THE STAFF OF SAINT PATRICK

1689

 

MAURICE SMITH gazed at the ancient chest. He’d been meaning to open it for years.

Outside, it was a bright March day, and the breeze made its way to Rathconan with a faint hiss, like the whisper of faith itself coming up from the sea.

The chest had belonged to his father. It had been kept in storage since Walter Smith had disappeared. Maurice knew it contained some old papers, but that was all he knew; and his father had not been there to ask.

No one had ever known what happened to Walter Smith. It had been supposed that he must have been robbed and murdered somewhere when he had gone away. One or two people had suggested he might even have joined the Royalist forces; but that seemed out of character, and there was certainly no proof of such a thing. It was just as well. Had he been involved in the fighting, things might have gone harder with his family after Cromwell’s victory.

Whatever had become of Walter, his papers and other personal effects had been stored. When life in Dublin had become impossible for a Catholic merchant, Maurice himself had left for France. The Doyles had kindly taken in his mother, Anne; and the chest of papers, together with the other effects, had been transferred to their attic. There they had remained, even after his return, until he had collected them a few years ago.

He had to admit, it had really been laziness on his part not to have sorted the chest before. But now, with such wonderful events taking place—and the promise of so many good things for the Catholics of Ireland—it had occurred to him that if, by chance, there were any deeds or other documents in his family’s favour hidden away in the chest, this would be the time to find them. He’d discovered that the chest was locked with three different locks; but amongst his father’s effects there had been quite a collection of keys, and he had found the ones relating to the chest easily enough. Having unlocked it, therefore, he dragged it near to a window and, sitting himself on a stool, opened the lid.

At first, he was a little disappointed. The documents all seemed to relate to the old Guild of Saint Anne and not to the family at all. But finding that they went back to the days of the Reformation itself, he started to read them and found such a rich history of the life of the faithful in those days that he soon became quite engrossed. An hour passed before he came to a document on thick paper, carefully folded and closed with a red wax seal, on which was written in a bold hand:

 

DEPOSITION OF MASTER MACGOWAN
CONCERNING THE STAFF

 

The seal had never been broken. He broke it, and began to read. And as he did so, he gasped.

It was clear that the merchant had given his Deposition verbally, and that it had been written down by one of the members of the guild. Sometimes it was in the first person; in other places it strayed into the third: “Master MacGowan swears that the events took place in exactly this manner.” But the subject was what mattered. For the staff of which he spoke was the Staff of Saint Patrick himself.

The Bachall Iosa: the most sacred relic in Ireland. He knew the story of its destruction of course. Everybody did. Back in 1538, when the heretic monster King Henry VIII had ordered the holy relics of Ireland to be burned, the sacred Staff of Saint Patrick, that had been held in the hands of the saint himself more than a thousand years before, had been taken from Christ Church Cathedral and thrown on a public bonfire there, in the middle of Dublin. No greater sacrilege, no greater insult to Ireland, could have been imagined. The dark deed had never been forgotten. The Staff was gone.

Or was it? There had been rumours since—occasional, muted whispers in the land—that the Staff might have been saved. There had been a claim that it was still in existence, some twenty years after its burning. Then nothing more had been heard. Maurice had always taken the claim to be a legend, and no more. Three years ago, a story was current in Dublin that the Staff had been seen in County Meath. But Maurice had never met anyone who’d actually set eyes on it. He suspected the story was a hoax.

The Deposition of Master MacGowan said otherwise. On that terrible day, while the soldiers were bringing cartloads of sacred objects to the fire, he had run into the cathedral, seen the Staff already out of its case, and in a brief moment, when the attention of the king’s vandals was directed elsewhere, seized it and fled. He had taken the Staff to his own humble house. The following day, in the company of Alderman Doyle, he had gone quietly out of the city and conveyed the Staff to a devout family “known to the members of this guild,” in Kildare. No name was given. The matter was too secret for that. Maurice supposed it was probably one of the ancient families, the guardians of monasteries and providers of priests whose service to the Church sometimes stretched back almost to the days of the saint himself.

