The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The young fellow he had sent to check on the new arrivals came riding back.

  “A party from Fingal came to join us. All Catholics. I heard one was a Dublin man named Smith.”

  “Smith?” O’Byrne’s face creased into a smile. “Did you say Smith?” His sadness was forgotten. “It’s young Mwirish,” he cried happily, and began to ride down the slope.

  So he was greatly surprised, having ridden through the camp, to find himself face-to-face not with Maurice at all, but his father.

  Something had happened to Walter Smith. He had changed. Not to look at. He was still the same stout family man with balding grey hair that he had been before. But something had happened to him, and he was changed within. That was how it seemed to O’Byrne as they sat by the campfire that evening.

  The merchant had not been especially pleased to see O’Byrne, though he must have known that the Irishman might be in Ormond’s camp. He appeared to accept O’Byrne’s presence as another fact of nature, like the weather, in an existence which, after a lifetime of seeking order, he had now ceased trying to control. And so when, out of courtesy, O’Byrne had invited him to eat at his tent that evening, Walter had nodded briefly and answered: “As you wish.” So now, as they ate, O’Byrne gave him a good account of the military state of affairs, the strength of the various parts of Ormond’s forces, and the likely tactics if they engaged Cromwell’s army.

  That afternoon, Ormond had decided to place a forward battery right down at the mouth of the Liffey. But the battery would be dangerously close to the Dublin defenders, and as dusk fell, he prepared to send a large contingent, some fifteen hundred men, to secure the position first, under cover of darkness.

  “It’s an excellent move,” O’Byrne told Walter, as they saw the men gathering to leave. “A battery there could wreak horrible damage on Cromwell’s ships if he tries to sail into Dublin.”

  For his part, O’Byrne was eager to learn the latest news of his friend Orlando, of young Maurice, and of the household in Fingal where the Smith family was still living. Walter confirmed that young Maurice was now running the family’s business affairs, although trading was not easy. He was often impatient, and had wanted to come and fight with Ormond; only the fact that the family needed him had kept him at home. Anne was well, but suffered from a stiffness in her joints. The person who had been most ill at ease, it soon became clear, was Walter himself.

  O’Byrne could imagine it. Walter did not say so in so many words, for neither of them wished to refer to the matter that lay between them, but O’Byrne could imagine it all too well.

  The barn, the outbuildings, the house itself, all filled with Protestant soldiers. That would have been bad enough. But to be crammed in close, as a permanent guest in his brother-in-law’s house—no matter how much Walter and Orlando liked each other—must have increased the strain. And then, to be sharing rooms each day with a family that included the simple boy, Daniel, the ever-living reminder to all of them—except Maurice, who knew nothing—of his humiliation . . . For myself, thought O’Byrne, I couldn’t have borne it.

  But borne it Walter had, month after month, because he was a good and decent man; until at last, having done all he could for them and knowing that the coming of Cromwell was the one mighty threat to all their lives, he had taken his decision. Putting his wife in Maurice’s charge at the Walsh estate, and telling them that he was going on business into Connacht, he had quietly ridden down to take up arms, for the first time in his life, as a soldier in the army of Ormond. And so this solid, peaceable family man, well past his sixtieth year, had walked secretly out of his family’s lives, and in some strange way he seemed to be free. I wonder, thought O’Byrne, if he means to return?

  And as he listened to the merchant, and reflected upon the innate decency of the man, and the fact that it was he himself who had brought all this misery upon Smith, O’Byrne, besides feeling guilt and shame for what he had done with Anne, found himself suddenly struck by the realization, quite common in those who have played the game of adultery, that they have more affection and respect for the husband they have wronged than for the wife they stole.

  How strange, O’Byrne considered, as he poured them both more wine, that this fellow, who has none of our looks—those had gone to Maurice—is nonetheless my kinsman, more Irish than English. And he’s come to fight at my side, though God knows whether he knows how to use a sword. He’ll be butchered, of course, when the fighting begins. But that is his choice. He drank his wine and fell a little quiet.

