The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “That is true,” his father had said, with some regret. “But it was a fine thing all the same.”

  His father had given moral leadership in the area during two very difficult decades. Tall, brave, handsome, an ancient Irish prince to his fingertips, no one had any doubt where his heart lay. But he was cautious and wise. When Tyrone’s great adventure had failed, he had been sorrowful but not surprised. In 1606, a year before the Flight of the Earls, the great, wild mountain country of Wicklow had finally been designated an English shire—the last part of Ireland, despite its closeness to Dublin, to be brought under English administration. Not that you’d have seen much difference up in the high and empty passes. But all the same, in theory at least, the Irish independence of the region was over. Yet on this subject, too, his father had been philosophical.

  “In generations past, we raided the English farms down on the plain. And they sent soldiers up into the hills, and sometimes they were ambushed and killed, and at other times they beat us. Those days, however, are over. There are other and better ways to live.” So he would counsel his neighbours. And to Brian he would always say: “If you want to preserve Rathconan and all the things you love, then you must be wise. Play the English at their own game. Learn to change.”

  “But what sort of change, Father? How will I have to change?”

  “I don’t know,” his father had answered frankly. “You will have to be wise in your own generation. That is all I can advise.”

  And now, all too soon, his own time had begun. His father had not been so old, but he had been stricken by sickness for more than a year, sunken by the end, ready to go.

  The wake had begun some time ago. The body had been handsomely laid out. There had been keening. But most of the visitors had come to pay their quiet respects. The food and drink provided had been liberal. A piper was playing a quiet lament; before long some more cheerful music would begin. He had already received the condolences of each of the guests; now he was making the rounds himself, to make sure that all the courtesy and hospitality the occasion demanded was fulfilled. He had just noticed Tadhg O’Byrne scowling at him and muttering something. He would rather have avoided the fellow, but supposed he ought to go over to him. And he was just bracing himself to do so when, staring down the slope, his eye was caught by a strange figure he had never seen before, riding slowly up the track towards the house.

  He was a tall, thin man. His doublet, cape, and breeches were all an inky black. He wore a high black hat with no feather. Behind him rode a servant dressed in grey. Though the track was sunlit, it was as though a small cloud of gloom had dropped its shadow into the mountain passes.

  Brian wondered who the man was.

  Doctor Simeon Pincher had been in a bad temper when he met Doyle. But that wasn’t surprising. Doctor Pincher had been in a bad temper for over a year.

  In Ireland, as in England, the Irish Parliament was not in regular session, but met from time to time when there was specific business to transact. Last year, however, a Parliament had been called to assemble in Dublin, and a very impressive gathering it was proving to be. If the old parliaments in Tudor and Plantagenet times had mostly consisted of gentlemen from the English Pale around Dublin, this one had drawn men from every part of the island.

  There had been some trouble at first. The Old English, mostly Catholic, had threatened not to take part; but they had finally settled down to business and proceeded, it had seemed to Pincher, in the right direction. The Oath of Supremacy had been affirmed as compulsory for all government officials. They must swear to recognise the king’s spiritual authority over the Pope’s, or lose their jobs. A move had been made to insist that every lawyer must swear, too. That would have ended the legal practice of loyal Catholics like Martin Walsh, and the idea was dropped. Recusant Catholics who refused to drop the old faith were to pay fines, although the Parliament, sadly, wasn’t yet ready to compel them to attend the Church of Ireland. “I’d compel them,” Pincher had firmly declared. And proclamations against foreign education and against the regular priests were also being issued. Despite its faults, however, the Parliament was moving in the right general direction. And the chief reason lay in its composition.

  For the Protestants outnumbered the Catholics. A hundred and thirty-two to a hundred. A few of the Catholics were native Irish lords, but most were Old English. So who were all these Protestants? Were they the old guard who had chosen the Church of Ireland, men like the lord of Howth, or Doyle of Dublin? Some, to be sure. But the men who had swelled the Protestant numbers, the men who would make the difference in the long run, were the new arrivals: they were the men from the plantations. And that, strangely enough, was the thing that angered Pincher. Not that he was angry with the plantation men: far from it. He was angry with himself.