The Deposition was corroborated and sworn to by Alderman Doyle. There was no doubt of its authenticity. And as he held it in his hand, and contemplated the implications of the document, Maurice began to tremble.

For a start, the sightings of the Staff were surely genuine. One of the most sacred objects in all Christendom was residing, quite likely, within forty miles of Dublin. But more than that: for the bruised and humiliated Catholics of Ireland, here was a religious and national symbol, an object of pride, of veneration, of inspiration, waiting to be raised on high in their very midst. And now, if the Staff were held up before the people, and their heretic rulers dared to say that it was a fraud, here in his own hand was the living proof that it was genuine.

That he should have found such a document, at such a time as this, could only mean one thing. It was a divine intervention, a sign from God. He quickly said a prayer.

Next, he had to consider what to do. For the moment, it might be best to keep the matter confidential. The document had huge value, both to the Catholic cause and its enemies; but nobody knew of its existence. It would be perfectly safe locked in the chest. He ought to share the knowledge with someone, though. Someone he could trust. And he might need help as well. It did not take him long to think of an answer. Whose family was firmer in their faith, who had more discretion, than his own cousin Donatus Walsh? That afternoon, he wrote a short and carefully worded letter. He gave no details, but he told his cousin that he had a matter of the utmost importance to discuss concerning the faith, and asked to meet him urgently, by the old Tholsel in Dublin, in three days’ time, on Sunday. Then he gave it to a servant. The fellow could ride down and be in Dublin by nightfall. He could deliver it to the house in Fingal the next morning. As for the meeting in Dublin, the timing could not have been better. They would both be there anyway.

For here was the reason why his discovery was so clearly a sign from God: Ireland had been given a Catholic King—and he was arriving in Dublin, on Sunday.

The letter arrived while Donatus Walsh was out. He had gone to Saint Marnock’s well. Now, sinking to his knees, he gave thanks for Ireland’s deliverance.

Forty years had passed since the terrible coming of Cromwell: forty years, during which the Walsh family had never lost faith, not even in the darkest days. And proof of God’s Grace had not been lacking. Yet who could have imagined the wondrous events unfolding now?

Donatus loved this holy place. How often he had come here with his father, Orlando. And it was thanks to his father that he had been able to spend so much of his childhood in Fingal, on this estate he knew and loved so well. His father’s watchwords had been simple: keep faith; and hold on. He had never lost faith. For a while, he had been able to hold on.

For after the terrible massacre at Drogheda, however much he had disliked doing it, Orlando had continued to supply Dublin Castle with rent and the Dublin troops with food. Cromwell had smashed his way through Ireland; but he had not remained long, and left his commanders to mop up. Despite the ruthless efficiency of their military operations, it had still taken them another couple of years before every corner of Ireland was completely subdued. During that time, when cash and food were scarce, the authorities had little reason to trouble themselves with the Walshes. But it could not last forever.

Donatus had been nearly twelve when his father had returned from Dublin one day, looking grim, and announced: “They mean to transplant us.”

“What do you mean—transplant?” his mother had asked.

“The Catholics. They mean to send all the Catholics to the west—into Connacht. The rest of Ireland is to be given to the Protestants.”

Later, Donatus had learned that his father, and thousands like him, had thought for a time that they might be executed. Several hundred executions were carried out, including the killing of numerous priests. Many others fled. But fortunately, the executions had been curtailed. Once the godly men of England had gained their victory, it had soon appeared, it was not the death of the Irish rebels that they sought. It was their land.

Soldiers, adventurers, friends of Cromwell, governments officials, men like Pincher, godly men all—it was land that they had come for, and land they must be given. “It’ll take two-thirds of Ireland to satisfy them all,” Orlando had remarked. But that didn’t worry the English. “The more land we take,” they pointed out, “the more Protestant Ireland will be.”

