The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “I am surprised, Priest, that you show your face in the street after the evil that you papists have done,” he cried.

  “I do not condone the killing of innocents,” Father Lawrence calmly replied. But Pincher took no notice.

  “O’Neill and his friends are traitors. They’ll pay with their lives,” he announced grimly. “And you, too, Priest. You, too.”

  “Yet I hear,” Father Lawrence mused, “that Sir Phelim is acting with the king’s support.”

  Nothing about the Ulster rebellion was more infuriating to the Protestants than this. Partly to confuse the opposition, and partly to induce the loyal Old English Catholics to join him, Sir Phelim had announced that he was acting on the king’s behalf. He had also produced a written commission to prove it. The document was a forgery, as it happened. But was the king capable of using this Catholic army against his own Protestant Parliament? Nothing was more likely, in Doctor Pincher’s estimation. He gave Father Lawrence a look of pure hatred.

  “Do not imagine that I am ignorant, Priest,” he answered bitterly. “All over Europe you papists have been planning this for years. You would convert or kill us all.”

  Father Lawrence regarded him dispassionately. In a sense, what Pincher said was partly true. Holy Church meant to recover Christendom. For a generation and more, brave souls in Ireland, many educated on the continent, had patiently awaited the chance of deliverance. Outside Ireland’s shores, Irish soldiers in Europe’s Catholic armies, the huge network of priests and friars, and watchful Catholic rulers had all looked for an opportunity. Over the years, Father Lawrence could remember a dozen hopeful plots and plans, some plausible, some absurd. To his certain knowledge, the plan to take Dublin Castle had originated on the continent. But in his own estimation, none of these dreams, and none of the vague promises of help from overseas would ever materialize until there was a Catholic army with a proper organization and plan, on the ground, in Ireland itself. That was why, the moment he had received hints of what Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire were planning, he had shown such an interest. For the first time, it had seemed to him, there might be a realistic chance.

  Faced with Pincher’s accusation, however, he gave no ground at all.

  “I am surprised at what you say,” he replied blandly. “For as far as I can see, Sir Phelim O’Neill, who proclaims his loyalty to the king, asks only for a promise that the lands of loyal Catholics will not be stolen and that the Graces, granted long ago, should be honoured. True, he has occupied Ulster to force the government’s hand. But where did he learn that trick—if not from your own friends the Scottish Covenanters?” There was nothing that Pincher could say to this. It was well known that Sir Phelim had already stated, “It was those Scots who taught us our ABC?” And Father Lawrence could not resist gently asking: “Or would you call the Covenanters traitors, too?”

  Pincher could only scowl. But he was not going to let the Jesuit get the better of him.

  “I know a traitor when I see one, Priest, and I see one now. No doubt your brother is another. Your whole family is a nest of vipers. But be assured, it will be crushed underfoot.”

  Father Lawrence turned. There was no point in continuing the conversation.

  After he had gone, Pincher stared after him with loathing. And the doctor had almost forgotten Tidy’s wife, when he heard her voice beside him: “I know the Jesuit is wicked, Sir, but I am sorry all the family are traitors.” Pincher glanced down at her and saw there was no trace of irony in her words.

  “There can be no truth in a papist,” he muttered irritably.

  Any day now. It would be any day. For Orlando Walsh, awaiting the birth of his child, his house was now a private haven—specially blessed, and quite apart from the angry sounds of the world, which seemed far away, almost unreal, and hardly important anymore.

  There had been no difficulty with the pregnancy, no alarms. His wife was healthy, and he had no doubt the child would be born healthy, too. Had he, once or twice, wondered whether the baby might not turn out like little Daniel? Not really. Whatever God gave, he would accept it gratefully. But in his own mind he was sure that, after so many years of faithful waiting, God’s gift to him would be perfect in every way.

  “If it’s a girl, I think we should call her Donata,” he said to Mary. Donata: the one given. “And Donatus if it’s a boy,” she said, to which he readily agreed.

