The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  A year later, when news reached Ireland of the Boston colonists’ destruction of a valuable cargo of tea, another letter from the judge arrived.

  Here in Philadelphia, the governor avoided a similar conflict by persuading the captain to take his cargo of tea back to England. But now that such a challenge has been made to London, I fear that legal retaliation will follow. And resorting to law, alas, can only make this conflict worse. I have written also to our cousins in Belfast.

  This last sentence, she supposed, might be a gentle hint to her that, having gone to the trouble of reestablishing relations with the family in distant Philadelphia, it might be a kindness to do the same for her relations in nearby Belfast. In this case, she knew that her uncle John had had a son named Daniel, so she knew whom to write to. And indeed, if she asked herself why she had never done so, she had to confess that it was probably a fear that her Belfast relations, who were not at such a safe distance as the ones in Philadelphia, might embarrass her in some way. Having decided that this was small-minded, and having made sure that her kindly husband had no objection, she wrote a letter. But she received no reply.

  The following year, old Fortunatus lost his wife, and Georgiana made a point of going round several times a week to keep the old man company. She would often find his brother Terence there, and it was heartwarming to see the two brothers sitting so contentedly together. Though he complained of nothing more than a stiff leg, it sometimes seemed to Georgiana that Doctor Walsh was not entirely well himself. Occasionally, he looked gaunt and tired. But he was obviously content to sit chatting with his brother all afternoon. And if she didn’t find Terence, then she’d often encounter his son Patrick there instead. “It’s good of the boy to come,” Fortunatus would say, “when he has better things to do.” Yet she had no doubt that Patrick enjoyed the old man’s company.

  Though his father had suggested he follow in the medical profession, Patrick had chosen the wine trade instead, and was working hard at it. The more she saw of Patrick, the better she liked him. He was clever, humorous, and kind. And he was not without ambition. “I hope to make my fortune if I can,” he told her frankly. And when she asked if there was anything else he desired: “I could never change my faith, but if it were ever possible for a Catholic to do so, then I should like to enter Parliament.”

  Though that still seemed a far-off hope, Georgiana was glad that there were now some small, but encouraging developments for the Catholics of Ireland. The Pope had opened the door. Some years ago, after two centuries of opposition to England’s heretic monarchs, the Pope had compromised, and King George III was now recognised by the Vatican as the legitimate sovereign of Britain. That made things easier. “And with all this trouble in the American colony,” her husband told her, “the government wants to keep every section of the community as happy as possible.” In Ireland, Catholics were excluded from every office, because the Oath of Allegiance was worded in such Protestant terms that no Catholic could possibly take it. “So we’re going to try to find a way round it,” her husband explained. The Protestant Bishop of Derry, working with some of the Catholic hierarchy, devised a new oath. Not all the Catholic bishops liked it, but others urged their flocks to take it. This might, after all, open the way to further things.”

  “Will you take it?” Georgiana asked Patrick.

  “I shall, at once,” he declared. And old Fortunatus was equally enthusiastic.

  “This is what the family always stood for back in my father’s and my grandfather’s day: loyalty to their faith and loyalty to the king,” he reminded them. “I still pray,” he confessed to her after one of Patrick’s visits, “that you may live to see the two branches of the family—Hercules and Patrick—both in the Parliament together.”

  Hercules would also go to see his grandfather from time to time, of course, but Georgiana noticed that if he came and found Patrick there, one or other of them would soon make a polite excuse and leave. Once, she asked Patrick if there was anything amiss between him and her son, but he dodged the question, replying: “We both love Uncle Fortunatus, you know.” When she asked Hercules the same thing, he answered briefly: “He has his life; I have mine.” And he refused to say anything more. So she did not pursue the matter. But I like him anyway, she thought, whether you do or not.

  Her project to marry Hercules to the Fitzgerald girl had miserably failed. The girl herself, according to Eliza, found Hercules cold. His own assessment was blunt and final.