The procedure decided upon had been simple. Many of the greatest rebels had fled. Most of them were Catholic, of course; though some, like the great Ormond, had been Royalist Protestants. Their land was taken at once. But after these came the hundreds of lesser men, including many of the Fingal landowners, whose part in the rebellion had been slight. What should be done with them? A handful of gentlemen, including some Catholics who had turned informer or aided the English cause, were left with their land as a reward. But for the rest, a novel solution was found. “If they’re Protestant, let’s fine them,” the government men suggested. “If they’re Catholic, kick them out.” But rather than completely ruin them, Cromwell’s administrators decided that, depending on their degree of guilt, they might be given a half or a third of the value of their estates in the poor land of Connacht, in the west. To leave his land in Fingal, where his family had been for centuries, to go to the wilds of Connacht? It seemed to Orlando to be a monstrous idea. But one of the new men in Dublin Castle had put it to him very simply. “You have a choice, Master Walsh. You can go to hell, or Connacht.”

It had taken some time even so. The scale of the operation was huge, and they couldn’t move everyone at once. Continuing his services to Dublin as before, Orlando had managed to remain on his Fingal estate for another year and more.

It was in 1653 that old Doctor Pincher had arrived. There had been an outbreak of plague in the city, and he came with orders that he was to be accommodated on the estate until he wished to return. Donatus had been rather fascinated by the thin, black figure who looked at him so coldly, occupied the best bedroom, and expected to be waited on, hand and foot. His father told him that the scholar preacher was over eighty years old. But the old man’s visit had also been educational.

Doctor Pincher had been there ten days when his nephew Captain Budge came to visit. He stayed only one night. Usually, the old man ate alone in his room, but on that occasion they had all supped together, and Donatus had observed the big, flat-faced officer with interest. Captain Budge was an important man, with an estate of his own. For when Brian O’Byrne had wisely fled for his life from Ireland, Rathconan had been given to Budge. So when his father had politely questioned Budge about the coming transplantations, Donatus had listened carefully. Did the policy not seem a little harsh, Orlando had gently enquired.

“No, Sir. Necessity,” Budge had answered. “The Irish natives, of course, are averse to all civility. Incapable of self-government. Mere beasts.”

Living on the estate in Fingal, Donatus had never heard the Irish described in this manner. The servants, the tenants, and men in the fields, the fishermen by the shore, the oystermen at Malahide, the craftsmen at Swords—the gentle, hospitable Irish folk he had grown up with were not so dissimilar, he had supposed, to country folk in other lands. But Budge had not finished.

“They must be kept down. They killed three hundred thousand innocent Protestants, remember.”

“That’s quite untrue, you know,” Orlando had answered mildly, and he had glanced at Doctor Pincher. But the preacher only put a piece of bread in his mouth and chewed upon it. He still had most of his teeth.

“It is true,” Barnaby said. “It was in a book.”

“Books can lie,” Orlando remarked.

“Papist books can. This was a Protestant book.” Barnaby nodded to himself. “And it was the papist gentry who led them into revolt before,” he pointed out, “so we’ll make sure it never happens again. Every Irish chief, all the priests, every man with knowledge of arms, every Catholic gentleman of repute, they will all be removed, out of this land. Then the Irish dogs will have Protestant masters who will keep them docile. That is the purpose of the transplantation.”

“So I must go to Connacht?”

“Most assuredly,” said Barnaby.

It was the first time that Donatus had really understood the mind of the English settlers who were now to rule the land.

The following spring, the Walsh family had been transplanted. Taking four carts piled high with their furniture and possessions, their jewelry, and coins of gold and silver sewn into their clothes, Donatus and his parents had set out on the long road westwards. Daniel, though unable to understand why they were leaving, had naturally been with them, too. They were accompanied by only three family retainers; the rest of the servants, the tenants, the cottagers, and labourers had all remained on the estate in Fingal. In this, the Walshes were repeating the pattern found everywhere else. The great mass of the native Irish stayed exactly where they were, to till the land for their new Protestant masters, while their hereditary landlords went to Connacht.

