My dear Grandmother,
Lord Cornwallis’s peace still holds, and we see more English and Irish visitors to Paris than ever. I still continue to hope that you will come here one day.
Robert Emmet has gone to Amsterdam to join his brother Tom and his family, and they all think of going to America. Robert, good fellow that he is, was never happy in Paris, though with his genius for chemistry and mathematics, he had made the acquaintance of some of the greatest French men of science. So as usual, our finest men will go to the new world, since the old world is not worthy of them.
Will the peace last? Some of the Irish here would be glad for it to end. For while we were at war, the French government paid to support the United Irishmen in France; and during the peace, those payments have ended. Some of the better sort, with no trade to fall back on, are hard-pressed to put food in their mouths. Worse yet, it is believed that Bonaparte is quite ready to sell any of the Irish, including Emmet, to the English in return for some French émigrés.
With each passing month, it becomes clearer that Napoleon is not a hero but a Tyrant. Even those Irishmen who still have the strongest hopes of freeing Ireland, and I include my friend Emmet himself, would sooner have King George for a master than Bonaparte.
I remain, as always, your loving grandson,
William
Before I seal this letter, I have just received news that Robert Emmet has left for England, whence he means to journey to Ireland, I know not upon what cause. But see that you tell no one else.
Hercules put down the transcript of the letter and smiled. Finn O’Byrne’s monthly reports had been paltry affairs so far, but perhaps now he could achieve something useful.
Two days later, when Finn O’Byrne appeared, he gave him a simple order.
“Find Robert Emmet.”
By the following April, Finn was getting desperate. His last interview with the earl had been frightening. “If you cannot find anything better than this,” Hercules had coolly observed, “I shall conclude that you have joined the conspirators yourself.” Finn had broken out in a cold sweat.
“If Emmet’s here, he’s wearing a cloak of invisibility, your lordship,” he’d protested. “There’s not a sign of him.”
“Find him or suffer the consequences,” the aristocrat had replied bleakly.
And the devil of it was, Mountwalsh was right. Several people had whispered to him that Emmet was in Dublin, but nobody knew where. And that wasn’t the only problem. From the very start of his attempt to infiltrate the United men—that was eighteen months ago now—he had run into unexpected problems.
The first person he had gone to see had been John MacGowan. He’d remembered his visit to Rathconan with Patrick. If anyone could involve him in the movement again, it would be the Dublin merchant. But he had got nowhere. MacGowan had been straightforward.
“The movement is lying dormant until there’s a real chance of success. That much I know. Ulster, Wicklow, and the other regions will only rise if Dublin is secured, and the Dublin men don’t want to rise without the French. Who can blame them? The chain of command has also been changed. But that’s all I know, because I refuse to take part anymore.” When Finn had expressed surprise, he’d explained. “Our rising in ’98 failed miserably and cost too many lives. I no longer believe in risings. We can achieve more by patience and peaceful means. Perhaps my children will see justice. Meanwhile, things could be worse. Cornwallis was wise and humane. There are others like him.” Seeing that this was not at all what Finn wanted to hear, he added: “You might try the Smith brothers.”
When he had told the earl of MacGowan’s lack of interest in the cause, Lord Mountwalsh had not been pleased. “A pity,” he had declared irritably. “MacGowan is a man who needs to be hanged.”
Finn had been hesitant to approach Deirdre’s sons, and had tried other avenues first. He soon discovered that MacGowan’s reluctance was shared by many of the Dublin tradesmen. Finally, after putting out several feelers, including one to the Smiths, and waited two weeks, he had been visited by a man he did not know, who had invited him to join a small group under his command. But there his progress had halted. Who the other companies might be, to whom his own commander reported, he was never told, nor was there any way of finding out. He was part of an invisible army. And, he soon discovered, this was deliberate. After the failure of the last rebellion, the United Irishmen had learned the value of secrecy. “If you or I are arrested and tortured,” his commander told him, “there’s almost nothing we can tell them.” He grinned. “Next time we fight, it will be like the dead arising from their graves.”
And it hadn’t got any better. Talking to others, travelling into Wicklow and Kildare, he’d sometimes been able to glean small bits of information; but generally, he’d only been able to tell the contemptuous earl that the United men were biding their time.
So he’d been almost grateful at first for the chance to go after Emmet. At least it was something definite to do.
Old Doctor Emmet had died in December. A family friend was in charge of his affairs, and the house to the south of the city was to be sold. His remaining family had taken lodgings meanwhile. Surely young Robert Emmet might appear at one of these places? Finn had even employed a boy to watch them, but there had been no sign of Emmet.
In late March, however, he had seen a change. His commander had suddenly been more forthcoming. He even looked excited. Something was up. Important men, leaders of the movement, were arriving from France. Were either of the Emmets here now? he ventured. “That is possible,” his commander admitted. A few days later, he had made a trip down, himself, to Doctor Emmet’s former house.
The house, which was called Casino, was an old structure with eighteenth-century embellishments, sitting in a small park south of Donnybrook, only half an hour’s walk south from St. Stephen’s Green. It was shuttered and silent. Skirting the house, he found a small window at the back he could force, and moments later he was inside.