  “It was lack of faith,” he had confessed to his sister in a letter. “Want of courage.” He had failed to invest.

  The trouble had been the scale of the thing. When he had made his visit to Ulster seven years ago, he had seen the opportunities for a successful plantation. So when, after the Flight of the Earls and the confiscation of the Tyrone and Tyrconnell territories, there had been talk of an Ulster plantation, he had not taken up the farm he could have had, in the hope of something better. But such huge tracts of Ulster and Connacht had become available that the entire scale of operations had changed. The Undertakers were operating on a vast scale. The city of London had taken over the whole area of Derry and changed its name to Londonderry. Where it had been supposed that men would take on a thousand acres or two, developers were snapping up thousands, even tens of thousands, of acres.

  The outside world was changing. The Dublin familiar to Walsh, Doyle, or even Pincher was that of the late Elizabethan age. But the last decade in London had seen a transformation. It was the age of the daring merchant-adventurer. King James, freed from his dour youth in Scotland, was indulging his taste for luxury. The English court was corrupt; greed and excess were the watchwords. Daring, grasping men looking for quick returns were encouraged. Such was the spirit of the men who undertook the plantation of Ulster.

  And seeing such great fellows moving upon Ulster, Pincher had held back. His time was limited, he told himself: he had to teach and preach. His capital was modest. The business was too big for him. This was an alien world of which—he had the honesty to admit it—he was a little afraid. And so he had hung back.

  So now, seeing all these new gentlemen from the plantations coming into Dublin, he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure. Like one of the foolish virgins in the Gospel parable, he had been unprepared; when the moment came, he had been found wanting. Only the day before, one of the young scholars at Trinity College had come upon the good doctor sitting under a tree, lost in thought. As he was coming from behind, the doctor had not been aware of his approach, and the young scholar, drawing close, had heard Pincher murmur to himself, quite distinctly: “Predestined profit; justified returns.” Then the doctor had sadly shaken his head; and the young scholar, puzzled by the words but feeling he should not be there, had tiptoed away.

  Simeon Pincher, therefore, confessing his fault, was determined to remedy it; and until he had found a means of doing so, he lived every day of his life in a state of suppressed irritation.

  The morning he spoke with Doyle, however, he had been preparing for a venture which, from everything he had heard, seemed likely to bring him, safely and securely, the profits which were surely by now his due. And he had been wondering how best to plan the journey he must make when, entering the precincts of Christ Church, he had caught sight of a small group of familiar figures; it occurred to him that one of them might be useful to him.

  Doyle was the first one he acknowledged, with a polite inclination of the head. A man of substance, a pillar of the Church of Ireland, a member of the Trinity Guild. He owed Doyle a favour, too. The previous Sunday, he’d been due to preach in Christ Church, and as well as the usual collection of government officials from Dublin C
astle, he’d known the congregation would be swelled by a number of Protestant Members of Parliament. It was an opportunity for him to make a good impression. There was only one problem.

  The aldermen of Dublin were supposed to accompany the mayor to the cathedral on Sundays. But since many of them were papists, they would often attend Mass themselves beforehand, bring the mayor ceremonially to the cathedral, deposit him in his seat, and then calmly leave for a local inn, where they’d have a few drinks, returning only after the sermon to escort the mayor out again. Not only was this the sort of casual Irish behaviour that appalled Pincher, but he dreaded it happening on the day he preached. It would look to the visitors as if the aldermen couldn’t be bothered to hear him preach. So he had spoken to Doyle.

  Sometimes in the past, Pincher had suspected that Doyle might not like him. But he had certainly stood by him last Sunday. No fewer than ten aldermen had turned up. When three of them had seemed about to leave, Doyle had given them such a look they had reluctantly sat down again. They had even stayed awake while he preached. He owed a debt of gratitude to Doyle for that. No question.