“We are in good company, at least,” his father had remarked wryly. By the time they left, so many neighbours and friends had already gone the same way. Some had Irish names: Conran or Kennedy, Brady or Kelly. But often as not, the transplanted families bore Old English names: Cusack and Cruise, Dillon and Fagan, Barry, Walsh, Plunkett, Fitz this or Fitz that.

Most of the land around Dublin had been taken over by the government directly, to be let out on leases. It did not come as a great surprise to learn, upon their way, that Doctor Pincher had secured a lease on their own estate—at a rent of only half of what Orlando had been forced to pay to stay there himself.

There was only one problem that his father, by holding on to his land as long as he could, had not foreseen.

It had never been clear what size of land grant would be allowed to Orlando Walsh. After numerous enquiries at Dublin Castle, he had realised that even the Dublin men did not know. “It’s all being arranged at Athlone,” they had told him. “You’ll have to wait till you get there.” It was not until they had been travelling slowly westwards for five days that they reached Athlone. The court administering the land grants to the transplanted gentry was in a large house in the main street. On arrival, they found an inn; and the next morning Orlando had gone to the land offices, taking Donatus with him. The man in charge, a small, bald-headed fellow with a businesslike air, gazed at Orlando with genuine regret.

“It’s a pity you didn’t come a few months earlier,” he sighed. “Then you might have done better.”

“You have instructions concerning me?”

“Not really. We are to find something for everyone, if we can. But it’s all at our discretion.” He shook his head. “Cromwell, you know, has a general idea of what he wants, and he knows what he hates; but he is not an administrator. He issues instructions; but details…” He spread his hands to indicate that there were none. “The transplanting to Connacht has been…” Again, he indicated with his hands that the process had been chaotic.

“I’m only here to clean up,” he went on. “The men who allocated the land are mostly gone, now. Nothing to keep them. They’ve made their fortunes, you see.” He gave Orlando a meaningful stare. “There’s a little place down in Clare,” he said. “It’s only about thirty acres. Not what you’ve been used to at all. But you could subsist there I think. It’s the best of what’s left.”

A few inquiries had corroborated the truth of what the fellow had told him. The transplanting had not only been a shambles; it had been a scandal. Men who were supposed to receive nothing, but who came early, with handsome bribes for the officials running the court, had secured large tracts of land. Others, due hundreds of acres, had been lucky to receive fifty. Chaos and official bribery were to be expected when any conqueror reallocated the resources of a country—how could it ever be otherwise? But the transplanting to Connacht had been an unedifying sight.

So had begun the seven long years in County Clare. Their little farmstead had a small dwelling, which Donatus and his father had slowly rebuilt. The land at least had given them subsistence. Their neighbours had been kindly. The Walshes worked hard, and they had survived. But the first two years in the cramped and leaking cottage had been especially hard. They had sent two of their retainers back to Fingal, since they could scarcely keep them and there was nothing for them to do. Though she had tried to put a brave face on it, Mary Walsh had been depressed. But the person who had suffered most had been poor Daniel. If his understanding was limited, he had seemed to sense the unhappiness of Mary more strongly than the others. He clung to her, almost fretfully sometimes; and this too was hard for her to bear. After a year, he had grown sick, and died. Orlando had warned Donatus, long before, “The simpletons, you know, seldom live to twenty,” and so he knew he must not grieve too much. But a cloud of sadness had hung over the family for many months after they had buried Daniel.

One thing Donatus did count as a blessing however was that, because of this exile, he came to know his father better than he might otherwise have done. He knew the humiliation his father felt at their poor conditions; and he admired the fact that he never showed it. Together they worked their little piece of land—kept pigs, a few cows, grew cereal crops. And Orlando also took his education upon himself—as a result of which, by the time he was twenty, Donatus already knew most of what the University of Salamanca had to offer, together with a general knowledge of Irish legal practice. Perhaps, by keeping constant company with an older man, he acquired an outlook somewhat middle-aged for a boy of his years. But this was hardly a time for the enjoyment of childhood things; and it gave him great joy to know that he stood, in all things, side by side with his father.