  At the start of December, several small Catholic foraging parties raided Protestant farms in Fingal. They wanted provisions, but when some of the farmers resisted, there were some scuffles and a few people were hurt. At Orlando’s estate, however, everything was quiet.

  On the second day, a man he knew slightly from Swords came by with a message. “We’ve got to defend ourselves, Orlando Walsh,” he announced. “The men in Dublin won’t do anything for us.” It was true that during the whole of the last month, the men in Dublin Castle had ignored most of the Fingal gentry. Orlando hadn’t been surprised. He knew the mentality of the government’s Protestant servants. “We’re Catholic, so they don’t really trust us,” he mildly remarked. “That’s all it is.”

  “And they can’t defend us, either,” the man from Swords declared. “Or won’t. The only force the government has sent out so far was smashed. We can expect nothing from that quarter, and we’ve farms to protect. That’s why you have to come with us.” A party of gentlemen from the area were planning, he told him, to meet with some of Sir Phelim’s men. Given his wife’s condition, Orlando explained, he couldn’t come; but he agreed that the parley was probably sensible. “With luck, as we’re mostly Catholic, Phelim O’Neill and his troops will agree to leave us in peace,” he told Mary.

  On the third day of December, he received a summons from the Justices in Dublin. It seemed that they were taking an interest in the Fingal landowners after all.

  “They’re calling us all to meet in Dublin,” he told Mary. “In five days’ time.” He saw the anxious look on her face. “I shan’t go if the baby’s not born,” he promised, and saw her look of relief. He wasn’t inclined to go anyway. He had no wish to be involved in their military operations, either, if he could avoid it.

  It was midafternoon on the fourth day when Doyle arrived. He was looking grim.

  “You must both come to Dublin at once,” the merchant told him.

  “Mary can’t travel in her condition, and I don’t want to leave the estate when everything is so uncertain,” Orlando explained. But Doyle shook his head.

  “You don’t understand the mood in Dublin,” he declared. “The castle men are in a state of panic, and the city’s being stirred up by men like Pincher.” And when Orlando mentioned that he knew some of the Fingal gentry had gone to meet Phelim O’Neill’s men up at Tara, Doyle almost exploded. “No, you don’t know. You know nothing, Orlando. Do you hear? The very fact,” he went on more quietly, “that they came to you at all places you under suspicion.” Orlando had received a short letter from Lawrence describing his passage of words with Pincher, but until now he had not supposed that the old man’s threats and talk of treason should be taken so seriously. “Come to Dublin,” Doyle urged him, “and prove your loyalty. Otherwise you will be under suspicion.” It annoyed Orlando that anyone would seriously question his loyalty, but he still didn’t see that he could leave at present.

  “Tell the Justices,” he replied, “that I shall come to the meeting in Dublin if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

  “I shall tell them,” answered his kinsman, “and I pray that the child comes in time.”

  The next morning, the gentleman from Swords came again. He was in a hurry and did not even dismount. “It’s been agreed,” he cried. “We’re joining with Phelim O’Neill.”

  “In rebellion?”

  “Not at all. That’s just the point. Every Catholic gentleman in Ireland will come together in a grand league and proclaim our loyalty to the king. There’s to be a big meeting at Swords on the eighth of December, three days from now. I�
��m going round every estate in the area to spread the word. Mind you’re there.”

  “But that’s the same day we’re all supposed to be in Dublin,” Orlando objected.

  “You can ignore the damned Protestants in Dublin,” the Swords man cried impatiently. “Stick with your own.”

  “I shall come,” Orlando told him also, “if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

  “And what,” Mary asked him when he told her afterwards, “if the baby has come before then?”

  “I shall go to neither meeting,” Orlando said quietly. It seemed to him the safest thing to do.

  Two days later, a servant arrived from Doyle with a letter begging him to come to Dublin at once, without delay. He did not go. That night, Mary went into labour.

  The next day, the eighth of December, early in the morning, the child was born. It was healthy, and it was a boy. They called him Donatus.

