The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Two hours after the curfew ended, young William appeared. He offered no explanation of where he’d been, and she didn’t want to ask. He went to his room to sleep. Half an hour later, she was with Hercules. “You must take him back,” she begged. “I cannot answer for him, and I don’t know what harm he may do himself.”

  But Hercules was obdurate.

  “It’s too late,” he answered. “He is dead to me.”

  It was only then, in desperation, that she turned to the one person to whom she guessed the boy might listen.

  Brigid had hesitated only briefly before deciding: she would go with him, whatever the consequences.

  The boy had been a surprise, though.

  When Georgiana had come to Patrick for help, Brigid had thought it unnecessary; but Patrick had been understanding. “She is his grandmother, she loves him, and she feels she cannot help him. The responsibility is too much for her. I don’t blame her for seeking my help at all. And she may be right. The boy will probably listen to me.” He’d agreed to go round that afternoon.

  His plan, which he had not told Georgiana, had been a little harsh and somewhat devious, but necessary. “I’ll take him over to our kinsman Doyle,” he told Brigid. “Then we’ll throw him in the cellar, which can certainly be locked. Doyle can keep him there until the business is over, one way or the other.” Unfortunately, when Patrick had suggested this plan, old Doyle had refused. “He says it’s too much trouble,” Patrick reported. So they would just have to do what Georgiana wanted—which was to take the boy down to Wexford with them.

  He had warned Georgiana that there would be risks. He had even confessed to her that he was a United Irishman. But this did not seem to surprise her.

  “You will know how to keep him from harm’s way,” she had said. “You could take him to Mount Walsh. If you are going to Wexford, that should suit you rather well.”

  For Brigid and Patrick, the weeks since she had taken Lord Edward to the Liberties had been hectic as well as dangerous. Meetings had been arranged, instructions delivered. The whole structure— damaged, but still functional—of the United Irishmen had been contacted from that bare room in a squalid alley; and miraculously, she and Patrick had never been discovered. By the middle of May, the decision had been taken: the rising would take place on the twenty-third.

  Not that Patrick had been in favour. “It’s madness to begin without the French, he’d told her. But though trusted, he was not one of those who made the final decision, and Lord Edward and some of the others were obsessed with the idea. The wheels had been set in motion. By the time of Lord Edward’s capture, it seemed that the rising was destined to go ahead anyway.

  The plan was grand—Dublin would be taken, and all Ireland would rise. But the coordination was still weak. The Ulster organisation, after being pulverised in the previous months, was still acting separately. The disruption of the mail coaches the night before had been intended as a signal—when the mail failed to arrive in various towns, the people there would know that the rising had begun. But the Wexford coach had got through. At dawn that morning, it had been agreed that Patrick should go south the following day to do what he could to see that the groups he had set up proceeded in good order.

  Taking his kinsman down to Mount Walsh would actually provide him with an excellent excuse to travel, and Georgiana promised to furnish him with a letter that day. “If you stay at Mount Walsh,” she added with a wry look, “you could protect my house from your friends. I’d be sorry if the library you created should be burned down.”

  When Georgiana had departed, he turned to Brigid.

  “I have to go, you know.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “But I’m coming with you.” And although he argued against it, she would not be denied.

  That afternoon, Patrick went to see young William. Once he had explained the role that he and Brigid had played with Lord Edward, and told William that he wanted him to accompany him in an important mission to the south, the boy was only too anxious to come. They all set off the following morning.

  She didn’t have to go with him. She’d hesitated to leave her children: they’d always come first with her before. But she had spent the better part of her lifetime with this kindly, idealistic, and slightly self-centred man. Perhaps it was a deep and primitive instinct that prompted her, as women had done through the ages, to follow her man into war. But whatever the cause, after all they had been through recently, she knew that, for better or worse, this was the time when she must be at his side. “Shouldn’t you look after the children?” he asked her. “No,” she answered simply, “this time I’m looking after you.” She left her children in the care of her richer brother, at his house off Dame Street.