  And perhaps he had drunk too much, but later that night, when the fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Smith rose to depart to his own tent, O’Byrne suddenly took him by the arm and softly cried, “Don’t seek your death here. There is no need.” And as the merchant slowly shook his head: “You’re a far better man than I am, Walter Smith. You’re worth ten of me.”

  But the merchant did not reply, and walked away in the darkness.

  Since he awoke at dawn, and was higher up the slope, O’Byrne was one of the first to notice. For a short time he imagined that they had concealed themselves; but as the sun began to rise, and his keen eyes scanned the coastal position selected for the cannon, he became increasingly alarmed. The troops who had left during the night were not there, nor anywhere else that he could see. Fifteen hundred men had disappeared.

  News spread through the camp. Soon people were staring out, eyes against the sun. Where were the troops? Had they marched into the secret halls under the mountains, like the shining heroes of Irish legend? Sometime around eight o’clock the answer became clear, as the long column appeared in the distance, making hurriedly for the coast.

  “Dear God,” O’Byrne murmured, “the fools got lost in the dark.”

  But if O’Byrne could see the Royalist men, so could the garrison in Dublin. The column reached its objective. The sun was well up in the sky. Then he saw what he had feared.

  A large column was coming out of Dublin. He could judge the numbers by the dust in the distance. It was almost a mile long. Perhaps five thousand men. Against fifteen hundred troops who’d just spent the night lost in the dark, and who hadn’t had time to entrench their position. They were going to be massacred.

  Moments later, Ormond sounded a general attack.

  They were moving too quickly. There was no time to lose, but as they moved across the open ground towards the hillock, O’Byrne could see that the forward companies were almost breaking into a run. His own cavalry troop was well trained. He kept them in close formation. But he saw another company breaking into a gallop. They were anxious to save their comrades. But what were their commanders thinking of?

  He wondered where Walter Smith was. He hadn’t caught sight of him.

  A young officer came up with orders.

  “Wheel.” They were to join a concerted charge on the enemy’s right flank. A sensible move, thank God.

  During the next minutes, O’Byrne had little time to think. He could no longer see the enemy. There were two waves of cavalry in front of him, thundering forward. The first wave broke upon the enemy line. But the troops from Dublin were in perfect formation, presenting an impregnable wall of pikes. As the second wave crashed, he saw ahead of him a churning mass of fallen horses and men, into which the enemy was pouring musket fire. There was no hope of getting through. Seconds later he was wheeling, streaming along the line, the forest of pikes gleaming horribly on his right, through the acrid smoke. A musket ball hissed past his head. He saw one of his men go down. “Back,” he cried. Time to regroup.

  All the rest of the morning the battle continued. The fifteen hundred men who got lost in the night were mostly wiped out. Again and again, Ormond’s men tried to take the enemy positions. Finally, around the middle of the day, the enemy made a lightning advance. Ormond’s men were fighting back, but to left and right, O’Byrne could see them giving ground. Then, suddenly, the lines collapsed. Whole companies were turning to flee. The enemy were harrying them. O’B
yrne saw a cavalry regiment racing round the right flank to cut them off. It was going to be a bloodbath. Ormond’s army was going to be destroyed, and there was nothing to be done.

  “Save yourselves,” he told his men, and wheeled his horse round.

  Some way off, he could see open ground. From there, tracks led westward. If he could work his way to reach the open ground, he might be able to get away. From there he should be able to travel south, then up to Rathconan. It was worth a try. He started off.

  Men were fleeing across his path. He encountered two skirmishes but rode swiftly round them. It seemed to him that he might be getting clear. He had gone about half a mile when he saw Walter Smith. He was held at bay in front of a stand of trees by three enemy horsemen. The first was upon him, hacking at his leg. A red gash appeared on Walter’s thigh. The merchant had drawn his sword, flailing wildly, but in another few moments they would have him down.

  Just then, by some miracle, he caught his assailant in the face and the man fell back, howling. But the other two were racing up. It would be all over for Walter Smith.