  “She has too many opinions of her own, Mother, to be of any interest to me.”

  Georgiana sighed. No mother wants to think poorly of her son. She would continue to try.

  Early in 1775, her husband had taken her to London for a month. It had been a most successful visit. They had gone to the Houses of Parliament, heard Pitt, Fox, and Burke, the greatest orators of the day, watched Lord North, the Prime Minister, apparently half asleep in the House of Lords. “Actually,” a knowing friend informed them, “Lord North is a much cleverer fellow than he looks, but he holds the position more from a sense of duty than because he likes it.” They also spoke to numerous politicians. In the course of this, Georgiana had gained a clearer insight into the mentality of the London government concerning the Catholics in Ireland. “The fact is, Lady Mountwalsh,” a cynical government supporter informed her with a smile, “this new loyalty oath has been a deucedly good thing. On the one hand, the Catholic bishops don’t agree with each other about it. So that splits the Catholics and lessens the chance of them giving us any trouble. But at the same time, it’s encouraging Catholic recruits into the army. You see,” he explained, “for years now, about one in twenty of the troops in the British army have been Irish. They were all supposed to take the Oath of Allegiance, of course, but if they were Catholic, we just forgot about it. Now, however, with their priests encouraging them to take the new oath, we’re recruiting two or three times as many. If this trouble in the colonies turns into armed conflict—and we’re damnably short of troops—we can send these Irish off to fight in America.” He laughed. “So I’m all for Catholics at present, my lady.”

  She had been around politicians for decades and was no stranger to political calculation, but when she thought of old Fortunatus and of young Patrick’s honest loyalty, and the hundreds of Catholic Irish she knew, she felt a sense of sadness and disgust at the Englishman’s shallow calculation.

  The real purpose of their visit, however, was for pleasure. She had seen the latest London fashions, bought some fine silks and shoes, while George had acquired three Italian paintings in the sale rooms. But perhaps most delightful of all was the night they went to the theatre to see the new romantic comedy that had just taken London by storm.

  As well it might: for The Rivals, with its almost dreamlike plot, its lively characters like Sir Lucius O’Trigger, Sir Anthony Absolute, and the novel-reading Lydia Languish—not to mention the ineffable Mrs. Malaprop, who always uses the wrong word—was obviously destined to become a classic of the stage. Even Garrick, the great actor manager, had already declared it a masterpiece. And to think that the author was still only twenty-three!

  Having roared with laughter and warmly applauded, it gave Lord and Lady Mountwalsh particular pleasure to go backstage afterwards to congratulate the handsome playwright himself, none other than young Richard, Tom Sheridan’s son.

  “You know how happy my father will be that the grandson of his old friend, the great Doctor Sheridan, should have succeeded so brilliantly here in London,” George said warmly. “And will you forgive me if I say that some of your language is so delicious, so brilliant, that it could only have come from an Irishman.”

  Both these sentiments seemed to give young Sheridan enormous pleasure.

  “I remember your father, when I was a boy in Dublin,” he cried.

  “You may have known our son Hercules, when he was here in London,” Georgiana added.

  “Ah yes,” said Sheridan.

  The spring passed quietly for Georgia
na. Then came news from

  America that fighting had begun near Boston. Soon afterwards, she received another letter from Judge Edward Law in Philadelphia.

  After some hesitation, I am now inclined to what we here call the Patriot cause. My estimation is that about one fifth of our people are patriots, favouring a complete separation from Britain; two fifths are loyal to the crown, though they want reform; and another two fifths are undecided, uninterested, or afraid to commit to anything. The slave-owners in the south fear anything that might lead to a slave revolt.

  I know that our cousins in Ulster, like most of the Presbyterians there, entirely favour the patriot cause and would be glad to see America—and Ireland—independent from England. I wonder if you are for us or against us?

