“He was my son. But he has betrayed his family, his religion, and his country. He has betrayed me. He is no longer my son.”
“As your lordship pleases.”
“I want him caught in the act, O’Byrne. There must be no uncertainty. The evidence must be irrefutable. I want him arrested. And then I want him hanged.”
O’Byrne stared at him.
“You will say nothing to anyone,” his lordship continued. “You will keep me fully informed and I shall alert the authorities when appropriate. But if you lead the troops to my son at the right moment, I will give you fifty pounds. Can you accomplish that?”
Fifty pounds was a lot of money.
“Oh yes,” said O’Byrne, “I can.”
On the evening of July 14, Dublin was startled by a series of bangs and a burst of fireworks over the Liffey. At Dublin Castle, the officer on watch treated the matter calmly.
“It’s Bastille Day,” he said in a bored voice. “Republican fireworks.”
Nonetheless, Dublin city’s chief of police, the Town-Major, took a detachment of men down to the quays, where he found a huge bonfire and a crowd, some of whom had discharged shots into the air. He immediately tried to close the festivities down by force. The enraged crowd pelted his men with stones and he was forced to withdraw.
“We must be careful,” an official at the Castle remarked afterwards, “before we take these republican displays too seriously. The Town-Major would have done better not to intervene.”
On the afternoon of July 15, John MacGowan received an unexpected visit from Georgiana. Her face was pale, and she begged for his help.
“I saw him, John. I saw my grandson. He was in Grafton Street. He turned off and I ran after him, but you know that area. It’s a mass of little lanes and alleys. I lost him. But it was William. I know it was.” She sighed. “I walked home, then I thought of you. It’s not two hours ago.”
“Perhaps you were mistaken. The imagination can play tricks.”
“John. Help me.”
He fell silent.
“What do you think he’s doing?” he asked at last.
“He came from Paris. With Emmet probably, and others. You tell me what they’re doing.”
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “They came to me, of course, the United men, months ago. But I refused. I no longer believe in risings.”
“There’s to be a rising?”
“There was talk. That doesn’t mean it will happen.”
“I lost Patrick. I can’t bear to lose this boy as well, John.”
“That was a terrible thing,” he said quietly. “The boy’s father couldn’t help?” The expression on her face was enough. “I will ask,” he said. “I promise nothing.”
He came to her house that evening.
“They are saying nothing.” To be exact, Smith the tobacconist had told him: “There is no one of that name involved.” And having seen the ambiguity of this statement and asked if he might be under any other name, Smith had asked, “Who wants to know?” His grandmother, he’d said. “Ah, I couldn’t say,” Smith had replied.
Which told him, of course, that William was there.
MacGowan sat in a wing chair in her parlour. He half-closed one eye and gazed at her thoughtfully with the other, which seemed unnaturally large and all-seeing in the evening light. He felt her distress. It touched his conscience.
“I’m sorry I cannot help,” he said. “But wherever he is, he’s made his own decisions, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be found.”
Having brought Georgiana no comfort, he left.
On Saturday, July 16, the Liberties of Dublin were surprised by a small explosion in a storehouse near St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Three men were injured and taken to hospital, where one of them subsequently died. Fortunately, the damage was not great, and the small fires were quickly put out by the men inside, so that when the city firefighters arrived, they were told there was no need for their services.
“You’ll only make a bigger mess than there is already,” the foreman told them. The little crowd outside watched with interest as the foreman argued with the firemen, who finally left disgruntled. The next day, in the evening, the city police came to look at the premises. They found them deserted, but there were suspicious traces of gunpowder. “Perhaps they were making fireworks,” somebody said.
But a report was made.
The meeting on Sunday morning had been sombre. Emmet’s face was pale and drawn.
It had been a close thing, and they all knew it. By dawn that morning, the arms and ammunition had all been transferred to a house on Coal Quay, as the ancient Viking Wood Quay was now called, down on the Liffey. “A couple of night watchmen tried to stop my boys on the way,” Smith the tobacconist reported. “They pretended to be drunk, but it was a close thing.” He shook his head. “We’re going to be found out any day now.”
Only a fool would have disagreed. Their time was running out, and they knew it.
It was Russell who spoke now. He was the most experienced of the men of ’98, and his voice carried weight.
“We’ve two options. We can close down the whole operation and disperse. Or we have to start the rising at once. If we don’t, we risk losing the element of surprise, or worse, of getting everyone arrested.”
“And the French?” asked Emmet.
“Have you any news?” There was no answer. “If we wait for them, we’ll all be hanged before they arrive.”
There were several murmurs of agreement.
“We’re not ready,” said Emmet.
“We have a large cache of weapons,” another of the old guard, Hamilton, pointed out. “We may never have such a good opportunity again.”
“I’ll raise the north,” promised Russell. “I’ll have Ulster marching in three days.”
It wasn’t clear to William how convinced Emmet was by these arguments, but after some further discussion, it was agreed that the rising should take place as quickly as possible.
“If you want to bring large numbers in from the country, without arousing suspicion,” Hamilton reminded them, “Saturday market day is best. You’ve got all kinds of people coming in anyway, then.”