The place was empty. Everything had been removed. His foot-steps echoed unnervingly. Up on the attic floor where the servants had slept, he found an old bedstead, some bedding, and a couple of ancient blankets, presumably left because they were not worth taking. Had somebody used them? Possibly. He returned downstairs. In the kitchen he found a couple of plates, a cracked pitcher, an empty wine bottle. There were some crumbs on the floor. He couldn’t decide how old they were. He went back to the hall. There was only one strange thing about the empty house.
He felt as if he were not alone. He couldn’t say why; it was just a sensation. But all the time, as he moved from empty room to empty room, he felt as if some other heart was also beating there, some other person, quite close, yet whom he could not see. He went round once more. Nobody. Nothing. No sounds, no fleeting shadows. Only blankness. He shrugged. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He left, closing the window behind him.
A week later, he nervously made his report to Lord Mountwalsh. “Just a little patience,” he begged. “The United men are about to show their faces.” But to his surprise, the earl did not seem particularly concerned. Instead, he picked up an oval miniature from his desk and told Finn to look at it. “Can you remember that face?” he asked. The face belonged to a young man. It was broad, strong, and pleasant. “This was done about four years ago,” the earl remarked, but the features will not have changed much, I think.” Finn nodded. “I believe he is in Dublin. Perhaps with Emmet. Find him.”
“I’ll try, my lord. But who is it?”
“My son. His name is William. You might start by watching the movements of his grandmother. She lives in Merrion Square.”
With this new commission, Finn left, greatly surprised.
My dear Grandmother,
The rumour here is that Bonaparte is preparing for war again. And unofficially, it is said, certain persons close to Bonaparte have approached certain other persons—I could not say who—to know whether a rising might be effected in Ireland.
As you can imagine, this has caused quite a stir among our friends. On the one hand, this might be the opportunity for which they have waited so long; on the other, they are now so anxious that Ireland should not fall under the rule of the French dictator himself, that they are eager to ensure that any rising is under their own control before the French arrive. It is said also that the American ambassador has offered funds from his own pocket to purchase arms.
Meanwhile, I myself think of visiting Italy, so do not be alarmed if a little time passes before you hear from,
Your affectionate grandson,
William
Georgiana gazed at the letter. Almost two months had passed since it arrived, and since then she had received no further letters. It was possible that he had gone to Italy, of course, but she did not think so. It was surely a stratagem to explain the fact that he could not write to her from Paris.
He was probably in Dublin, then. Every day since getting the letter, she had looked out of her window, half hoping to see him walking towards her through Merrion Square. But, of course, she hadn’t seen him. And if he was here secretly, he must be with the United men. She trembled to think what danger he was putting himself in.
But the circumstance that had frightened her most of all was something that had happened in her own house. A week after she had locked the letter away, she had taken it out of the locked drawer in her bureau again, and noticed to her astonishment that the letter had been replaced in the drawer the wrong way up. She was quite certain: she had put the letter in there with the writing facing towards her; now it had been reversed. She had tested the drawer after locking it. Someone, therefore, had picked the lock, read the letter, and replaced it. But who had done so, and what did it mean? And how much danger was her grandson in?
It was strange to be invisible. At first it had seemed exciting, but now William found it lonely.
Robert Emmet was living under an assumed name out at Rathfarnham, a couple of miles farther south. It had been Emmet’s idea that William should use Casino. “It’s empty,” he explained, “and when I was there before, I made some false panels and trapdoors. So if anyone should come there, I can show you how to hide.” That was exactly what William had done the day the fellow had come snooping round the house. The hiding place had been effective, but he was sorry that it didn’t allow him to get a sight of the intruder’s face.
Meanwhile, he had grown a moustache and some bushy side-whiskers of which he was rather proud. On Emmet’s advice, he called himself William Casey. “And since nobody outside our Paris group knows a thing about you now,” Emmet had pointed out, “you could be very useful.” The United leaders, Hamilton, Russell, McCabe, Swiney, were a mixed group, some gentlemen and men of intellect, others artisans, but all idealists. He was the youngest of the men present at the meetings, which were usually held at Rathfarnham. “But we take no account of age,” Emmet smiled. Anne Devlin, the girl who acted as housekeeper of the place, was only sixteen, yet they all seemed quite content to trust her with their lives. Men came to see them from all over the island. The men from Wicklow and Ulster promised, “Take Dublin and we’ll rise.” The men from Kildare said: “We’ll help you take it.”
But the meetings which most impressed William were the ones with the lesser, local commanders. For this was where Emmet really came into his own. It was extraordinary how persuasive he could be, painting a glowing picture of how things would be as soon as Ireland was free. “Napoleon is looking to us Irishmen,” he would tell some humble artisan, “to see whether we have the fight in us. If we want his help, we have to prove ourselves. So where do you stand?” It never seemed to fail.
During May, news came that Napoleon was officially at war with England again. This added urgency to the preparations. By June, a message was sent to Paris to tell Bonaparte that they were almost ready for him.
