“The Earl of Mountwalsh may say what he likes,” he had said irritably, “but is there any corroboration? Does he say where these rebels are to be found? How are we to know them? Are we to go out and shoot every drunk on a Saturday night?”
“The signal will be a rocket, at ten o’clock.”
General Fox spoke.
“On the last occasion, on Bastille Day, when that fool of a Town-Major stirred up a crowd for no reason, there were rockets.”
All the same, the troops in the Castle and out at the nearby barracks were all put on alert. They would certainly be prepared. But by six o’clock, the Lord Lieutenant had had enough.
“Maintain the alert,” he’d ordered. “If in doubt deploy, and lock the Castle gates. That’s all. Let me know if the revolution starts. I’m going home.”
It was one of the pleasant features of his job that it came with a splendid residence set in the magnificent spaces of Phoenix Park. As his carriage and outriders had clattered down from the Liberty and over the Liffey, he reflected upon what his predecessor had told him about the character of the Earl of Mountwalsh.
Lord Cornwallis had not minced his words. “The fellow’s a damned nuisance.” As usual, Cornwallis was right.
John MacGowan surveyed the scene. Less than two hours to go. How in the world was he to get the boy away?
This rising was going to be a catastrophe: he could feel it in his bones. He realized with a sudden shock that the Smith brothers were not there anymore. Emmet had taken off his coat, which lay on the back of his chair, and put on his green uniform. He looked very splendid in it; but MacGowan suspected that the uniform was serving another purpose also. It was helping Emmet to enter his role, so that there should be no turning back. It might have been a suit of armour.
And what was young William thinking? Had he realized that they were all going to die? At half past eight, he strolled over to William and suggested they should get a breath of air in the yard. Emmet was writing dispatches.
The air outside was warm. There were men resting round the edge of the yard. The rocket, with its eight-foot pole and its long fuse, stood in its heavy trestle launcher, pointing at the sky. Standing beside it, he spoke softly.
“The best men have all left.”
“I know,” said young William calmly.
“We should save Emmet from himself. The rising will fail, and we shall lose everything.”
“The die is cast. He won’t turn back. I know him.”
“And you?”
“I do not desert my friends.” It was said quite straightforwardly. That was how he chose to live; it would be how he chose to die. MacGowan looked at him with admiration.
“Quite right,” he said, and went back inside.
So what the devil was he to do now?
Ten more minutes passed. Emmet was busy at his table, but MacGowan observed that he looked up nervously from time to time.
MacGowan wandered round the depot. Nobody took much notice of him. He inspected various weapons, but in the end chose a large and heavy pistol, which he stuffed into his belt. He picked up some wadding. In one room there were some ladders and coils of rope. He took a small coil and slung it over his shoulder. He saw a roll of bandage and took that, too.
He had formed a general plan. After that, he would have to improvise. Back in the main room, Emmet and about a hundred men were waiting. He went outside. It was four minutes to nine.
He continued into the street. There were quite a few people about. There were a couple of inns nearby. Dusk was falling now. A lamplighter was making his rounds. A strange, ambiguous time of the day, this borderland between day and night. He took a deep breath, turned, and ran back into the depot.
“Troops! There are troops coming,” he cried. “From all sides. They’ll surround us. Get out at once.”
Emmet leaped up from the table. The men all round the depot were looking at each other. William also stood. He was pale.
“They have us,” MacGowan cried.
Now was the moment. The men were faltering. He could see it in their eyes. That was all he needed: the opportunity of a moment’s surrender. If Emmet would just say, “It’s over boys—run if you can.” Then he could get young William away to safety. But Emmet was doing no such thing. Damn his noble spirit.
“Pick up your arms, boys,” Emmet was crying. “It’s time to fight.”
Some of the men were looking uncertain, others sent up a little cheer. Would they follow him?
“Light the rocket,” cried Emmet.
