The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Father Casey,” she said bleakly, “hasn’t a wife and children to support.”

  As the day of the election drew closer, Maureen asked her father, “What will you do?” And for the first time that she could remember, her big, strong father looked worried and uncertain.

  “Truly, my child,” he answered, “I do not know.”

  Stephen Smith was wearing a green sash with a large medal, and he was happy. What an astounding day. They were making history.

  All Ireland was watching. All Britain, too. That was why the Earl of Mountwalsh had turned up, and Stephen was glad that he had; though he wondered who the unsmiling little fellow was that his lordship had brought with him.

  You had to like William Mountwalsh. His wife might be silly— very nice, but silly. And perhaps there was something to be smiled at in the way this portly, middle-aged aristocrat was so determined never to miss anything or anybody making news. “I try to know everyone of interest in Ireland,” he had cheerfully confessed to Stephen when he first took him up. But then again, Stephen thought, what with the earl’s own huge acquaintance, and his brother’s scientific friends, he probably did. He’d only to hear of you for an invitation to be issued to his house on St. Stephen’s Green; and if he liked you, another to stay a few days down in the magnificence of Mount Walsh, so that he could really pump you. Not that an invitation to Mount Walsh was a thing to turn down. You lived exceedingly well, and the host himself had much to offer. With his large fortune and his seat in the House of Lords, he had a finger in every pie. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do for you if he chose. And his conversation was excellent. This, after all, was not only the son of the infamous Hercules but the friend of Emmet, a man who’d lived in Paris and America, and who’d publicly insulted the terrifying FitzGibbon when he was still only a youth at Trinity.

  But to Stephen Smith, who at twenty was already a cynical and worldly young man, the saving grace of his lordship was that, unlike most aristocrats of that sort, he didn’t just drop you as soon as he had satisfied his curiosity. He was your friend for life and he stuck by you. Rare indeed.

  So when he saw William waving to him from the steps of the town’s best inn, he went across to see him with real pleasure.

  “Thought we’d find you here, Stephen,” the earl said genially. “Whatever is that sash you’re wearing?”

  “It bears a medal, too,” said Stephen with a grin. “The Order of Liberators. The great man invented it. When I wear it, I think myself very fine.”

  His lordship shook his head with amusement, then introduced his companion, a serious, quiet man of about twenty-five, who’d been staying at Mount Walsh. Samuel Tidy, he explained, was a Quaker. Stephen was surprised that his lordship would have favoured Tidy with a stay in Wexford. He looked rather dull.

  “We set out from Limerick before dawn, Stephen,” the earl explained. “Tell us what’s going on.”

  The transformation of Ennis had been remarkable. Perhaps, centuries ago, when there had been a fine Franciscan friary there, or even when the princely descendants of Brian Boru had owned the place, Ennis had been more handsome. But nowadays its burgesses seldom bothered to tidy up its mean and cluttered streets—except twice a year when the justices arrived at the courthouse for the assizes. Today, however, bright banners hung from the windows; the refuse had been swept up; even some of the more unsightly beggars and prostitutes had been rounded up and put in the capacious jailhouse for the duration.

  The arrival of O’Connell had been like the progress of a medieval monarch. Although it had been the start of July, it had been pouring rain; but thousands had come out to welcome him as he entered Ennis behind the great blue and gold banner of the county.

  “Mind you,” Stephen explained, “we’d already prepared the ground. O’Connell’s been writing letters to all the leading burgesses. He has a cousin here, too, you know,” he added, indicating a substantial house with a balcony some way down the street. “He’s staying there. I’ll be going back to him shortly.”

  “We noticed a lot of priests as we came in,” Mountwalsh remarked, and Stephen laughed.

  “A hundred and fifty, at last count. They’ve taken over the whole town. Some of them are even stationed at the polling booths to make sure that nobody wavers. It’s a crusade. And the discipline is fearful. Ale is permitted, but not a drop of whisky is to be taken, and God help any good Catholic found in possession of poteen. There are twenty-seven public houses in this miserable place, my lord, and the priests are watching all of them. It’s a terrible thing to see so many good men sober.”

