenty members of the college were expelled. Before he announced their names, the Vice Chancellor explained to the assembled students what this expulsion would mean. They need not suppose, he told them, that the nineteen were denied attendance at the Dublin university only. Letters would go to every place of learning in England and Scotland as well, to ensure that they were denied admittance to those places also. All hope of a professional career was now closed to them, therefore.
The expulsions, which naturally included Robert Emmet, had all been planned in advance, and, in the opinion of FitzGibbon, they were necessary. But to these was added the name of an unexpected traitor, William Walsh. For the young aristocrat who had so unexpectedly turned against his class and so dreadfully humiliated him, the Vice Chancellor reserved a particular fury and venom. And he did not mince his words when he wrote to Lord Mountwalsh that evening.
Georgiana could scarcely believe it. She had been back in Dublin for less than a month when her grandson came to her door. She had heard about the expulsion the evening it had happened and had hurried round to Hercules’s house at once; but she had found only her daughter-in-law, who told her that Hercules had just received a letter from FitzGibbon and had left for Trinity College in a fury. There was nothing to do but wait until the next day, and she had planned to go to the house in St. Stephen’s Green again. But before she could do so, young William had come to her door to tell her that he was homeless.
If FitzGibbon had been furious, the anger of Hercules surpassed all bounds. If the Vice Chancellor thought William had betrayed his class, Hercules told his son, “You have betrayed me.” And if FitzGibbon expelled him from Trinity College, Hercules was still more implacable. “You will not return home. You may walk the world alone. You are no longer my son,” he told him. Indeed, before the day was out, Hercules had even instructed the family lawyer to discover whether there was any way that William could be stripped of his right to inherit the family title. Even his wife, who loved her son and hoped to see a reconciliation, was just as shocked as her husband, and considered that any father was justified in acting in such a way. As for William’s younger brother, he was told that William had committed a crime so terrible that it must never be spoken of.
So he came to live with Georgiana. She received a note from Hercules asking her to turn the boy out since, he explained, her misplaced kindness might be construed as disloyalty to himself, but she ignored it. In a way, she was glad to have William in the house. She loved his kind and honest nature, so like her dear husband, and his looks so like old Fortunatus: it was as if she had got both of them back. And she could see that the boy loved her, too. As for his feelings for his parents, he said little, but he did once reveal:
“I love my mother, but she only follows my father.” And of Hercules, he’d said: “I love my father, because he is my father. But I do not really like him.” To this she said nothing. What could she say?
But the young man also frightened her. What was she to do with him? At the best of times, she might have been uncertain. But at a time like this? The authorities had struck, but they clearly did not think they had removed the threat. More troops seemed to be gathering in Dublin. Local Yeomanry companies were being formed in every part of the city. In Merrion Square, some of the residents were setting up their own group. Not one of these elderly gentlemen seemed to be under sixty. As they patrolled the square, they mostly seemed to be drinking tea or making use of their hip flasks. Two of them were even carried round by their dutiful servants in sedan chairs. But they were all armed with swords or duelling pistols. And if this was a comical aspect of the city’s preparations, many of the other military patrols were a great deal more fearsome.
Clearly, if the Yeomanry were preparing for action, so were their opponents. The United Irishmen might be invisible, but everyone sensed their presence. The tension was growing. And what, in all this, did her wayward grandson mean to do? He had insulted FitzGibbon, but had he been seduced into the United Irishmen? She asked him directly.
“No,” he told her. “But I’d support them against men like FitzGibbon and my father.”
“You mustn’t go and do anything foolish, William. I forbid it,” she told him. But to this he made no reply.
What should she do? Lock him in his room? She hadn’t the power to do it. Two weeks, three weeks went by. He gave no trouble. He kept her company. Sometimes he would go out—to see friends, he told her—and be gone for many hours. But she had no idea what he did. By the third week in May, the city seemed like an armed camp before battle. The tension was unbearable.
Then one morning, something special seemed to be happening. The patrols were moving about the city with a new urgency and purpose. By noon she heard that a blacksmith had been caught in the act of making pikes. All that day and the next, the searches continued. They were going from door to door. She found one excuse after another to keep her grandson from going out. Then, like a thunderclap, came the news.
“Lord Edward Fitzgerald is taken.” Confused details followed. He was wounded, in jail, dying. As soon as he heard, young William rushed out of the house. There was nothing she could do to stop him.
br /> It took a few days for the details to emerge. The young aristocrat had been betrayed. He’d been taken in his hiding place in the Liberties; there had been a scuffle, and he’d tried to defend himself. Shots had been fired; he’d been badly wounded. Meanwhile, the searches had gone on. A cache had been found at Rattigan’s timber yard in Dirty Lane. “They’ve taken all the furniture out of his house and burned it, to teach him a lesson,” she heard. Someone else had been flogged. Were the revolutionaries going to counterstrike? Young William was out for hours each day, and she’d no idea where he was. She tried to question him, but he was evasive. Two more days passed. The curfew was being rigidly enforced now. Nobody could be on the streets after nine at night. On May 23, William seemed unusually excited. He went out early in the evening but did not return. The curfew passed. Not a sign of him.
Georgiana paced her room. There was nothing she could do, but she couldn’t go to bed. Hours passed. Midnight came. And then she heard the drums, close by. They were beating the Yeomanry to arms in St. Stephen’s Green.
And all over the city. It was starting. Soon, there was banging at the door, and she ran down to it herself. There she found one of the old gentlemen of the Merrion Square patrol. He was carrying a lamp. A pair of duelling pistols were stuck into his belt and he was looking pleased as punch. “Close up your shutters,” he cried. “It’s begun now. And it’ll be the devil of a fight, you may be sure.”
“Where?” she called after him.
“You’ll see it from your high windows right enough,” he called back. And having hastened to the top of her house, she saw from the window that fires were breaking out on the foothills to the south.
At dawn, the same old gentleman called by again.
“They’ve stopped the mail coaches,” he told her. He seemed delighted. “There’ll be risings all over Ireland. Not a doubt of it.”
Two hours after the curfew ended, young William appeared. He offered no explanation of where he’d been, and she didn’t want to ask. He went to his room to sleep. Half an hour later, she was with Hercules. “You must take him back,” she begged. “I cannot answer for him, and I don’t know what harm he may do himself.”