  After reading the letter carefully, she thought it better not to reply just yet. When her husband asked her if it contained anything of interest, she answered, “Not really, George,” and later locked it in her bureau.

  A year later, the American Declaration of Independence had gone ringing round the world, four thousand troops had been despatched from Ireland to quell the colony, and news had come that dear old Mr. Franklin had gone to France to get military aid from Britain’s oldest enemy. It was just as well, she supposed, that she had never replied.

  In that same extraordinary year, a more mundane event came to occupy her attention closer to home.

  Hercules had found a wife. The girl’s parents, who owned a good estate in County Meath, had brought her to Dublin to find a husband, and there Hercules had wooed her and won her heart. Not that—given that she had come there expressly for that purpose and he was the heir to Lord Mountwalsh—this was a task requiring more than common sense. But he had done it, and she was exactly what he wanted.

  Nobody could object to Kitty. She wasn’t the kind of beauty that everyone remarked upon, but she looked very well at his side. She had the same upbringing and outlook as scores of other girls of her class, and being still only eighteen, she clearly looked to Hercules for guidance. Once, when Georgiana asked her what she thought of the American colony’s actions, she looked at once to Hercules, who answered firmly for her:

  “They are rebels, and they’ll pay for their treason.”

  “Even old Benjamin Franklin?” she’d pursued.

  “Franklin?” Kitty seemed uncertain who he was.

  “That old devil, especially, should be hanged,” said Hercules, at which Kitty looked relieved.

  “So do you prefer the country or the town?” Georgiana had then asked the girl.

  But even here, Kitty had glanced at Hercules.

  “Depends on the season, doesn’t it?” he had suggested to her genially.

  “Yes. It depends on the season,” she had replied firmly. And Hercules had given his mother such a look that she had asked no more questions.

  And since his marriage seemed to improve his temper somewhat, Georgiana supposed she should be grateful.

  That same year saw another milestone in her son’s life: his election to Parliament.

  An election in England or Ireland was always an interesting business. Not that there was much voting. Most of the seats were controlled by a small number of prominent citizens or by a few local landowners. The citizens would normally expect to receive something for their vote, in cash or help with their business; the landowners usually put in one of their family members, or a friend. And in all cases, naturally, the government would attempt to bribe the electors to choose a candidate who’d support the government line. In the case of the election of 1776, the government succeeded rather well.

  “No less than eighteen new peerages are given out,” George told Georgiana with a laugh. “At this rate, I fear we Irish peers will soon be common as tinkers.”

  As promised, old Fortunatus gave up his seat to his grandson Hercules, and the next generation of the Walsh family glided smoothly down to be launched into the waters of politics. But the weather over the sea ahead looked stormy.

  The Parliament Fortunatus had left had consisted of factional interests that were loosely organised in an informal fashion. The group calling themselves Patriots, who desired more authority for the Irish Parliament, fluctuated in number, and even their leader, a fine speaker named Flood, had accepted government office not long ago. The Walsh family had chosen a moderate course. In the Lords, George Mountwalsh could usually be relied upon to support the government unless they proposed something egregious. Fortunatus, on the other hand, sitting in the Commons, had been sympathetic to the Patriot cause ever since the days of Dean Swift and the copper coin scandal. But he was a genial fellow, and the officials in the castle had always considered him a reasonable man whose vote might be solicited from time to time.

  But now, suddenly, the American Revolution had bathed the world in a new and dangerous light. Out in the colony, the American Patriots—respectable landowners, lawyers, merchants, and farmers—had taken destiny into their own hands. “And what,” those who similarly called themselves Patriots in Ireland might ask, “have we accomplished by comparison?” At the very least, they decided, they should stick together and use the situation to win some real concessions. Other members, however, who might have been sympathetic to their cause, now decided that, in such a crisis, it wasn’t the time to rock the boat. As the new Parliament assembled, the government men were making clear, “If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” and it looked as if the Patriots might be isolated.