  O’Byrne let out a shout and spurred his horse forward. The men saw, and one of them veered round to meet him. O’Byrne drew his sword and they came together. He could not look out for Smith now, as they parried and thrust. The Englishman was skilful. For a moment, O’Byrne thought he might lose. But by the grace of God, the fellow’s horse missed his footing, the man’s head jerked back, and O’Byrne caught him with a thrust to the neck that split his windpipe open.

  As the Englishman fell, O’Byrne saw Walter. Amazingly, the merchant was still there. The remaining horseman, distracted by the fight between his comrade and O’Byrne, had not yet struck him down. Now the Englishman hesitated. Walter came at him, brandishing his sword. O’Byrne made straight for him, hoping to reach him first. The fellow thought better of it and fled.

  “Come.” O’Byrne was beside Walter now, taking his arm. “We must go.” He nodded at Walter’s leg. “You’re wounded.”

  Walter Smith stared. In the heat of the battle, he had hardly noticed the wound in his leg, which was bleeding considerably. He was flushed.

  “We beat them.”

  “We did.” O’Byrne smiled. Does the man realise that I’ve just saved his life? he wondered. Apparently not. “We must get away now, though,” he said kindly. But to his amazement, Smith shook his head.

  “We cannot leave the field of battle.” He said it with a stubborn determination.

  O’Byrne gazed at him, then grinned.

  “You’re too brave for me.” He chuckled. “But we’re obliged to go, you know. It’s orders. The retreat has been sounded.”

  “Oh.” Smith looked confused, but allowed himself to be led.

  It took them an hour, skirting the remains of the battle. O’Byrne didn’t say so to Smith, but it was obvious that the broken forces of Ormond were being caught piecemeal and butchered. He wondered how many would be left at the end of the day. After a couple of miles, with the battle behind them, O’Byrne thought it was safe to stop a few minutes so that he could look at Walter’s leg. Fortunately, the wound was not deep, but Walter had lost a good deal of blood. O’Byrne tore a strip off his shirt and bound the leg tightly.

  It was late afternoon as they began to go up the track that led to Rathconan. Walter by now had grown pale and quiet, but O’Byrne wasn’t too concerned about him. The merchant might not be much of a soldier, but he was surprisingly strong. When they reached the house, they found the old priest, who was still in residence, and a couple of the serving women. They carefully bathed Walter’s wound and bandaged it. He seemed grateful, and well enough to eat the evening meal with them.

  “We have to hope that Cromwell doesn’t come here for a few days,” O’Byrne remarked.

  “What will you do now?” the priest asked him.

  “I hardly know,” O’Byrne answered. “It will depend upon the military situation.” He did not add what he was sure of—that there was nothing, now, between Cromwell and Dublin.

  After the meal, they helped Walter up to the chamber, where they put him in the bed which once O’Byrne and Anne had occupied. He lay there, gazing around him.

  “It’s a fine place, Rathconan,” he said sleepily.

  “It is. And your own home, too,” O’Byrne reminded him. “For you’re still an O’Byrne.”

  “I know.” Smith nodded and closed his eyes.

  O’Byrne waited a moment, then, thinking the merchant had fallen asleep, turned to go.

  “We fought bravely today, didn’t we?” Walter murmured, his eyes still closed.

  “We did,” said Brian O’Byrne. “You fought like a lion.” And seeing the merchant smile, he bent down and kissed him.

  That night, he slept deeply and awoke long after the sun had risen.

  Going to the chamber where he had left Walter Smith the night before, he was surprised not to find him there, and still more to discover, after searching the house and stable, that both Walter and his horse had vanished.

  Doctor Pincher was now in his seventy-seventh year, but he hadn’t been so excited since he was a boy. For Barnaby Budge had arrived, and they were to meet today.