  Maurice Smith was delighted with the news that his aunt had had the baby. He had been wondering what to do for nearly a week— ever since the letter from Elena had come.

  It had been handed to him in the marketplace by one of van Leyden’s men, who had asked him to give an immediate reply, as he must return at once to the Dutchman’s estate in Fingal. Maurice had never received a letter from Elena before. He noticed that although her English was still imperfect, her writing was firm and regular. The letter was not long. She wrote that her grandfather had kept her in Fingal for two months now, and that although the old man went into Dublin quite often, he refused to take her with him. Now, with the rebels getting closer, she was afraid. What did Maurice think she should do?

  Taking the letter into a scrivener, where they lent him pen and ink, he wrote his reply onto the letter. She was in no danger, he told her. The rebels might come to forage; they might even take some valuables. But though they might turn nasty if they encountered some of the hated English Protestant settlers, he thought it unlikely they’d hurt a harmless old Dutchman and his granddaughter.

  It was clear to him that the real message in Elena’s letter was that she was frightened and wanted him to come and comfort her, and he felt a great urge to do so. Yet how could he? It had been wrong to court her when he had. He’d given his father his word never to see her again.

  So what could have possessed him, at the end of his message, to add “I shall come to see you as soon as I can”?

  For when Orlando’s message had brought the glad tidings of the birth, there had also been a request that Maurice should go to his uncle’s straightaway, so that he could be godfather to the baby, whose christening would be performed by the old priest from Malahide as quickly as possible. Walter was delighted. “It’s a great honour, Maurice,” he told him. He also saw it as a useful opportunity. “While you are there, you must do everything you can to persuade your uncle to come to Dublin. He failed to appear on the eighth, but that can be explained by the birth of Donatus. Your cousin Doyle has seen to that. But as soon as the child is christened, your uncle should go in to the castle at once and establish his loyalty. I, too, as a Catholic, would be under suspicion if I were not here in Dublin. Tell him all this and that I join my voice to Doyle’s, and urge him to come.”

  It was a charming little ceremony. It was held in the house. Present were just Maurice, a lady from a neighbouring estate who acted as godmother, the happy parents, the old priest from Malahide, and little Daniel, who, miraculously, kept quiet throughout the ceremony. Maurice stayed with them until the following day; and that evening, when he found himself alone with Orlando, he delivered his father’s message. His uncle listened carefully, nodded thoughtfully, and thanked him, but made no further comment.

  In the morning, Maurice left. But as soon as he was out of sight, instead of riding south, back towards Dublin, he turned his horse and took the track towards Swords. From Swords he turned north-west, and an hour later, he was in sight of van Leyden’s stone and timber farm.

  Here he had to pause. He could not go up to the door, for fear of encountering the old man, so he waited for a long time in the cold until he saw a farmhand coming towards him. Telling the fellow that he was a scout sent out from Dublin to look out for rebels, he quickly learned that none had been seen, that the old man was in Dublin, though expected back that afternoon, and that Elena was in charge of the house in his absence. Asking the man to fetch her, he rode slowly towards the farm. And moments later, Elena appeared.

  She seemed pleased to see him. Despite the cold, they walked together so that they should not be heard. If at first she seemed a little constrained, he could well understand it, for he felt the same. But more than anything, she seemed to need reassurance that they would not be attacked by Phelim O’Neill’s men. “I told my grandfather that we should go to Dublin for safety,” she complained. “But he does not want me to be there.” She made a wry face. “Because of you.”

  Maurice told her again that the rebels had no quarrel with the Dutch. “These are not criminals or animals,” he reminded her. “I promise that you and your grandfather will be safe.”

  He had never seen her afraid before. Their relationship had been several things. He’d enjoyed her company, for they made each other laugh. There had been the excitement, with the added thrill that their relationship was forbidden. He had found her wonderfully sensuous. But if the truth were told, neither of them had felt real love or passion. Now, however, seeing her afraid, he felt a sudden wave of tenderness. Putting his arm around her, he did his best to comfort her and stayed with her for nearly an hour. They kissed before he left, and though he didn’t say it to her then, he found himself wondering seriously whether—he did not yet know how—they might be united after all.