  He thought he noticed Tidy wince a little as he said this.

  “My grandmother knew O’Connell when he was young, you know. In those days, she told me, he wasn’t nearly such a Catholic. She said he was a Deist.”

  “Well, he’s certainly a good son of the Church now,” said Stephen. “His whole political career is based upon it. And look at the results.”

  “A man may change his views,” the Quaker interposed gently. “No doubt Mr. O’Connell is sincere in his belief.”

  “I’m not sure,” Stephen said honestly, “that any truly political man ever knows what he believes.”

  At this, Lord Mountwalsh chuckled quietly, but Tidy looked puzzled.

  “You must understand,” the earl said to the Quaker, “that young though he is, Stephen has been educating me about politics for years.”

  Stephen had been only sixteen when he joined O’Connell, with nothing but a quick mind to recommend him. Working his way up from an office boy to an election agent, he had demonstrated a real flair for the political world. By last year, he’d impressed enough people for William Mountwalsh to hear of him and take him up. It seemed that the earl had been impressed with him; and perhaps he had taken more notice of Stephen than the young man really deserved when he had discovered that they shared a family connection.

  “If you come from Rathconan, would you have known old Deirdre, the wife of Conall Smith?” the earl had asked him.

  “My great-grandmother,” Stephen had told him. “I just remember her, though she must have been a great age when I was a small child.”

  “Then you will know the children of my kinsman Patrick Walsh, that was killed at Vinegar Hill?”

  “Indeed, my lord, I know them all.”

  This had interested his lordship greatly.

  “My grandmother Georgiana went up to Rathconan the year before she died,” he remembered. “She’d been very close to Patrick, and she wanted to know what had become of his children. She said they were all up there but none wanted to come down. If they had, I think she’d have given them money, you know.”

  “They wanted nothing to do with Dublin,” Stephen had confirmed. “Old Deirdre would have seen to that. They married O’Tooles, O’Byrnes, Brennans, and the like. You couldn’t tell them apart now.”

  “And Brigid,” the earl had wanted to know. “Did you ever hear of her?”

  “Certainly. She wrote to Deirdre from Australia. She married again. I think she had more children. A dozen years ago, she owned a small hotel in New South Wales. That’s all I know.”

  Such family considerations aside, William Mountwalsh had wanted to know all about Stephen’s life and what a young man of his generation hoped for.

  “In the long run, the Repeal of the Union and an independent Ireland,” Stephen had told him. “But until then, the liberal Whig party in England is our best bet. It was the party of Sheridan, after all. The Whigs are sympathetic to Irish Catholics. As for O’Connell, I believe he can do more for us than any man living.”

  Stephen had also come to realize that his lordship liked nothing better than to hear the latest political gossip that a young fellow working in the thick of the campaign can always supply. And the juicier the story, the more he liked it.

  But what about this Quaker? Stephen did not know much about the Quakers, but he suspected this fellow was far too solemn for his own worldly tastes.

&nb
sp; “Have you always been a Quaker, Mr. Tidy?” he politely enquired.

  “My father belonged to the established Church, but my mother was a Quaker,” Tidy answered. “My father died when I was ten, and as the years passed, I became more drawn to the Friends.” Stephen noticed that the slight forward stoop of the small fellow was a permanent feature. With his thin, sandy hair, it gave him an ageless look.

  “One of his family was butler to the great Dean Swift, and after that to the Duke of Devonshire, no less. Isn’t that right?” said Lord Mountwalsh.

  “My father’s great-uncle,” Tidy acknowledged, and Stephen smiled to himself. Though the earl was remarkable for his lack of snobbery, even in the case of this Quaker, he still liked to know who you were.

  “And what do you think of our election?” Stephen asked.