  Doctor Pincher had been greatly pleased that, even while Cromwell’s fleet was disembarking, Barnaby had courteously sent him a message by a soldier to ask where and at what time it would please his uncle to receive him. Doctor Pincher had already given much thought to the manner of their meeting. He had hoped to find an excuse to arrange it within the hallowed precincts of Trinity College, so that his nephew should first see him in those august surroundings rather than his more humble lodgings. The matter was solved by the soldier, who informed him that General Cromwell himself was to be taken in a carriage to College Green, where he would address the people of Dublin.

  “I shall be there to receive General Cromwell,” the doctor told him. “Let Captain Budge,” for so he now learned Barnaby was styled, “walk into the college beside the green afterwards, and he shall find me.”

  It couldn’t have been better. A speech from Cromwell, whom Parliament, besides giving him military command, had also designated with the title of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Then one of his brave officers and the distinguished Trinity professor would have a public family reunion. It would do honour to the family. Within the hour, he had made sure that several of the lecturers, a selection of the best young scholars, and even the Tidy family would be there to witness the event. So pleased was he that, in the privacy of his lodgings, Doctor Pincher actually hugged himself.

  The arrival of Oliver Cromwell and his Roundhead army in Ireland was an impressive business. A hundred and thirty ships came into the Liffey estuary and began to disembark their troops: eight thousand foot soldiers, three thousand ordinary horse, twelve hundred dragoons. There were also the several thousand English troops already in the Dublin garrison. These numbers, though large, were not awesome, but they belonged to what was probably the best fighting force in Europe. The ships also brought quantities of artillery, and last but not least, the sum of seventy thousand pounds to pay for any supplies they might need.

  Against them would be arrayed a coalition of forces. Ormond’s army had been shattered at Rathmines. Four thousand men had been killed, and another two and a half thousand taken prisoner. Others had melted away to their homes. Ormond still had about three thousand men, however, camped on the edge of the Midlands. There were also the Royalist forces down in Munster, and the town garrisons in every province—some of them protected by mighty walls. But the coming of Cromwell had also provoked one other important figure.

  Owen Roe O’Neill might be proud, but faced with the arrival of Cromwell himself, he had finally agreed: “We must forget our differences and combine the Confederates again.” The papal Nuncio might have been furious, but the Irish prince was now rejoining the Royalist cause. He was sick with a gangrenous leg, but he had five thousand men with him and could call on as many again.

  The numbers wer
e with the Royalists. In addition to that, neither the native Irish, nor the Old English in the countryside, nor the Presbyterian Scots of Ulster had any wish to see him there. Cromwell was entering hostile territory.

  It was while his army was being received by the Dublin garrison that Oliver Cromwell was taken by carriage to College Green.

  The day had started badly for the Tidy family. Perhaps it was Tidy’s fault.

  The two Roundhead officers who arrived at Christ Church that morning were looking for quarters where troops could be billeted. Considering all that Tidy’s wife had done to house the Protestant refugees eight years before, it was not surprising that they should have come to the cathedral precincts.

  But they did not understand about the bell.

  There was no question, old Tidy had given it his best. Hour after hour, as Cromwell’s fleet came into the Liffey, the great bell of Christ Church had tolled its Protestant welcome. For seven whole hours the old sexton had pulled on the bellrope, only letting his son take a short stint each hour while he drank a tankard of ale to revive him, and attended to the calls of nature. And it had been his intention to ring the bell again today, to mark the entrance of Cromwell into Dublin.

  So delighted had he been with these efforts that he had not hesitated, as perhaps he should have done, when he saw the two officers, but presented them with a bill for the princely sum of forty shillings. This had not been well received. Indeed, blunt words had been spoken by the officers when, not knowing the custom of the place, they had refused to pay. The sexton having then informed them that they’d be quartering no troops in the precincts of Christ Church, the larger officer, who seemed to be under the impression that this was a papist church, had remarked: “General Cromwell will quarter his horses in this cathedral if he pleases.” To which Tidy had riposted that the general might put his horses in the nave of Saint Patrick’s, but not Christ Church. They had parted on no good terms, despite the efforts of Tidy’s wife and Faithful to reassure the officers of their loyal intentions.