“We’ll do it,” said MacGowan, and grabbing William by the arm, he dragged him into the yard with him. It took only an instant to strike the flint and light a taper. They lit the fuse of the rocket and stood back. After a few moments, the rocket went off with a burst of flame and a roar, climbing high into the sky, hundreds of feet, while they all looked after it as it exploded with a great shower of bright stars. All Dublin must have seen it.
“Come on, boys, let’s take the Castle.” Emmet’s voice. He was leading the men out into the street. How splendid he looked in his green uniform. He was waving a sword in the air and heading along Thomas Street. Presumably, if he encountered troops, he hoped to break through them.
Young William was going to follow him. MacGowan had to think fast.
“Emmet,” he called out. “Shall I fetch the Wexford men?”
“Do that,” shouted Emmet.
“Can I take William?”
“Yes. William, go with him.”
He was at William’s side.
“Come, William. Quick, now,” cried MacGowan. And they began to hurry down Marshalsea Lane in the direction of the quays.
Finn O’Byrne had taken his time. He’d decided to stay out of the depot until he met Lord Mountwalsh. If he’d started walking out closer to the hour, it might have looked suspicious.
The fact that many of the Kildare and Dublin men had left didn’t concern him. It would just make it easier to see Emmet and William as they came out. It was possible, he supposed, that Emmet would call the whole thing off, but he didn’t think that was in Emmet’s character.
He had walked along to Christ Church and turned down Winetavern Street to an inn. He might as well drink a Guinness while he waited. The folding pike William had given him was quite heavy, but he could hardly take it out in public, and so he kept it concealed under his coat. He had to confess, the thing was ingenious. And you never knew, it might still come in useful if there was trouble during the evening. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he sat on a bench in the street, outside the door.
The church bell had just finished striking nine o’clock when he saw the great flash of light in the sky over Thomas Street, and watched the burst of stars as the huge firework exploded in the evening sky.
He stared in horror. Had he mistaken the hour? No. It was nine. The signal had been given an hour early. There was no mistaking it. The rising was starting. And Lord Mountwalsh wasn’t even planning to leave his house for half an hour.
He raced up the street. What should he do? Should he wait for Mountwalsh? Might the earl have seen the rocket? Probably not if he was indoors. What the devil should he do?
As he emerged by the cathedral, he saw a hansom cab. He hailed it.
“Whip up your horse,” he cried, “and take me to St. Stephen’s Green. Fast as you can.”
Behind iron railings, a huge rectangular garden ran down the centre of Merrion Square. Georgiana had been pacing there uneasily for over an hour when she saw the rocket rise and explode in a great starburst somewhere in the west behind the Castle.
What did it mean? She left the garden. None of the people on the pavement seemed to have seen the rocket. She walked to the railings of Leinster House and made her way round to St. Stephen’s Green. Here she saw several people looking up at the sky; but nobody was doing anything. She wondered if she should walk towards the Castle to see what was going on. It was only a ten-minute walk. Or should she go back and call
for her carriage again? She hesitated. The feeling that had been with her all day had become even more insistent now. That rocket was a portent of something terrible. She was sure of it.
She hadn’t been there five minutes when she saw the hansom cab come hurtling from the eastern end of the Green and race round to the door of Hercules’s house. She saw a figure hurry up the steps and pull the bell furiously. When the door was opened, the figure said something, then hurried back to the waiting cab. Moments later, a figure in a long, slightly shabby greatcoat, and with a hat pulled down over his face, came bounding down the steps and leaped into the cab, which dashed away again with a clatter.
Though he was oddly dressed, she recognized her son at once. She turned, hurried back to Merrion Square, and called for her carriage at once. She was so perturbed that she waited for it outside. While waiting, she was almost certain she heard, in the distance, the sound of a pistol shot.
Lord Mountwalsh glared at him.
“What the devil happened?”
“I don’t know, my lord.”
“Go to the Castle. I told them ten. I’ll have to make sure they know it’s begun.”