  Beside Doyle stood young Walter Smith. A serious young man. A pity he was a papist. For that reason, normally, Pincher would have taken as little notice of him as possible. But he remembered that Walter Smith was married to Walsh the lawyer’s girl, and he knew that Walsh and Doyle were cousins. Out of courtesy to Doyle, therefore, he nodded politely to Walter Smith as well.

  The third man was Jeremiah Tidy. And now Doctor Pincher smiled.

  “Good day, Master Tidy.”

  “Good day to Your Honour.”

  Thank God for Tidy. A reliable man. Three generations of service to Christ Church and the Church of Ireland. Jeremiah had been born and bred to it, knew every inch of the building from the extensive crypt to the top of the tower. He’d been only twenty years old when he’d been appointed sexton, on account of his long family connection, and he was still only twenty-five now. But with his slightly hunched shoulders and his little pointed beard, he had already achieved an agelessness that was pleasing to his employers.

  It was Tidy who watched over the graves and tombs; Tidy who, with the verger, arranged the services and rang the great bell which regulated the life of the cathedral and city alike; Tidy who for a modest fee was always happy to take on extra jobs to oblige you. Reliable. Respectful. He had a great reverence for Trinity College, also. “It was my mother’s family, the MacGowans, who supplied all the doors and windows in the college, Your Honour,” he would remind Doctor Pincher. “And a fine place it is, I’m sure you will agree, Sir.”

  “It is indeed,” Pincher would agree.

  “A place well-suited, Your Honour, to a fine Cambridge scholar such as yourself.” What was it in the sexton’s soft voice that he found disconcerting? It was so polite, so respectful, so gently insinuating. Was it almost too respectful? He glanced at the sexton with a slight frown of uncertainty.

  A Cambridge man like him: what did Tidy mean by it? Pincher used to wonder. If he meant anything at all. Was it possible, the learned doctor would ask himself, that the sexton had somehow come to hear about that foolish business at Cambridge? He couldn’t imagine how. But why should he mention Cambridge in that way, whenever they met? Surely not, he told himself. It could not be. The business had been in another country, long ago. And besides . . .

  It was Tidy, in fact, who had mentioned to him that the cathedral clerk had heard of an excellent living with some promising land becoming available shortly. And it was thanks to that timely information, and an immediate visit to the chapter clerk, that Pincher was now about to set off on another journey, southwards this time, that might bring him some of the profits which, surely by now, he deserved.

  And it was when he had told the three men of the route he proposed to take, and asked for their advice about where to break his journey, that after thinking for a moment or two, Doyle had suggested:

  “You could rest with the O’Byrnes at Rathconan, I should say.”

  On hearing the name, Pincher had blanched. A papist? A native Irish chief? Despite the diverse allegiances of the various O’Byrnes, despite the tradition of Irish hospitality to travellers that went back to the dawn of time, despite even the fact that Wicklow was now an English shire, Doctor Pincher had heard too many stories of the wild O’Byrnes in the past not to feel nervous at the prospect of such an encounter. But he saw young Walter Smith nod in agreement, and even Tidy looked perfectly calm at the prospect. Doyle, guessing his thoughts, smiled.

  “You’ll receive a good welcome there,” he assured him. “The O’Byrnes of Rathconan are quite English in their ways.”

  And, no doubt to put him at his ease, Tidy chimed in:

  “They’d have great respect, Your Honour, for a Cambridge scholar such as yourself.”

  So here he was, approaching the house at Rathconan, and a scene that filled him with horror.

  An Irish wake. Obviously, Doyle had not been aware of any death in the O’Byrne family when he had suggested the visit, and Pincher wondered what to do. Should he try to find another house? Some distance to the south lay the ruins of the ancient monastery of Glendalough. He could reach it by dusk, he supposed. Was there any sort of house there? He wasn’t sure. He certainly had no wish to sleep in some peasant’s hut, or out in the open in the wilds of the Wicklow Mountains. Should he turn away now, or ask for directions to another place? He was still hesitating when he saw a handsome, fair-haired young man, dressed in English style, coming towards him.