  They were all three well-mounted. They were challenged once, at the city’s southern outskirts. But upon learning that they were members of Lord Mountwalsh’s family going to secure the estate, the Yeomanry officer let them through with only a warning to be careful along the road. There was trouble to the west, he informed them, all the way through Meath and down through Kildare, and the military was already out in force in those counties. “But take care,” he cried, “Wicklow and Wexford will be next.”

  They saw some burned buildings along the way, but little evidence of any organised rising. At one village, they were gleefully told the landlord had fled. A few miles farther, a small group of local Yeomanry informed them proudly that the rebels in the vicinity had been crushed. Taking the road up into the mountains, they saw fewer people and less sign of trouble.

  They reached Rathconan late that afternoon and went straight to Conall’s cottage, where they found Deirdre, Conall, and Finn O’Byrne. Brigid admired the easy way that Patrick asked William to see to the horses while the rest of the party went into the cottage. As soon as they were inside and out of earshot, the men began to confer urgently. Conall quickly confirmed what they’d suspected. There had been confusion. Wexford was still waiting, uncertain what to do. Down on the coastal plain, the rebellion was proceeding southwards piecemeal, parish by parish. “I thank God you’re here,” Conall continued. “Old Budge is alone at the big house. Arthur Budge went down to Wicklow and his brother Jonah has been out with his Yeomanry down by the coast. My fellows are all ready. We can take over Rathconan within the hour. If this fellow had his way,” he indicated Finn O’Byrne, “we’d have done it already. But I’ve been holding them back until I was sure the rising had truly begun.”

  “You did right,” Patrick confirmed.

  “But it’s started now.” Finn’s eyes were shining with excitement. “I’ll have the men ready in a minute. The weapons are all close by.” He gave a grin in which joy and malice were perfectly conjoined. “We’ll have old Budge’s head on the end of a pike in time for him to watch the setting of the sun.” He nodded with huge satisfaction. “We’ll warm ourselves tonight with the burning of his house.”

  It seemed that if Finn still believed that his family were the rightful heirs of Rathconan, they could do without the house.

  But Patrick shook his head.

  “That’s not what is needed. Not yet. If we took it, Finn, we’d not be able to hold it. Even Jonah Budge with his Yeomen would probably overcome you, and God knows what other reinforcements his older brother would bring against you. It would all be to no purpose. You must wait,” he told them “for the general rising. When Wexford has risen, that is the time to take Rathconan and to tell all the other villages to rise. Meanwhile,” he pointed out, “if the Budges think the place is quiet, so much the better. When the time comes, you will take them by surprise. Do not move,” he instructed, “until I send you word.” He looked at Finn firmly. “It would be a pity to be killed for nothing.”

  Finn looked disappointed, but he held his peace.

  The family and young William ate together quietly that evening, and lay down to sleep at dusk. At dawn they left. Before they departed, Brigid had a brief but earnest conversation with her mother, after which Deirdre kissed
her. Their journey was uneventful. They reached Mount Walsh that night.

  It was strange to be back in the great house where she had once been a servant. She still knew some of the people working there. When young William had retired to his room, she and Patrick went to the library where they had first met. They lit some candles and perused the collection.

  “Not enough plays,” she remarked.

  “There’s Shakespeare.”

  “No Sheridan.”

  “You are right. When this business is over,” he hesitated only for an instant, “I’ll rectify the omission.”

  “Please do.”

  “My life began here, Brigid, when I met you.”

  “Mine, too.”

  It was eleven o’clock when they finally retired. They were only sleeping lightly when they were awoken by the flickering of torches outside and the sound of hammering upon the main door. Still in his nightshirt, Patrick ran downstairs with Brigid behind him. Young William and several servants were also gathering in the hall. From outside came a voice.

  “Come out or burn.”

  “What is it you want?” cried Patrick.