It was only minutes before they reached the Castle gates. It was obvious at once that the garrison had been alerted by the rocket. The main gate was already closed and a detachment of troops was forming up. A brief word with the officer on duty was enough.
“That’ll do. On to Thomas Street,” cried Hercules.
Finn considered a moment.
“Too late, my lord. They’ll have gone down to Coal Quay by now,” he said, “to collect the Wexford men. It could be dangerous,” he added. But Hercules only gave him a look of contempt.
“To the quays then as fast as you can,” he called to the cabby. “All we need,” he reminded O’Byrne coldly, “is a clear sight of my son. Nothing else matters now.”
There had been perhaps three hundred men at the Thomas Street depot. A good number had followed Emmet out into Thomas Street. Others looked for the attacking troops, but when they did not see them, retreated back inside.
A short while later, the fellows from Plunkett Street, who’d seen the signal, arrived in haste. The men in the depot quickly supplied them with pikes and arms, and the Plunkett Street party set off after Emmet.
But Robert Emmet’s progress towards the Castle had not gone well. His men were nervous and losing heart.
“Come, boys, now is your time for Liberty,” he cried, and fired a pistol into the air to encourage them. But as they went along the street, they were hesitating, breaking up into groups, and melting into the alleyways. As they came in sight of the cathedral precincts, Emmet looked round and discovered that he had not twenty men.
There was nothing to be done, and he knew it. To his right lay Francis Street, which led southwards out of the city.
“This way, boys,” he said sadly, and started down the road towards the distant Wicklow Mountains.
When the Plunkett Street party came down towards the cathedral only minutes later, they could not find him; and so they, too, broke up into groups and wandered away into the night. It was just as well. The firepower now waiting at the Castle was formidable.
That left only the Wexford men, down by the quay.
O’Byrne and Lord Mountwalsh had been waiting by an alley for almost half an hour. The hansom cab was waiting round the corner, not far away.
As soon as they had arrived, they had ascertained that the Wexford men had yet to move, so they had positioned themselves sensibly so that they would see the Thomas Street contingent when they approached. There was even a lamppost nearby, so that they would get a good look at their faces.
But nothing had happened. After a little while, Hercules had begun to be impatient. By now, he was hardly able to stand still. Yet if they moved now, there was always the chance that they’d miss their quarry just as they passed. Finally, one of the Wexford men ran past them up the lane in the direction of the depot. No doubt they, too, wanted to know what was going on. A little while later, he came back and they heard him call:
“They’ve gone. The depot’s empty.”
Beside him, Finn heard the earl’s muttered curse.
“Come,” he hissed, and turned back towards the cab. As they hurried along, Finn could sense the earl trembling with rage in the darkness. “Take me to Thomas Street,” he ordered as soon as they reached the cab. “Show me the place.”
When they got to the depot, it was just as the Wexford man had said. The mess was remarkable: pikes, swords, even the valuable flintlocks were strewn on the floor. There were pouches of shot, kegs of gunpowder . . . and not a living soul. The last of Emmet’s men had fled.
It was frighteningly clear by now that Hercules’s rage was rising to the point of danger. He picked up some of Emmet’s manifestoes, which were piled on a table, and flung them furiously to the floor. For a terrifying moment, Finn thought he was going to kick a keg of gunpowder. Then he unleashed his fury upon O’Byrne.
“You villain!” he shouted. “You’ve deliberately led me on a wild-goose chase.”
“Would I do such a thing, your lordship? I swear by all the saints . . .”
“Damn your saints,” roared the earl. “You Irish rogue, you papist dog! You liar. You think you can double-cross me? Where is Emmet? Where is my son?”
“I do not know,” cried Finn in vexation.
“Then I will tell you this.” The earl’s voice was suddenly cold with fury. “If Emmet and my son are taken and executed, well and good. You, of course, will get nothing. Not a penny. But you will keep your life. But if they escape, then I shall know that you were in league with them.” He brought his face close to Finn’s. “Remember, O’Byrne, I have seen you here. I know you were one of the rebels, and I shall testify to it.” He brought his face even closer, and whispered with deadly intensity: “I will see you hang.”