  “I am Brian O’Byrne,” he introduced himself politely, and gazed at him, Pincher noticed, with a pair of the most unusual green eyes.

  Explaining his business, and that Doyle had sent him, Pincher apologised for his intrusion. “Doyle would not have known of my father’s death when he sent you,” the young man replied. “I am sorry for your trouble,” Pincher answered. Could O’Byrne suggest another house in the area where he might find shelter? But young Brian wouldn’t hear of it. “There’s a chamber on the upper floor where you can rest the night comfortably enough—even if I cannot promise you silence.” And so, uncertain where else to go, and not wishing to offend the young chief, Pincher rather unwillingly allowed himself to be escorted towards the old stone tower.

  There was a great crowd of people outside, several hundred of them. Tables had been set up, well stocked with food and sweetmeats. Some of the guests were drinking wine, but most appeared to be imbibing ale or whiskey. Leaving his servant to see to the horses, and hoping the fellow would not be drunk when he needed him, he accompanied young Brian O’Byrne inside. He knew enough to be prepared for what must follow, as his host led him toward the room at the back of the tower. There, laid out on a large table covered with white sheets, was the body of Toirdhealbhach O’Byrne, washed and shaven, a fine-looking man, it had to be said, even when sunken in death with a crucifix in his folded hands. There were no others in the room, the company having all come to pay their respects long since, except for a middle-aged woman, a cousin of the deceased, who sat on a stool in a corner so that the dead man should not be left alone. The room was well lit by the small plantation of candles on a narrow table by the wall, whose waxy smoke gave the room a churchlike atmosphere.

  Trying to avert his eyes from the cursed rosary, Pincher murmured, as he knew he must, that the former chief had been most handsomely laid out, and not knowing the gentleman himself, could only add, once again, that he was sorry for their trouble. After that, he politely withdrew and followed his young host up a spiral stair to a spacious chamber containing a wooden bed, no worse than his own in Dublin. A short while later, Brian O’Byrne reappeared bearing food and wine himself, which, with all the business of his father’s wake going on, was exceedingly civil of him, Pincher had to acknowledge. His host also made clear to him that, should he at any time wish to join the company below, he would be more than welcome. An offer well-understood as kindly intended; though noncommittally, gratefully it was decl
ined. And so for the rest of the evening Doctor Pincher, being predestined for higher things than the company of the Irish, kept to his chamber.

  If only it weren’t for the noise. The customary wailing of the women, the wild songs of lament and the cries of grief, he had always found disgusting. “In their grief,” he had once written to his sister, “they are like savages.” That, mercifully, had been over before he arrived. But worse was to come.

  Some aspects of the wake he could understand. The coming together of friends and neighbours, the sharing of bereavement, the kind words, even the gentle telling of stories about the departed one: all this, it seemed to him, was proper. He did not even mind the food and drink, so long as everyone maintained sobriety. And indeed, when a child had died, or a parent been snatched away from the young family who needed them, these wakes were sad and solemn affairs, when neighbours gave support and charity. He certainly saw no harm in that. But when a man had lived a long life and death was expected, when as well as telling kindly stories, the guests started asking riddles, or playing games—even involving the corpse himself—then it seemed to Pincher that the fundamental lack of seriousness, of decency—indeed, the pagan nature and immorality—of the native Irish lay exposed. It was hideous to him.

  That in this ancient process there might be great wisdom; that after the catharsis of grief fully expressed, there might be closure; and in the affectionate games and humour—this sharing of life with the dead—there might be a healing and a coming to terms with the awfulness of death: such notions had no place in his own, monotone picture of the universe. He had no idea why they did it.

  The sun was setting when he heard the women singing—a slow, eerie, nasal chant that he knew was called a cronan—not unpleasing to the ear. These went on for some time as the dusk fell; and since he heard no other sounds, he assumed they were being listened to in silence. Looking out of his window as the last of the cronans ended, he could see that the first stars had appeared in the gloaming. And then, after only the shortest pause, the gentle drone of a single bagpipe started to rise into the air. And now even Doctor Pincher sat down on the bed to listen.