They agreed to go on the twenty-third.
“That gives us five whole days to prepare,” Emmet said with a laugh.
If Emmet had any private doubts, you’d never have known. His headquarters and the main arms depot were at the storehouse on Thomas Street, a little beyond the ancient Hospital of St. John that lay in the Liberty to the west of the old city wall. It was a capacious premises with a yard. A narrow street called Marshalsea Lane ran from Thomas Street here, down towards the quays. Here Emmet worked and slept round the clock.
William had never been so excited. It was exhilarating to feel that he was making history. Emmet had a sense of style. A tailor had made green uniforms trimmed with gold and lace. “They are the uniforms of French generals,” Emmet explained. “I and the other leaders will wear them. It will remind our men that they are a proper revolutionary army.”
There was so much to be made ready: ammunition, supplies, even loaves of bread for the men. It was impossible to keep the depot secret anymore, and numbers of men from the various Dublin brigades were sent on errands there. Soon after William got there on Monday morning, O’Byrne arrived, and he quickly made himself useful, checking all the weapons and noting any deficiencies. “We need more shot, Mr. Emmet,” he reported, and William was sent out to buy it. At the end of the day, he accompanied William home, buying him a drink on the way.
Emmet was also busy writing manifestoes. They were long, but powerful. The time had come, he wrote, for Ireland to show the world that she was competent to take her place amongst the nations. Leinster and Ulster would lead; all Ireland would follow; there was no need of foreign assistance. But the rising must be honourably conducted, the manifestoes urged. There must be strict military order, followed by free elections and justice for all. “Get it printed
right away, William,” he instructed.
Russell, Hamilton, and some of the others went north to raise Ulster. Kildare sent word that they would come in on Saturday with almost two thousand men. Messengers also had to be sent to Wexford and Wicklow.
“Who knows the Wicklow Mountains?” Emmet asked.
“I know them like the back of my hand,” O’Byrne volunteered.
“You’re the man, then,” Emmet told him. And he gave him detailed instructions on the message he should deliver to the commanders there.
“Take care,” William said to him, quite affectionately, as he was leaving.
The Earl of Mountwalsh listened carefully.
“You are sure of all this?”
“I am, my lord.” Finn repeated exactly the message he was to deliver. The attack would begin on Saturday night at ten o’clock. A rocket, shooting stars, would be the signal. After collecting arms from the Thomas Street depot, the United men would first take Dublin Castle.
“You are not to deliver the message to Wicklow, but you had better stay out of sight until Saturday,” Hercules ordered.
“There’s an inn out at Dalkey I could use.”
“Good. On Saturday you will return, tell them the message is delivered, and observe the preparations. At one o’clock that day, you will meet me at Strongbow’s tomb in Christ Church Cathedral, and I will give you further instructions.”
“Your lordship will give me fifty pounds when this is done?”
“When my son is arrested, I will give you a hundred pounds, O’Byrne. Now go.”
It was hard for John MacGowan. He was no coward, but he was an older and wiser man than he had been five years ago. And though he wanted the same things as Emmet, he had no belief in a new rising. He found nowadays that he had more belief in people than in causes. And he had patience. If not me, he thought, then my children and grandchildren. In the meantime, as long as England sent over humane men like Cornwallis and the Lord Lieutenant who had now replaced him, life was bearable.
Yet his conscience troubled him.
It was not about the rising, but about friendship. It was Georgiana’s face that haunted him. And she was quite right to be afraid. If young William had gone to join Emmet, then he was in great danger. When the conspiracy was discovered, or the rising failed, as it surely would, the authorities would be no more lenient towards him than they had been to Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
He thought he could predict how it would go. The rebels would need to secure Dublin first. A Saturday market day was always the best time for such a thing. But when? He’d no idea. If, as he suspected, the mysterious explosion in the Liberty had anything to do with it, the plans were probably far advanced. Time was not on young William’s side, therefore.
Yet what was the boy to him? The son of a man he hated, and who hated him. True, but also the grandson of an old friend. And the cousin of Patrick, a man he had loved.
What could he do anyway? The only way to help the boy would be to talk to him, persuade him to cut and run. And how the devil could he find him? Only by joining the conspirators himself, for long enough to do so—and even then, he probably wouldn’t be able to persuade the boy anyway. What would happen then? Would his grandmother come and kidnap him? Actually, he thought with a smile, she probably would.
And if he did such a thing, for her sake, he’d clearly be putting his own life at risk. He’d been lucky not to be arrested in ’98. This time, he might not be so lucky. A nice present for his grandchildren—to see their grandfather swinging from a bridge. No, it was young William who’d have to swing. He sighed, and tried to put the matter out of his mind.
He argued with himself this way, every day, for almost a week.
On the evening of Friday, July 22, Smith the tobacconist was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him at his door. It was John MacGowan. He said he wanted to become active again. Smith gazed at him thoughtfully.
“Why have you changed your mind, John? Is this something to do with the Walsh boy you were asking about?”
MacGowan had prepared himself for this.
“In a way, yes. I thought to myself, if he’s in it, then why is it that I am not?”