Then he turned on his heel.
“My lord,” Finn was at his heel, “we’ll take the cab to the Castle. They may be there. You shall see them.”
“Damn the cab,” cried Hercules unreasonably. “And damn you. I’d rather walk.”
“But the fare, my lord,” Finn wailed. God knows what the fare would be, with all this time gone. “The fare.”
“Pay it yourself,” called back his lordship contemptuously.
And in that he made the rich man’s mistake, in forgetting the hugeness of a cab fare to the poor. It was a fatal mistake.
For now, as he gazed, speechless, after Lord Mountwalsh, something snapped in Finn O’Byrne. He suddenly realized that he still had the folding pike under his coat. Taking it out, he snapped it open. Hercules heard the sound just before he reached the gate of the yard, and turned—only in time to see O’Byrne rushing at him with the great, gleaming blade of the pike pointing straight at his stomach. He tried, without success, to ward it off as the blade sliced with a ripping sound through his coat, and he felt a huge, fiery pain in his bowels. He sank down on his knees. Finn had his foot against his chest. He was dragging the pike out. Hercules felt another massive pain, heard a sucking sound. Then he saw the terrible, bloody blade of the pike flashing down towards his neck, and felt a blow like a thunderbolt bursting upon him.
Finn stood back. Lord Mountwalsh’s body was pumping blood onto the ground. He watched it, quivering. Good. He hoped Emmet and his men had succeeded in breaking into the Castle and done the same to all the cursed Englishmen there.
After all, he might have betrayed Emmet, but at least he liked him.
He looked around. It would be better not to leave the body here. On the other hand, he couldn’t drag it out into the street. At one point, he observed, the wall of the yard was only six feet high. He stood on a box and looked over. A small compost heap lay below the other side, at the end of an unkempt piece of waste ground. He went inside, fetched a ladder, and rolled the earl’s body onto it. Dragging the ladder and raising the free end onto the wall, he was able then, without too much difficulty, to p
ull the corpse up a few feet until he had Mountwalsh draped over the wall. With a little lifting and manoeuvring of the ladder, he was able to tip it over so that it fell with a soft thud on the other side. He took off his blood-stained coat and tossed that over, too, along with the pike. Then he wiped the blood off the ladder and replaced it in the house. He found a basin and a pitcher of water in which he washed his hands. He splashed some water on his boots. On the back of a chair in the main room, he saw young Emmet’s coat. He didn’t suppose Emmet would be needing it now.
When he came back into the yard, he found the cabby waiting there.
“Are you gentlemen done?” the fellow asked.
“Those gentlemen are gone,” he replied. “You know who I am?”
“No, Sir.”
“I am Robert Emmet, but you never saw me here. Otherwise, you’re a dead man.”
“All right, Sir. But who’ll be paying the fare?”
“Fare? You did it for the cause.” He actually gave a fair imitation of Emmet’s tones. “Now, go.”
“Not without my fare.”
“Indeed?” There was a sword lying at his feet. He stooped, picked it up, and rushed at the cabby, who fled into the street. The fellow was so frightened that he didn’t even jump onto his coachman’s seat, but ran eastwards, towards the city.
It was time to go. Tossing the sword back into the yard, Finn O’Byrne crossed the street. Moments later, he had vanished.
Georgiana was grim-faced. Her coachman was getting nervous. He still had no idea why his mistress was out like this, but things were getting ugly.
A little while ago, in the streets below Christ Church, they had encountered a large group of men who had stopped the coach and asked, politely enough, if they had seen a young man leading a party of men. “I’m looking for someone, too,” she had told them, and described William. But they didn’t know him. “Where are you from?” she’d asked. Wexford, they told her, and went on their way. But by now, the streets seemed to be filling with mobs in a very different kind of mood.
The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga Page 68