  It was midafternoon when he entered Swords again. To reach Dublin before dark, he needed to press on. The city gates would be closed at dusk, and it would certainly be hard to explain himself to his parents if he were locked out. But he also felt uncommonly thirsty, and as he passed down the main street and saw the inn, he couldn’t resist turning in there for a small tankard of ale. There was time, surely, for that.

  It was gloomy inside the tavern. The windows were small and the day outside was grey. A large fire at the end of the place provided what light there was. A narrow table with benches ran along one side of the room. The floor was covered with rushes. There were only a few people in there. The innkeeper soon brought Maurice his ale, and he sat at the end of the table nearest the fire, drinking it quietly. At the far end of the table, in shadow, two men were playing at dice, small piles of coins on the table between them. One was a small, wizened man; the other had his back turned to him. After a few minutes, this fellow gave a sad laugh and pushed his coins towards the small man.

  “Enough.” He spoke in Irish. “I’ve lost enough for one day.” His voice sounded familiar. The small man rose, scooped up the coins, and started to move away. The other turned, glanced at Maurice, and then stared. “Well, Mwirish,” he said in English, “what brings you here?”

  And Maurice found himself a moment later sitting beside his friend Brian O’Byrne.

  They talked for a long time. Maurice told him everything: about the birth of Donatus, at which O’Byrne was greatly delighted; about Elena, at which the Irishman shook his head. “Leave that, Mwirish. Your father is right. You can do no good there.”

  O’Byrne himself, he explained, had been on a visit to Rathconan and was now returning to Drogheda. He had been with Phelim O’Neill since the start of the rising. “I’d have joined him anyway, Mwirish,” he said, “but with my wife being his kinswoman . . .” He shrugged. “It was fate.”

  O’Byrne ordered more ale. As they drank together, it seemed to Maurice that his old friend was uncharacteristically moody. At one point, O’Byrne turned to him and suddenly remarked: “You belong at Rathconan, you know. I saw it from the first.”

  “I feel at home there,” Maurice acknowledged, though he did not know what had made O’Byrne say it just then. In any case, the Irishman hardly s
eemed to be listening.

  “It’s where you belong,” he said, almost to himself. He gazed at the fire and sighed. “Perhaps that’s how it will be,” he mused. And he seemed so intent upon his own thoughts that Maurice did not like to interrupt.

  Glancing out of the window, Maurice saw that the afternoon light was waning. He looked back at the handsome Irish chief, whose green eyes he shared. The firelight was catching his face, giving it a brooding, romantic quality. And whether it was the fear that he might be late back to Dublin and his visit to Elena be discovered, or whether he was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to be in the company of this man he loved and admired, fighting for the sacred Catholic cause that was their heritage, he burst out:

  “I want to come with you. Take me with you to Drogheda.”

  O’Byrne gave him a long look and slowly smiled. But he shook his head.

  “No, Mwirish, I’ve brought enough trouble to your house. I’ll not take Walter Smith’s son away as well.” This didn’t make sense to Maurice, and he wanted to ask him what he meant; but O’Byrne had not finished. “Tell me, Mwirish,” he asked, “do you like to gamble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Every Irishman likes to gamble, Mwirish,” said O’Byrne. “It’s in the blood.” Perhaps it was the play of the firelight on his face, but it seemed to Maurice now that his friend looked strangely sad. “This rising, Mwirish, it’s just a gamble, you see. A roll of the dice.”

  “Gamblers can be lucky.”

  “True.” O’Byrne gave a wan smile. “Though few are lucky all the time. I was rolling the dice when you came in, Mwirish. But I lost.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  “We’ll meet again, Mwirish. But go back to Dublin now. You must leave, for I’ve other business.”