“And if he isn’t?”
“If you’re not in it,” MacGowan grinned, “then I’ll stay out, too.”
“You’ll risk death?”
“I did before. My children are all grown.”
Smith nodded thoughtfully. Then he gave MacGowan a long look.
MacGowan knew what he was thinking: Was it possible, the tobacconist must be wondering, that his old comrade had turned into a double agent? Such things had happened. The silence was long. In the end, MacGowan spoke.
“If you don’t trust me, it’s better I go home. The fear of having a traitor beside you does more harm than any good I could possibly do you.” He turned. He was sorry he’d failed, yet also relieved. At least he’d tried; his conscience was clear. He’d gone a dozen paces when he heard Smith’s voice behind him.
“Thomas Street. Just past Marshalsea Lane. Tomorrow morning.”
By late Saturday morning, the place was crowded and chaotic. Hundreds of men from Kildare had arrived. There were constant demands: “Where are the blunderbusses? We need more ammunition. Who emptied this powder keg?” William was constantly being sent on errands. Several hundred more men came in from Wexford. They had been persuaded to wait down at the storehouse at Coal Quay. Another group of Dublin men was going to congregate at a house in Plunkett Street. Finn O’Byrne had returned to say that the message was delivered, but he couldn’t say at what hour the Wicklow men would arrive.
Amidst all the chaos, there was another welcome addition. John MacGowan had appeared early in the morning and been welcomed by several of the men. He was a calm presence, working at William’s side.
“It’s still set for ten o’clock tonight,” Emmet confirmed. “We fire a rocket, then swing down to Coal Quay, collect the Wexford men, and march straight to the Castle.”
Finn O’Byrne, who’d been travelling all night, said he was going to rest at his house, but promised to be back later in the day.
Georgiana was restless. The fact that she had dreamed about William was not surprising. But the sensation that afflicted her now was of a different order. She did not form mental pictures of William. Nor did she feel a sudden panic, like a mother who cannot find her child. The feeling that came to her was not a fear, but a knowledge, quiet but certain, that he was in danger. She had heard people speak of such hidden understandings between people who were close. But she didn’t know what she could do about it.
Late in the morning, she ordered her carriage. First she drove to Grafton Street, because that was where she had seen William. Then she went to the house of John MacGowan, to be told that he’d be out all day. After that, to the bafflement of her coachman, who had no idea what she was doing, she drove aimlessly along Dame Street and round by the Castle. She hoped she might receive some sense of where he was, but nothing came. Reluctantly, she went home.
Lord Mountwalsh was waiting in the shadows, half hidden by a pillar, when Finn O’Byrne reached the tomb of Strongbow. He was wearing a nondescript coat with the collar turned up, and a thin scarf covered the lower part of his face. His boots were hardly polished. The disguise was simple but effective. He might have been any Dublin tradesman.
“Tell me all,” he commanded.
Finn gave him a brief account of all that he’d seen. “It will be ten o’clock,” he said. “There will be a rocket.” And he explained the route that Emmet meant to follow.
“Good. I shall tell the Castle to be ready at ten. Nothing will be done to alert the rebels. We want them to show their hand. I shall remain at my house, but at half past nine, I shall come in a plain carriage to the old Hospital of St. John. Meet me there and we shall walk along Thomas Street together. I think this will be sufficient disguise.”
“Yes, my lord. But why do you want to come to Thomas Street?”
�
�So that you and I may witness Emmet and my son emerging. It might be hard to identify them afterwards, and there must be no question as to their guilt. There must be unimpeachable testimony at their trial.” He drew himself up. “I intend to testify myself.”
And now there could be no mistaking the terrible Earl of Mountwalsh.
It was during the afternoon that things started to go wrong.
At two o’clock, Emmet went out to a nearby inn with the leaders of the men from Kildare. They were gone a long time. When he returned, Emmet looked pale.
“We may have to do without the Kildare men,” he told William quietly. “They aren’t satisfied with the preparations.” He sighed. “You know, we’ve had to do everything in such a devil of a hurry. But perhaps some of them will stay.”
By late afternoon, though there were still hundreds of men there, the depot was quieter. But the doubts of the Kildare men had affected some of the Dublin commanders, too, and further groups of men were leaving. When Finn O’Byrne reappeared round seven, William explained what had happened. A few minutes later, Emmet called them together.
“With the men here and the Wexford boys, and the other groups who will surely come when the rocket is fired, we still have enough men to surprise the Castle,” he announced.
A little before eight o’clock, O’Byrne went out.
“I’m going to see if I can’t bring in some more men,” he said.
“Be back by ten,” said Emmet.
“Take a weapon,” said William, and he gave him one of Emmet’s folding pikes. “You can hide it under your coat.”
“Thank you,” said O’Byrne.
It was two hours since a carriage containing the Lord Lieutenant had rolled out of the gates of Dublin Castle and headed out towards the Liberty.
The Lord Lieutenant had been called in to the Castle that afternoon because of a report that a large insurrection was planned for that night. Both he and the Commander in Chief, General Fox, were sceptical.
The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga Page 67