  “I had not realized,” the Quaker said, “what an effect O’Connell has upon the crowds.”

  “He’s like an Irish prince.”

  “The O’Connells were princes?”

  “No.” Stephen smiled. “But they made a small fortune.”

  “In what business?”

  “Smuggling,” said Stephen cheerfully.

  “Oh.” The Quaker looked a little shocked.

  “The Catholics trust him,” Stephen went on, “because they know that there are no lengths he won’t go to for their sake. He proved that as a lawyer. Did you hear the story of how he defended the man accused of murder?”

  “I do not think so.”

  The earl signalled that he knew the story but would be glad to hear it again.

  “No one else would help the poor devil. So O’Connell gets up in front of the judge and lets him have it. ‘I cannot defend this poor Catholic,’ he cries, ‘because I know very well that he is condemned to death before this trial even begins. So why waste time? Since your lordship means to hang him anyway, you may as well condemn him now. I’ll be no part of it. But this I say to you,’ and he gives the judge a terrible look, ‘his blood be upon your hands!’ And with that, he storms out of the court.”

  “And what happened?” asked Tidy.

  “The judge was so terrified, he let the man off.”

  “So justice was done after all?”

  “Not at all. I asked the great man about it myself. ‘I’d no choice,’ says he, ‘for if it had ever gone to trial, I hadn’t a hope. The man was as guilty as sin.’”

  William Mountwalsh chuckled appreciatively. Tidy looked grave and said nothing.

  “And did he make a good speech here?” the earl asked after a moment’s silence.

  “Scandalous,” said Stephen with a smile. “His opponent Fitzgerald, besides representing the greatest gentry here, is a man of the most liberal principles. His decency is universally admired by Protestant and Catholic alike. So our man gets up and delivers a speech the like of which I never heard. Openly insults him. You’d think Fitzgerald was a Cromwellian in league with every bigot in the Ascendancy. The crowd was roaring. The sheer unfairness of the thing was a work of art.” He shook his head admiringly. “He’ll have to apologize to Fitzgerald afterwards, of course. But then, he’s very good at doing that.”

  It was all too much for Samuel Tidy.

  “Does thy conscience not prick thee?” he cried in reproach. Stephen had heard of the Quaker custom of using the old forms of “thou” and “thee.” It was interesting to hear them now. And it had to be admitted that, although every word he had spoken was true, he had half hoped it might provoke a reaction from the solemn dissenter.

  “Not,” he said firmly, “until after the election.”

  At this moment, however, a great cry came from farther down the street as the first company of voters came marching into sight.

  A county election like this was a lengthy affair. People would be coming in from up to forty miles away, and the polls would be open for five days. Often as not, the landlord himself would be at the head of his tenants in his carriage, while they walked on foot. He’d be leading them as a general leads his troops: expecting a similar obedience, and keeping a sharp eye open to see that he got it. Reaching the polling booths at the courthouse, each man would publicly cast his vote as his landlord directed—if he was wise.

  But the sight which greeted their eyes now was without precedent. For marching along the street, with banners flying, came a body of men led not by a landlord but a line of priests. Behind the priests came fifes and a piper. As this procession went by, the people lining the streets cheered. Stephen turned to Mountwalsh.

  “Impressed?” he asked, and then excused himself, saying that he had to get back to O’Connell, but promising to return.

  Inside the house, he found a scene of excitement. O’Connell’s cousin Charles was at the window of the big upstairs room, watching the men go by. O’Connell himself was surrounded by wellwishers and lieutenants.

  “There they go. Another fifty. Brave boys,” cried Charles delightedly.

  But if everyone else was looking cheerful, the big man himself was surprisingly sombre.

  “Brave boys indeed, Charles,” he said. “For every one of them is risking eviction, and let’s not forget it.” He turned to his agent. “From now on, Shiel, your main task is with the landlords. The Orangeists believe that the whole of Catholic Ireland is ready to revolt, and that I’m the only one that can control them and stem the tide. They’re wrong, of course, but we can make use of their fear. You must convince them that if they retaliate with evictions, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

  “I’ll tell them that any evictions would be against their own interests.”