One evening, they had gone into Dublin to meet some local townsmen. Emmet had been inspiring, but one fellow, who had been especially impressed, had also stared with interest at William, and afterwards had come up to him. Would he also have come from Paris? he asked respectfully. And when William nodded, the fellow remarked: “I could see you were a man of birth and education, Sir. I am Finn O’Byrne, at your service.”
“I am William Casey.”
Finn nodded. “And would you be living in the city, Sir, might I ask?”
“Outside.”
“I am caretaker of a house in the city, Sir, and I have access to others. If ever you should require lodgings, or a place to store anything, I can arrange it and no one need even know you’re there. Would you tell Mr. Emmet that as well?”
William said he would, and Finn O’Byrne gave him the address where he could be found. “Would there be anywhere I could find you, Sir?” he asked.
“Through Mr. Emmet,” William answered cheerfully, “who can be reached through the usual channels.”
“You know where to find me, Sir,” Finn repeated, “if ever I can be of service to you.”
He seemed a good fellow, thought William.
With Emmet acting as quartermaster, the preparations went forward at speed. There were three secret caches of weapons in the Dublin Liberties. Only a handful of men, which included the Smith brothers, knew where they were. Blacksmiths had made hundreds of pikes. They had flintlocks, pistols, a formidable quantity of gunpowder. William made himself useful acting as a secretary and righthand man for Emmet. Only one thing was lacking.
“We need money, William,” Emmet remarked one day in June. “Can you get us any?”
William had a hundred pounds left. He gave fifty to Emmet. He even thought for a moment of going to his grandmother for funds; but if he did that, he’d break his cover; and besides, even if she’d give him money, he couldn’t drag her into the conspiracy in such a way. But thinking about it made him realize with a stab of pain how much he missed his family.
Not that he really missed his parents. He was frankly glad to avoid his father, and his mother, though she loved him, so completely identified with his father’s wishes that he never really felt he could talk to her. But Georgiana was another matter. Once or twice, at dusk, he had walked past her house, hoping to catch sight of her at a lighted window. How he’d longed to go up the steps to the door, with its broad fanlight, and make himself known. The second time he had done this, he had been delighted to see the door open and his brother come out. He had watched him walk dreamily along the street, no doubt happily engaged in some mathematical puzzle, and wished so much that he could come up beside him.
William found Emmet more extraordinary every day. Not content with collecting weapons, he was inventing new ones. He had designed a folding pike that could be concealed under a man’s greatcoat. The blacksmiths had complained and only made a few, but they worked. As a chemist, he designed grenades and some signal rockets. These last were formidable monsters, with eight-foot poles that would rise hundreds of feet into the sky before discharging different-coloured fireworks that would act as prearranged signals to the troops. Early in July, they tested one, quite effectively, in some fields near Rathfarnham.
William also knew that, at the same time as all these other activities, his friend was conducting a love affair with the daughter of a gentleman whose family house was nearby. William had met Sarah Curran, a dark beauty with a beautiful singing voice, and he counted Emmet a fortunate fellow. His friend was doing so much that it seemed to William that a day of his life must be worth a month of living for most other people.
As July began, however, he could tell that Emmet was concerned. By the middle of the month, he was getting nervous.
“We must act soon, William,” the young man confessed. “We’re almost out of money, and it can’t be long before we’re discovered.”
“What about the French? We can’t go without them,” William pointed out.
“Not a word.” Emmet paused. He seemed to be considering something, then irritably shook his head. “The time’s drawing close,”
he said suddenly. “I need to be in the city from now on, and you should be, too. Have you a place you can use?”
Remembering the helpful offer from Finn O’Byrne, William had gone to see him the next day. O’Byrne had been delighted. “There’s a room you can use in the very house where I live,” he assured him. “It’ll be no trouble at all.”
Finn O’Byrne was in luck. Two weeks ago, when he had reported seeing both Emmet and William, Lord Mountwalsh had been pleased. And now, when he told him about this new arrangement, Lord Mountwalsh even smiled.
“You think the conspiracy is moving towards a final phase?’
“I do, your lordship.”
Hercules considered. When O’Byrne had first reported seeing Emmet and William, he had felt duty bound to inform the Castle, at least, about Emmet. But the officials there hadn’t been very impressed.
“We know some of the United men have come over from France, but they’re small beer. Robert Emmet is very young. He may be here to arrange his family’s affairs. Have you anything more specific?”
“No,” Hercules had answered regretfully.
But if O’Byrne could place young William under surveillance, William would probably lead him to Emmet, and who knows what else.
“You are to follow my son,” he told O’Byrne, “and report to me.” The only thing that puzzled Finn was what this aristocrat meant to do about his son once he had found the conspiracy. Extract the young man to a place of safety, he supposed. Personally, he didn’t care, as long as he was paid.
“I will make sure that the young gentleman is not implicated,” he said helpfully.
But he didn’t know his man.
Hercules gazed at him. When he had first begun this business, he had only wanted information. But that was before he had realized how far his son was involved. But now his view had changed. First the boy had been thrown out of Trinity, then run away to Paris, and now he was planning an insurrection. For a moment, he even allowed himself to show his feelings to this wretched spy.
The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga Page 66
