by Alaric Bond
“If you have visited before you won’t find a deal of difference in the capital,” St John told him as he bounded along the stone flags. “Still over crowded and in want of a clean. It is the outer areas that have suffered the most, though the mob came as close as twelve miles from where we are bound.”
“I had considered the rebellion all but quashed,” the captain spluttered; even ten days at sea had robbed him of his ability to keep a straight line on solid ground, and the man’s pace was far too fast.
“You are correct in essence,” St John agreed, reaching the carriage. “General Lake had it right when he spoke of the flame being smothered but not extinguished. Mind, that is about the extent of his correctness,” he added in a softer tone. For a moment the young man’s piercing eyes flashed in Banks’s direction. “There is much else to know, hence our meeting. But first, you have illness aboard your ship, I understand, captain?”
“The mumps,” Banks admitted. “Nothing more, and not to any great extent.”
St John gave a polite smile. “So I have heard; thankfully I am immune, as is my master.” He clambered up first, then leaned out to hold the door for his guest. “Though I fear not all the cabinet are in such a happy position. There is no telling whom you shall see, so I had better be as thorough as possible. The Castle, driver.”
The last words were directed out of the window, and the carriage moved off before the door was fully closed or Banks had properly seated himself. Clearly time was very important, and St John was not disposed to waste even a second.
* * *
Manning had already been called to attend one seaman the previous evening. The man claimed to have fallen down a hatchway, injuring his nose as well as catching a nasty clout to the side of his head. It was Surridge, recently punished for fighting and one of the first to exhibit the mumps. At the time the surgeon’s mate had been suspicious, but he assumed the illness might have made Surridge more clumsy. Now that he was confronted by Johnston, exhibiting similar wounds and giving a story that was almost identical, he had further doubts.
“You shall have to lose it,” he told him. His voice was unusually void of compassion as he peered into the man’s mouth. “There’s nothing else I can do.”
Johnston agreed readily enough. His head still hurt from the effects of Surridge’s fist, but that was nothing to the pain of the broken tooth.
“Upper left incisor,” Manning told Betsy Clarkson, who always assisted him in the morning’s surgery. She made a note in the log and reached for the small iron forceps that the surgeon’s mate would need for a frontal extraction.
“Did you skin your knuckles when you fell?” Manning asked pointedly.
Johnston looked down and began to rub his bruised right hand. “Must ‘ave. Like I said, I’m not really sure what happened.”
“I am.” Manning gave him a cold stare. “I had Surridge in here late yesterday evening, and now you present yourself. It is clear the recent flogging taught nothing; shall I report this to the captain, and see if he can prescribe a further dose, this time for you both?”
Johnston was silent, but shook his head very seriously.
“Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination to use my skills mending your petty squabbles, and do not expect to see either of you here for some while. Now open your mouth.”
The tooth succumbed without incident, and Johnston was promptly despatched with a bloody piece of tow, instructions for hot salt water rinses, and a complete lack of sympathy. Manning wiped the tool on his apron and handed it back to Mrs Clarkson.
“Any more?” he asked.
“I don’t believe so,” the woman said vaguely. Manning looked at her; she had been somewhat distant all morning. Usually he was quite pleased to have the surgeon’s wife assist: the seamen enjoyed her mildly forward manner, which seemed to put them at ease. They were even content for Betsy to be present during more intimate examinations; in fact, Manning occasionally wondered if some actually engineered their attendance at morning surgery when they knew she would be present. “But should you have the time, I would welcome some advice on a personal matter.”
Manning raised an eyebrow. “If you require medical attention, you should really seek your husband.”
“I would prefer not; for the moment at least. And I do not require examination, if that troubles you.”
“Then I assume you have already reached a diagnosis?” Betsy Clarkson might be a trifle promiscuous, but she was certainly no fool.
Her eyes fell. “I am with child,” she said.
“Why, that is wonderful news!” Manning relaxed; he had been fearing something truly awful. “You should tell William without delay; I heartily recommend it.” She said nothing, although her face now bore a faint, ironic smile. “Should you be concerned at his reaction, let me say that I was not in favour of a family,” he continued, mildly disconcerted that she was not sharing his emotion, “and yet on learning could not have been happier.”
“When is your child due?” she asked.
“November,” he said readily. “As far as we can tell.”
“I am happy for you.” It was an odd thing for her to say in the circumstances, and Manning’s worry deepened.
“And I you,” he said. “William will be delighted, I am certain.”
“No!” her shout echoed around the small dispensary for a moment or two. Manning stayed silent, and eventually she continued with more control. “No, Mr Manning, he must not find out.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “I am afraid that is somewhat inevitable,” he said.
