The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “This is a sad business,” she remarked. “We are to be ruined for no offence. How many other honest Old English gentlemen are to suffer in this way?”

  “I have no wish to make traitors of the Fingal gentry,” he told her frankly. “But whatever they or Sir Phelim may claim, the fact is that they went into rebellion against the king’s government. That is what the king thinks, I assure you.”

  “And I can assure you that my husband did not join them. He was here with me at all times, I give you my word. You will find no one of the rebels who will tell you he was there.”

  “He did not give them aid?”

  “Not unless you count the party of ruffians, attached to nobody, who came by once. We fed them and prayed they would leave, which they did, thank God. That is all.”

  Ormond indicated that, as far as he was concerned, this was not an offence.

  “Your husband has gone to the rebels now?”

  “He has not.”

  “Has he fled overseas?”

  This was a dangerous question. If they thought he had done so, the authorities might stop looking for him; but it would also indicate his guilt.

  “No, my lord, he has not fled overseas.”

  “Shall we find him here?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “Then where is he?” Ormond asked quietly.

  This was it. The moment she had been dreading. But they had agreed what she must say.

  “My lord,” she answered gently, “I am his wife, and I shall not tell you.” She held her breath. His eyebrows rose. “Unless,” she added softly, “you mean to put me on the rack.” She watched him. Had she gone too far?

  But thank God, he did not turn on her in fury. Instead—she saw it clearly—he winced with embarrassment. They fell silent.

  A minute later, the men came back and the officers reported: “Nothing.” Ormond indicated that they should wait for him outside.

  “The Dublin men are eager to confiscate this estate, Madam,” he remarked to her when they were alone, “so that they can get their hands on it themselves. However, I find that I shall need to garrison some of my troops here. About a hundred,” he added bleakly. “The estate will need to be properly farmed, to ensure that they are fed. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “If your husband is loyal to the king and the king’s government, then he must be loyal to me.”

  “That,” she said with feeling, “you could depend upon, my lord.”

  “I cannot reverse the proclamation against your husband. It is not in my power. But if he is here, supplying my troops on my orders, he will not be touched—for the moment. That is all I can promise you.”

  “I am grateful.” She hesitated. “For how long might this last?”

  “Who can say?” He sighed. “Everything is uncertain. I scarcely know from whom my own orders will come next month. We must live from day to day.” He gave her a long look. “Find your husband by tomorrow, Madam.”

  She nodded. He gave her a brief bow, and before she even had time to curtsey in return, he was gone.

  There was a light mist over the sea, early the following morning, as Mary came down to the shore. So at first, as he looked out from the little island with the cleft in its cliff, where he had been hiding for the last three weeks, Orlando did not notice her.

  But then, as the rays of the rising sun came racing over the sea and burst upon the shore, he saw her, waving to him from the beach. And he pushed out the little curragh he had been using and rowed towards her with the rising sun behind him, to learn what tidings she brought.

  Doctor Simeon Pincher gazed at the letter. He was still astonished.

  The month of April 1642 had not been encouraging. In England, the split between King Charles and his Parliament had grown so wide that it seemed likely to develop into civil war. Here in Ireland, though Ormond had done good work around Dublin, the rising was spreading even wider. Leaders of the Old English and Irish gentry, with ancient names like Barry and MacCarthy, were now taking up arms down in Munster and beyond. Even Ormond’s own Catholic uncle had joined the rebels. Still more disturbing were the rumours, growing more persistent with every passing day, that the great general Owen Roe O’Neill had finally agreed to come to Ireland and command the Catholic forces.

  Yet all these troubles seemed to melt into the background as Pincher read, and reread, the letter.

  In the first place, it informed him that his sister was dead. He was not sorry, and had the honesty to admit it. He had received no word of kindness from her in the last forty-five years; and though he trusted that she was predestined for Heaven rather than Hell, he caught himself hoping that the heavenly regions were large, so that their future meetings could be infrequent.

  The rest of the letter was even more heartening.