  “To burn down the house of the infamous Lord Mountwalsh,” the voice called back. “You’ll not be harmed if you come out.”

  Patrick told them all to stand back, then turned to one of the servants.

  “Open the door,” he said. “I’ll talk with them.”

  It did not take him long to talk them round. They were United Irishmen, about fifty of them. They weren’t local, but had come from some miles away. On their way to a great muster tomorrow, they had thought to turn aside and burn the house which they understood belonged to the hated Hercules.

  “It isn’t his,” he told them. “It belongs to his mother, who’s a Patriot. It’s she who sent me here.” And he gave them a quick account of who he was and the purpose of his journey. It wasn’t difficult for him to prove the truth of what he said. “The house stands for our cause,” he explained. “It shouldn’t be touched.”

  The leader of the group did not seem entirely pleased. To judge by his accent, he came from Ulster.

  “My name is Law,” he said, “and I’ve no great liking for that lady either. But we’ll do as you ask.”

  Patrick expressed some surprise at finding an Ulster man in Wexford.

  “There are several of us arrived,” Law told him. “For myself, I came down here for a change of air after I was flogged.”

  Patrick asked him how the disposition of the forces stood.

  “Wexford has started late,” Law explained. “There’s been no difficulty recruiting. Some of the local gentry are like Lord Mountwalsh, and they’ve even started Orange lodges. Even the moderate Protestants hate them. But they’ve been quite effective up the coast around Arklow. They arrested quite a few people in southern Wicklow and north Wexford. That set us back a day or two. But we had whole companies of men out this afternoon. Some of them said they were going turf-cutting. By dusk they were all under arms. Tonight, the whole of Wexford is rising.”

  “And what forces oppose us?”

  “Down in Wexford town there’s a garrison of two thousand men, with artillery. There’s another garrison farther away, guarding Waterford harbour, in case the French arrive. But apart from that, and a Yeomanry garrison at Enniscorthy, there are only small garrisons in the smaller places. We can overrun them easily. You should come with us to the big muster,” he added. “You could meet all the commanders.”

  Since this was exactly what he wanted, Patrick agreed at once.

  “Rest here with your men a few hours,” he suggested, “and we’ll go on together at dawn.”

  Law agreed, and Patrick retired with Brigid to get a little sleep.

  Brigid did not sleep, however, but watched over him until first light.

  At dawn, before he left, Patrick gave his orders to young William.

  “Wait here and be at the ready for a message from me,” he instructed him. “There may be things I require you to do. In the meantime, you are to guard Brigid.” To Brigid he whispered: “Keep him here at all costs, and see that he comes to no harm.”

  Brigid liked the peace of the great house. The huge quiet of the countryside was like a silent echo of her own childhood up at Rathconan. But comforting though this was, she could not escape the growing anxiety she felt about Patrick. She tried to occupy her mind with other things.

  She spent a good deal of time with young William. It was pleasant for her that he took an interest in the library. “Though whether my father will let me enjoy my patrimony seems uncertain,” he remarked sadly. He was quite happy to take turns reading a book aloud with her in the evenings. More difficult was the task of keeping him there. The first two days, he went for a ride to take some exercise. But by the third, he was fretting that he should go to join the Wexford rebels. “If Patrick has told you to wait,” she reminded him, “you can be sure it’s for a good reason. He has a very high opinion of you, so you mustn’t let him down now.” Unwillingly, he agreed; but she wasn’t sure how long she could keep him reined in. Though she had no use for the order to which he belonged, she couldn’t help liking him all the same.

  The weather was dry. She spent a good deal of time outside, often in Georgiana’s walled garden, which she found a pleasant haven. Sometimes she and young William would walk in the grounds. She had come to love the wide, classical streets of Dublin, but the massive Palladian structure of Mount Walsh, so grandly uncompromising, seemed to her eyes to be alien and out of place in that soft and gentle landscape. Thinking of the poor folk with whom she had grown up in Rathconan, she could quite see why people might want to burn it down. But she did not say so to William.