  “Make sure they understand.”

  Charles O’Connell was looking up the street.

  “Ah,” he said, “here comes a sad crowd.”

  Stephen joined him at the window. About forty men were walking slowly up the street. They were accompanied by an elderly priest, but at their head marched a small, dark-haired man who looked grim but determined.

  “That’s Callan the agent,” said Charles. “Absentee landlord. Old priest’s called Casey. A good man, but I don’t know if he can hold them together.”

  “What’s that?” Daniel O’Connell was across the room in a moment. “Open the big window,” he commanded, and stepped out onto the balcony. The men below saw him. The people lining the way cheered. O’Connell raised his hand, and the marching men stopped, while the crowd fell silent.

  “Are the forty-shilling freeholders slaves?” His voice rolled down from the balcony and filled the street. The men looked up at him, and as he gazed back, his huge figure magically conveyed strength and reassurance. “Are they like Negroes, to be whipped to the slave market?” His eyes searched out each man. “I do not think so.”

  Callan scowled. The crowd cheered. The men also cheered, but you could tell they were afraid. It was obvious that Callan had threatened them. Voices from the crowd called out: “Come on, boys. Vote for the old religion.”

  Looking down, Stephen noticed one fellow in particular. A big, handsome, blue-eyed fellow. He had taken his cap off in respect for O’Connell, but he was twisting it in his hands, obviously in some agony of mind.

  O’Connell stepped back.

  “Poor devils,” he remarked. “That little agent’s done his work, you can see.”

  “Threatened them with eviction?” asked Stephen.

  “No. More effective than that. Threatened their wives.”

  But now, just as the men were moving on, Stephen saw them halted again, this time by a priest who, obviously not satisfied with their demeanour, had decided to put some more fire into them. “That’s Father Murphy,” said Charles O’Connell. “This will be something to hear.” And he opened the window again.

  Father Murphy was certainly a striking figure. Tall, gaunt, his long white hair falling lankly to his shoulders, his eyes like coals of fire, he glared at the men like a prophet of old and began to harangue them in Irish.

  William Mountwalsh was glad he had come to Ennis. He did
n’t think he’d stay the full five days of the election, but it was a historic occasion, and he’d be able to tell everyone that he was there.

  He was amused by young Stephen Smith. Of course, the boy was hard and cynical, and thought life was all a game. But it was William’s experience that young men of twenty are either too idealistic or too cynical; time would improve him. As for his new Quaker friend Tidy, he liked him.

  Two months ago, he’d had one of the evangelicals down to Mount Walsh. A follower of Wesley. They were spreading quite surprisingly in Ireland, though not as fast as in England, thank God. They meant well, no doubt: they wanted to purify the world. He wasn’t sure at his age he wanted the world to be so pure. And it depressed him to hear the Evangelical speak of “subjugating Irish popery to the Faith of Christ.” That was what people had done back in the century of Cromwell, and a grim business it had been.

  Tidy was entirely different. The Quakers were becoming quite an active community in Dublin and in Cork, so he had thought it time he came to know them better. He had to admit that they puzzled him. Instead of a service, they sat in reverential silence in their meeting houses and got up to speak if the spirit moved them. A strange way to carry on. A Catholic bishop with whom he’d once discussed the Quakers had put it rather well. “I do not for a moment deny that their intentions are well-meaning. What I cannot discover is where their God is to be found.”

  But a few days with Tidy had impressed the earl enormously. The Quaker did not criticize other churches, and he assured William that his fellow Quakers never tried to convert others away from their faith. He did not sanctify; he did not curse. He merely tried to treat his neighbour in a godly fashion, and his own goodness and sincerity were obvious. Actions, not words seemed to be his daily creed. “You remind me of the Good Samaritan,” William had told him, and meant it as a sincere compliment.