  It was a Parliament that might have been made for Hercules. All his natural instincts were called upon. He was like a hound that has scented its quarry. Within hours of his arrival, he had sought out the government’s sternest supporters and let them know that, whatever his grandfather’s views might have been, he was of their party. He was for order; the Patriots were for disorder; the Patriots should be destroyed. Such enthusiasm was rare in politics.

  But the Patriots were not without friends. Soon after the election, Georgiana met Doyle, who told her:

  “Let the government learn from what’s happening in America, and treat the free men of Ireland better. We’re all Patriots in this family,” he declared, “and I hardly know a merchant in Dublin who isn’t.” In towns all over Ireland, the Protestant merchants and craftsmen were saying the same thing.

  One day, on a visit to the Parliament building to see her son, Georgiana had been rather astonished to find him in earnest conversation with his cousin Patrick. After Patrick had gone, she had remarked to Hercules that she thought he didn’t like Patrick.

  “I detest him,” her son replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “but we are on the same side. At the moment, anyway.” And later that day, Patrick had called round at her house and explained to her:

  “I’m organising a loyal address from the Catholic tradesmen of Dublin—pledging our support for the government and our opposition to the American rebels.” He saw her surprise and continued: “The Catholic community is doing the same in towns all over Ireland. If we want to increase our influence, this is the moment to show the government that it can trust us—the better sort amongst us, anyway.” He smiled. “So Hercules and I may not be in harmony, but we’re singing the same tune!”

  But if the government was getting support from the more prosperous parts of the Catholic community, they had also gained a vigorous opponent they had surely never thought of.

  Fortunatus Walsh. Well into his eighties, without a wife, without a seat in Parliament, yet with all his mental faculties, old Fortunatus after a lifetime of genial, cautious calculation had apparently decided he didn’t care what anyone thought anymore. Was he just bored, or deeply persuaded of the rightness of the cause? Even Georgiana wasn’t sure. But whatever the reason, he had no sooner quit the House of Commons than he became a passionate Patriot. Not only did he denounce the government and cheerfully declare that the American rebels were in the right, but he turned the house on St. Stephen’s Green into a meeting place for any of the Patriot party who
cared to come by.

  Many people were surprised. Her husband George shook his head affectionately. Hercules, however, had not been amused at all. “I have told everyone,” he informed her, “that my grandfather is in his dotage and has lost his wits.”

  Georgiana continued to call on Fortunatus often, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. The house was livelier than she had ever known it before. Radical broadsheets like The Freeman’s Journal were scattered on the tables. A copy of Tom Paine’s Common Sense, advocating American independence, even arrived from the colony. The Doyles would often look in, and once they brought with them a radical Member of Parliament named Napper Tandy, who told her: “When we mobilise the trade guilds as well as our Patriots in Parliament, the castle will be surprised at what we can do.” It sounded ominous, but she also found it rather exciting. Charles Sheridan, the playwright’s elder brother, also put in the occasional appearance. He had just entered the Parliament on the Patriot side, and Fortunatus had made a point of seeking him out and bringing him round. Charles also gave her an interesting piece of news: “My brother Richard is quite determined to enter politics in England if he can make enough money by writing plays. If he succeeds, we shall have one Sheridan in the Dublin Parliament and another in Westminster.”

  On another day, Fortunatus introduced a delightful young lawyer who had recently entered the Commons. A gentleman, but without the two thousand pounds needed to purchase a constituency, he’d been given a seat by a Patriot peer. His name was Henry Grattan.

  She liked young Grattan at once. He had a thin, clever face. “You look like a lawyer,” she told him.

  “I know,” he said with a smile. “But I must confess that all the time I was in London and supposed to be studying the law, I was at Westminster in the gallery of the House of Commons listening to the great orators like Pitt, and Fox, and Edmund Burke. Ah, what men! I studied politics there, Lady Mountwalsh, and I hope I may succeed in it, for I fear I should make a terrible lawyer.”