  He looked at the handwriting: it was firm and manly. That, he thought, augured well. The style was not learned, not even elegant, perhaps, but rather that of a plain, devout gentleman. Such was the conclusion he was able to draw by his third reading. Of the writer’s religious conviction there could be no doubt. He was a vehemently godly man.

  So this was his nephew, Barnaby Budge.

  It gratified him that his nephew wrote to him in terms of such respect: and he could not help wondering whether perhaps the departure of his sister might have removed an invisible barrier to what might, long ago, have been a closer family relationship. Why, it was possible, he supposed, that with acquaintance his nephew might even feel affection for him. After all, Barnaby was his heir.

  Despite his years, Doctor Pincher was prepared to brave another sea voyage, if necessary, to visit his nephew. But it seemed there might be no need. For at the end of the letter came the most wonderful news of all. Barnaby hoped to come to Ireland soon. Indeed, he might even be coming to live there.

  “For trusting in God’s providence,” he wrote, “I have taken up the Parliament’s cause, and have invested five hundred pounds.”

  It was only the month before that the English Parliament, wondering how it could finance both Ormond’s troops in Ireland and a possible armed conflict with the king at home, had hit upon a new ruse for how to make use of Ireland. Settlement and plantation had been tried; Irish chiefs had rebelled and friends of the government had been able to buy their land at cut prices; but the Act for Adventurers of March 1642 was a new advance in English ingenuity. It was inspired.

  For now the English Parliament invited all good Protestants: “Give us cash today, and in due time, we will give you Irish land.” The promised land in question, though not available yet, would be confiscated in time from those who had just rebelled. By this means, the English Parliament men hoped to raise a million pounds—a stupendous sum. On looking at the terms, Pincher had calculated that they would require no less than two and a half million acres: four thousand square miles, almost a quarter of Ireland, and many times the holdings of all those who had rebelled so far. “Don’t worry,” one of the castle men assured him when he asked about it. “If they can raise the money, we’ll find the rebels.”

  On such terms, five hundred pounds could secure Barnaby a thousand acres, a gentleman’s estate. With help from his uncle, he might do even better. Doctor Pincher had been disappointed when Orlando Walsh had been allowed to remain on his estate. But now it seemed to him that there might be another hand at work in this. For it was only a stay of execution. Ormond would not need Walsh forever. By the time Walsh was kicked out, Barnaby Budge might be able to get the place. Could it be that this was, indeed, the divine plan?

  He wondered how soon Barnaby would come, and what he would be like.

  1646

  Brian O’Byrne and his wife stood in the empty street. The town of Kilkenny was quiet. It was a December afternoon. It was cold. And he didn’t know what to do.

  He had experienced many things in the last five years. Danger. A little joy—his wife had given him a fine new son two years ago. Some loneliness, even moments of
depression. But nothing had been harder than the choice before him now.

  He glanced at his wife. There was nothing very special-looking about Jane O’Byrne. She was a pleasant, light-haired young woman with small, neat teeth, who might have been a landowner’s wife in any one of the four provinces. But she had brought Brian O’Byrne money and some fine connections, and she knew it.

  They had been together in Kilkenny for three days now. Tomorrow he was due to go down into Munster; she was returning to Rathconan, which was safe for the moment. They had been busy days, and happy ones, but he had not been able to tell her what was on his mind. And he was still wondering how to bring the subject up when he heard a voice, calling his name, behind him. He turned.

  Father Lawrence Walsh was in his early sixties now. His sparse grey hair was clipped short. His face was thinner, striated with deep vertical lines; but his wiry body was vigorous. He greeted Jane, and looked at O’Byrne keenly.

  “We last met here in Kilkenny, I think,” he said.

  Four years ago. It seemed more like an age. The meeting had drawn Catholic leaders from all over Ireland. O’Byrne had gone there with Sir Phelim. That was when they had decided that if the revolt begun in Ulster was to have any chance of success, then the Catholics of all Ireland must form a single, disciplined organization, like the Covenanters in Scotland. They had set up a Supreme Council—Sir Phelim was one of its members—and a network of local leaders in every county. The Catholic Confederation, they called it, and made their headquarters in the town of Kilkenny, in South Leinster. While the English government had held Dublin, and the Scottish settlers had held the ports of Eastern Ulster, the Kilkenny council had controlled huge tracts of Ireland for most of the time since.