“No,” she repeated. “No, it is not. There are ways; I know of them, and I want you to help me.”
Manning winced as if struck by a pain. “I cannot do that,” his voice was suddenly cold. “Any such action would be a crime. A crime on many levels.”
“He will kill me,” she said.
“I think not. It may take a while for him to come to terms maybe, but…”
“It is not his,” she said.
Manning considered her again. “I see,” he hesitated. “Then can I ask..?”
“Francis Marshall.”
The name meant nothing to him.
“You will not know. He was a marine officer aboard this ship; he left just before my husband came back.”
“But this Marshall person, he could not have been gone more than two weeks; if you are already certain of your condition it is highly unlikely to be his.”
“We started a liaison long before that, and would meet even when William was on board,” she said bitterly. “When he left for London, and the ship was in harbour and almost empty, it was much easier, ‘though not so enjoyable, if the truth be known.”
Manning closed his eyes for a moment. In the last few weeks he had come to know a little of Mrs Clarkson and the type of woman she was, but still would never have suspected such a thing. Certainly all were aware of her rather coquettish behaviour, and no one could ignore the age difference; her husband must be fifteen years or more the senior. He also accepted that affairs were by no means unusual, but to have another man’s child was something else entirely. Manning guessed it was probably the most significant thing she could have done to destroy their marriage. And he also knew her husband: William Clarkson was his immediate superior. He liked and respected the man and would not wish a fate like this on him for all the world.
“Betsy,” he said, using her Christian name for the first time, “Betsy, are you quite sure, I mean truly certain? Is there no way that the child might be William’s?”
“It is definite that I am pregnant,” she said at last. “And I should love it to be William’s. Love it, as I do him, and that is more than you could ever know,” her eyes were filling with tears, and Manning believed her. “But I fear it unlikely; I think it belongs to Francis, and would ask that you do something to help me. To help me and William, if that makes it any easier for you to comprehend. Otherwise I shall be forced to take a hand myself.”
* * *
They could not have covered more than or four or five miles, and yet Banks felt as tired as if a day’s journey had been completed. St John had filled the time with details of the uprising that had begun in May, and it was such a tale of bloodshed and confusion, mixed not a little with military blunder, sectarian conflict, slaughter, atrocities and plain bad luck, that Banks’s head was now quite pained. Whatever the reports in the English press, it became clear that the Irish situation remained extremely delicate. In fact it was no nearer to being properly settled now than when the rebellion had been officially announced repressed and all the troubles at an end.
“Following the uprising, the French landed a powerful force in County Mayo. That was towards the end of August; it must be news in England by now.” St John grew more confidential. “Heaven knows what the market will make of it; we can only be glad that your Admiral Nelson acquitted himself so well in Egypt. Those first accounts of his death did the Exchange no good whatsoever.”
Banks considered him for a moment. This was a professional politician, he supposed. Whatever the situation his first thought would never be for the event itself, but rather what effect it might have elsewhere. The genuine relief Banks had felt when hearing that Nelson was not killed fighting Brueys had remarkably little to do with any money market. He cleared his throat and attempted to regain the subject. “I was informed of the landing, though no details were available.”
“I expect London placed little value upon it; that is their way, though it pains me to admit so. But in truth it was nought but a small squadron of ships under a Commodore Savary; we knew they had sailed from Brest some months before, and frankly were wondering what had become of them.”
“They left unobserved?” Banks asked.
“Observed, but not detained,” St John confirmed. “I am afraid Admiral Bridport was hardly maintaining the watch as well as he might, though I understand the situation has now improved,” he gave a sly smile. “And his London house is no longer considered a suitable place from which to command a fleet.”
Banks was silent; the civilian continued.
“There were roughly a thousand men in all, commanded by a General Jean Humbert, something of a national hero by all accounts; he started as a sergeant in the National Guard. It was hardly enough to mount a proper invasion, but annoying, none the less. We suspect that the French were caught napping, and the original rebellion was due to be mounted some time later with more men to back them.”
“A thousand might still make a difference,” Banks reflected. In a country already torn by a failed uprising, the sudden appearance of an equipped and organised force of professional soldiers would have drawn any latent rebels like a magnet.
“And indeed they did. We estimate a further thousand United Irishmen joined them. Much had been done to remove what arms were available, but the French had brought provisions and weapons to spare. Before we were properly aware, there was a sizeable and well equipped army active in the north west. Within days they had captured two towns and were marching on Castlebar.” He drew breath for only a second before continuing.