  On the evening of the fifth day, thank God, Patrick returned.

  He arrived with his friend Kelly, the neighbouring landowner. Both men were looking pleased with themselves, like a pair of boys.

  “You won’t believe how well it’s gone,” Patrick said.

  The progress of the United Irishmen had been astonishing. The very afternoon of the rally, they’d been attacked by a force brought in from Munster, the North Cork Militia. “And we saw them off,” Kelly cried triumphantly. Thousands of them had swept round the local villages, and the little garrisons there had fled. One garrison in their panic had left a huge cache of arms. “We couldn’t believe it,” Patrick explained. “They’d left us a present of eight hundred carbines and cartloads of ammunition. The next day, having no artillery, the garrison at Enniscorthy had surrendered. More rebel contingents had arrived. “We all camped on Vinegar Hill, outside the town,” Patrick went on. “It’s a pleasant place.” But the most extraordinary stroke of good fortune had come the next day when a military detachment had foolishly allowed itself to be ambushed and given up its cannons. For now the rebels were not only a huge horde, with firearms and pikes, but they had artillery as well. Faced with this, even the commander at Wexford, the one real garrison in the region, had panicked and withdrawn.

  “As of today,” Patrick informed them, Wexford shall be the model for the new United Ireland. We have a Senate of eight governors, four Catholic, four Protestant. Similarly, we have both Protestant and Catholic commanders, with about ten thousand under arms.” He smiled. “Before I left Wexford, I already sent a messenger to Rathconan to tell them—it’s time to rise.”

  There was not much time. Finn O’Byrne looked up at the sky. The afternoon was wearing on. The message from Patrick had come the evening before. Conall had been out since dawn, travelling around the area putting the word out. The rising was to take place in the middle of that night. On Conall’s instructions, he had already organised the men to fetch the weapons from their hiding places once darkness had fallen. The signal would be given sometime after midnight. Then they’d strike.

  The target would be the house. Old Budge would be in there, of course. He was to be taken prisoner and held. Finn had been against that himself. “Kill him,” he cried. But Conall had only shaken
his head. “You’re too bloodthirsty, Finn. He could be worth more as a hostage anyway.” The people working in the house had not been informed, but as they were all local, no one expected any trouble, and they’d just be told to get out. More problematic was the question of the landlord’s two sons. If either was there, they’d certainly put up a fight.

  “We capture them if we can, but we kill if we have to,” Conall had told him.

  Jonah Budge and his Yeomen had last been seen ten miles away. His brother Arthur was down in Wicklow. That morning, however, seeing Old Budge by his door, Finn had asked after his elder son and Budge had answered: “He’ll be here this afternoon.” It was a piece of information Finn had kept to himself.

  For he had needed to decide. And he had been having second thoughts.

  Finn O’Byrne had been waiting for this rising all his life. For months he had been savouring the thought. At times, he could almost taste it. He’d been furious a week before when Patrick had made them wait.

  The idea of seeing all the Budges dead—and all Protestants, for that matter—was sweet indeed. Conall said that there were good Protestants in the United Irishmen. But what did Conall know?

  Whatever his feelings, though, he wasn’t a fool, Finn told himself. There were things, important things, to be considered about the present situation. Things to make a man pause.

  The men down in Wexford might have had a big success. But they possibly did not realise that, elsewhere, the rising had not been going so well.

  Dublin was held by the government in a viselike grip. Despite all Lord Edward’s efforts, his scattered forces were not really ready. Munster and Connacht had not risen. The risings in Meath and Kildare had been contained, and almost collapsed now, after big defeats at the ancient sites of Tara and the Curragh. There were signs of a Presbyterian rising up in eastern Ulster now, but would that be enough to topple Dublin? The men down in Wexford had been lucky, but they were more isolated than they realised. And even if Wicklow joined them, the outlook was bleak.