  “I also saw you again, here in Kilkenny,” the Jesuit continued, “the day the Nuncio arrived. But you didn’t see me in the crowd.”

  The twenty-fifth of October 1645. A symbolic day, never to be forgotten: the arrival of the Nuncio, Archbishop Rinuccini, the personal emissary of the Pope to the Catholic Confederation at Kilkenny. The rebirth of Catholic Ireland.

  They had received him like the Holy Father himself. O’Byrne remembered the crowds lining the road outside the town for miles. The finest scholars of the region had come out to greet him; one of them, crowned with laurels in the Roman manner, had made a Latin address. Then, holding a canopy over the Nuncio’s head, they had led him through the doors of Saint Patrick’s church, where the clergy of Ireland awaited him. Afterwards, Archbishop Rinuccini had been conducted to the castle, where the Confederation’s Supreme Council were gathered. Thanks to Sir Phelim, O’Byrne had been allowed into the castle’s great hall, where the Nuncio, seated on a throne covered with a rich damask of red and gold, addressed them all in Latin, and gave them a message of encouragement from the Holy Father. It had been a magnificent occasion.

  And as he’d looked around the great concourse of gentlemen, soldiers, and priests, O’Byrne had been struck by a thought. Here were hundreds of men, some Irish like himself, others Old English like the Walshes. Nearly all of them spoke both languages. Whatever their ancestry, they belonged to Ireland and were united by their Catholic faith. Many of them, moreover, had been educated in the great schools of France, Spain, or Italy, or served, like Owen Roe O’Neill, in the great Catholic armies of continental Europe. And here they were, a government in waiting, being addressed by the Nuncio in the same Latin that Saint Patrick himself had spoken. This was the true Hibernia, he’d thought: an ancient member of the great, universal family of Catholic Christendom. This was what the sacred land of Ireland should be.

  Though he and Father Lawrence had never been particular friends, he was glad to get some news of Orlando.

  “I cannot go to see him, of course,” the Jesuit explained. “The Dublin Protestants have complete control of Fingal. But he remains at the estate. He has a hundred government troops to feed. But he is left in peace, and Lord Ormond protects him.”

  Despite the fact that Parliament and the king he served had gone to war, Ormond, since he had more prestige than anyone else, had been left as the representative of the Protestant English government in Dublin. O’Byrne was glad that his friend Orlando had a powerful protector.

  “And the Smiths? Young Maurice?”

  “They remain in Dublin. They are tolerated, though the city council has become entirely Protestant. Maurice is his father’s trusted partner in the business now. My sister Anne is also well,” he added without further comment.

  “I am glad of it,” O’Byrne said.

  Father Lawrence was regarding him thoughtfully. He glanced at Jane.

  “So, Brian O’Byrne,” he asked quietly, “may I know whose side you are on?”

  It had all been so much easier at the start. When he’d accompanied Sir Phelim to Kilkenny, the objective of the Confederation had been clear—to force King Charles to end the persecution of Catholics in Ireland. When the native Irish chiefs from the provinces had joined in, they might not have shared the enthusiasm of the Old English for the king, but they had gone along with the Royalist line for the sake of a strong Confederation. As a result, the Confederation had gained two fine generals with European experience: Owen Roe O’Neill, the returned Irish prince, in the north; and Thomas Preston, an Old English Catholic, in the south.

  The Protestant opposition had been far more confused. Lord Ormond, the Old English Protestant grandee, was in Dublin. Up in the north, General Monro led ten thousand ardent Scots who had crossed the water to aid their Presbyterian brethren in Ulster. Yet down in Munster, the Protestant forces were led by Lord Inchiquin, a native Irish prince descended from Brian Boru himself, but who had taken the Protestant faith and who personally hated the Church of Rome.