“General Lake was in command there. He had an army of six thousand, plus a good many artillery pieces, and the outcome could be reckoned inevitable.” For a moment St John was silent again. It was as if in remembering the events he was still having problems believing what had really happened. “But Lake was taken off guard; I know it sounds preposterous, but he had assumed the French would attack from the Ballina road and made provisions for that eventuality alone. By the time he discovered they were coming across the marshlands, an area he had considered impassable, the British were decidedly on the wrong foot.”
Banks was looking intently at the man and decided his earlier estimation of age was out. St John could be little more than twenty five, but certainly carried himself with unusual assurance, and had a sound appreciation of the situation.
“The French fought well, as did the United men. And bravely too, it has to be said. They made at least one bayonet charge that put the chill up our boys, and the next anyone knew the British were in all out retreat. Lake had several units of local militia under his command; I’m afraid some went over to the enemy: a hundred and forty of the Longford regiment betrayed themselves to the French in one body.”
Banks closed his eyes. It sounded like hell on earth.
“Once an army runs it is all but impossible to halt,” St John continued despondently. “The enemy chased them for no more than two miles, but Lake’s troops did not stop until they reached the Shannon. They abandoned guns, equipment, ammunition, but more importantly, they left behind a successful and victorious army. Within days a further four or five thousand men had joined, and it took Lord Cornwallis and a force of nearly thirty thousand to finally stop them.”
Dublin Castle was in plain sight now, and from Banks’s first impression it was the very model of military excellence. The high stone walls and decorative castellations were imposing enough without the crisp sentries and two patrols of marching men that they encountered as their carriage approached.
“That was a few weeks ago, and the action was over in less than an hour,” St John continued. “The French could see they were heavily outnumbered and did the sensible thing. Sadly, some of the Irish decided not to follow their example, and I am afraid all honour and sensibility was rather forgotten.”
The carriage stopped but neither man showed any signs of leaving.
“The Irish lost over five hundred men to our twelve,” St John said, his eyes focusing somewhere far outside. “It was carnage.”
“What happened to the prisoners?” Banks asked.
“The French were brought back here by canal.” He gave a short laugh. “We have since been told in no uncertain terms that our food is not to their liking.”
“And the Irish?” Banks persisted. He was fearing the worst.
“I understand that those who are not already hanged soon will be.” The civilian’s face had lost all trace of humour.
But surely they are prisoners of war?”
“Some may say so,” St John avoided Banks’ eyes. “Amongst them was Wolfe Tone’s younger brother.”
“The name is familiar.”
“I should think it is, though it often pleases him to be known as Adjutant-General Smith. In truth he is nought but a Dublin lawyer, but trouble; though I chance you might say the same about any of his profession. He was present on the Bantry Bay expedition; I believe you were involved in that?”
Banks nodded; St John was remarkably well informed.
“If he ever ventures into our clutches we will hang him for sure, but for the time being Cornwallis has made do with the sibling.”
“He is executed?”
“At this very castle. Traitors must be dealt with, and there were traitors a plenty.”
Banks remained impassive. He was a naval officer and had no right to judge the policies of the military. Still, it did not seem to be the act of men wishing to calm an already heated situation.
“So,” St John said, his previous energy returning. “I trust you are now more au fait with the state of affairs.” The man was clearly keen to go, but Banks stopped him.
“There is one more thing,” he said, as the words were still forming in his mind. “Whatever started this?”
St John looked mildly surprised. “Started it? Why that is very hard to say. Though in essence I suppose it comes down to petty tyranny. Oppressive landlords whose chief interest is the pursuit of pleasure, and magistrates completely void of both integrity and courage. First they goad the peasantry into rebellion, then cry to the military for rescue. The British Army under Abercromby was at least organised and, though it might not have been thought of as such at the time, the old Scot had the right idea. Now Lake has entered the equation it is anyone’s guess where it will end. Though I am certain it shall not be well.”
“I understand Admiral Kingsmill is still at Cork,” Banks said, as they finally clambered
down from the carriage. “Scylla is attached to his squadron, I was surprised to be ordered to Dublin.”
“The admiral may be at Cork, but he has only a worn out flagship. All other naval vessels are at sea.” St John waited while the captain caught him up, then took up his customary pace. “As you will be, no doubt, within a few hours.”
“I was not expecting to sail so soon.” When Banks had left the ship the boatswain’s crew were replacing some running rigging and the caulkers were having yet another try to seal the forecastle deck.
“I think this may be your last taste of land for a while, Sir Richard.” They were approaching the main gate of the castle, and St John acknowledged the challenge and salute of the guard with an assured wave. “If, as we expect, the French are intending another campaign, your little ship is certain to be busy during the next few months.” They passed through and into the darkness beyond. St John looked sidelong at Banks. “And there will be action, sir, you need have no doubt of that. Action a plenty.”