  At first, the Confederation had done well, and Lord Ormond had gladly agreed to a truce. In England, meanwhile, King Charles, having gone to war with his Parliament, had also appeared to be winning. Even in Scotland, a Royalist group had emerged.

  Those had been good days for O’Byrne. Sir Phelim had favoured him; his wife had given him a child.

  But then things had begun to fall apart. Across the water, the Covenanters crushed the Royalists in Scotland; and in England, new Parliamentary generals, Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, had emerged and smashed the king’s armies. This year, Charles had been forced to surrender and was now held a prisoner by the Scots. The Royalist cause seemed to be finished.

  Or was it?

  “Kings have their uses, even captured ones,” Sir Phelim liked to say. And now that King Charles was a captive, it seemed there was more to bargain about than ever. The Scots were ready to put him back on his throne—so long as he took the oath to their Presbyterian Covenant. The English Parliament was prepared to do the same—so long as he let them control him. The Catholic Confederacy in Ireland would sign a peace so that Charles could use Ormond’s army in England—why, they’d even come to England to help him themselves—if he’d give Catholic Ireland its rights. As for Charles himself, he had no wish to oblige any of them; but he was playing for time, in the hope that if he could divide his enemies, he could still climb back on his throne.

  But here in Ireland, there was now a problem of a different kind. The Confederation had been successful. Ormond and Inchiquin were both pinned down, and Owen Roe O’Neill, the dashing Irish prince, had scored a stunning victory over Monro and his Scots up in Ulster.

  “Now is our chance,” O’Byrne had told his wife, “to sweep down upon Dublin and take it. Then we could probably drive the Protestants out of the strongholds of Ulster.”

  But nothing had happened.

  Partly the problem was the vanity of generals: Irish O’Neill and Old English Preston refused to take orders from each other. They could hardly even be persuaded to act together. But behind this lay a deeper rift, in the heart of the Confederation. The Old English still wanted to drive a tough bargain with King Charles. “Better him than a Presbyterian Parliament,” they said. And Sir Phelim had taken this vie
w. O’Neill and his Irish friends were more radical. “Let’s kick the Protestants out once and for all, and their king too, and run Ireland ourselves,” they declared.

  Dashing Owen Roe O’Neill: an Irishman after his own heart. Brian O’Byrne knew where his secret sympathies lay. For six weeks now, he had been planning to desert Sir Phelim and attach himself to Owen Roe O’Neill.

  But it was Jane O’Byrne who answered Father Lawrence.

  “We are with Sir Phelim, of course.”

  O’Byrne said nothing. Father Lawrence smiled.

  “You are loyal to your family. But there is a higher authority than the family. I mean Holy Church.”

  “Not everyone agrees with the Nuncio,” Jane remarked.

  “He is harsh,” Father Lawrence acknowledged. “But unfortunately, he is also right.”

  Archbishop Rinuccini had not been in Ireland long before his clear Latin mind saw the weak logic of the Old English position. “For a start,” he pointed out, “King Charles is a heretic whom nobody trusts. Secondly, he is never going to give you what you want.”

  Since its formation, the Confederation had evolved quite an impressive list of demands that included not only the freedom to practise the Catholic religion, and equal legal status, but the return of many Catholic lands. They also wanted the Irish Parliament to be independent. In effect, Charles would be king of a separate country. “We know we won’t get all we want,” the Old English party told the Nuncio.

  “You won’t get any of it,” he’d replied. “King Charles would like to use Irish troops against his enemies. But he can’t grant your Catholic freedom, because his own Protestant Parliament will never let him. Your entire position rests upon a fallacy.” Yet since a Protestant Parliament would give them even less than the king, they countered, what were they to do? “Sever your connection with England,” he told them. “You’ve no alternative.” And who would protect them from England after that? they had demanded. For the English Parliament would always see an independent Catholic Ireland as a threat. “You will defend yourselves,” he ordered. “But help will be forthcoming. From France, or from Spain. From Rome itself.”