Every year, they had made a pilgrimage to Fingal. As transplanted men, it was illegal for them to travel; but they went discreetly, and they were never caught. Those were times of reunions. The tenants on the estate would welcome them and hide them in their cottages. One of them would even give Orlando part of the rent. “I tell that old devil Pincher that I can’t afford to pay him the full amount. Damned Protestant. He doesn’t know one way or the other,” he would say with glee. Their cousin Doyle would also come out from Dublin to meet them. Before leaving, Orlando had left a hundred pounds in his safekeeping; fortunately, he seldom had to draw down much of this. And Doyle would give them the latest news from Dublin. Often this concerned the latest goings-on amongst the Dublin churches.

If there was one aspect of Cromwell’s rule that afforded the Catholics—and the Old English Protestants like Doyle—some light relief in the darkness, it was his ordering of the churches. Of course, papist priests were to be killed; the high Anglican church of King Charles, with its bishops and ceremonies, was firmly abolished. But beyond this, like most army men, Cromwell believed that the congregations should be free to choose their own, godly preachers. The results, even in Christ Church itself, had sometimes been startling. Baptists, Quakers, sectarians of various kinds, and above all, Independents, each with his own, particular vision, had all appeared in Dublin. Some of their services were sombre; others ranted; a few had even induced hysteria. Doyle, with his cynical mind, would take a quiet pleasure in attending these services and reporting their excesses to Orlando. “You see, my dear son,” he would remark to Donatus, “how right our priests are when they tell us: the trouble with these Protestants is that they are completely confused.”

It was their third return to Fingal when they’d learned that old Doctor Pincher had died. His nephew Captain Budge had taken over the lease. But the circumstances of his death had been somewhat remarkable. It was their tenant, when he gave them their rent, who told them. “Just before the end, he was delirious. Screaming he was—about a man attacking him with a sword. And when they came to dress his body, what did they find but a scar? Right the way across his back, from his shoulders down to his ribs. So there must have been some reason for his words. Then in comes Captain Budge, and they tell him about it. And he looks thoughtful for a while. Then: ‘It was in the rebellion of ’41,’ he says. ‘It was the Catholics that attacked my dear uncle. He was lucky not to be martyred.’ Do you suppose it was true?”

“I never heard it before,” said Orlando.

Before Donatus and his father left Fingal, their routine was always the same. Together they would go to the holy well at Portmarnock to pray together there. “I do it,” Orlando used to remind him, “just as my father did before me.” And while they were there, he would also say: “I am sorry, Donatus, that you should see your father brought so low. But we must never lose faith. It was God’s Grace that, after so many years waiting, gave you to us. And in time, after we are tested, He will restore us again, as He sees fit.”

And so, in the end, it had come to pass. God had restored them.

Their deliverance had come from England. For while Cromwell had been successful in crushing Ireland under colonial rule, England itself had been another matter. For all his military might, Cromwell had never been able to find a satisfactory government to replace the monarchy he had destroyed. Rule by Parliament, a Protectorate in which he was king himself in all but name, military rule by generals—all had been tried, none had worked. And when, after a decade, the exhausted tyrant had died, his son hadn’t even wanted to fill his shoes. In 1660, the English Parliament and the late king’s son had come to an understanding. King Charles II was restored to the English throne—on certain conditions.

One of these was that the Protestant settlers in Ireland should keep their land. But there had been some minor exceptions. And when Ormond had been returned to Ireland as the new king’s Lord Lieutenant, he had graciously remembered the unlucky Walsh family. His word had been enough to assure the royal officials that Orlando had committed no crime; and somewhat grudgingly, Barnaby Budge had been persuaded that he should give up his uncle’s lease. Unlike many of their friends, the Walshes had returned to Fingal. It was proof, indeed, of God’s Grace towards them.

By God’s continuing Grace, he had lived here ever since. He had seen both his parents live to old age. He had known the joy of having a family of his own, and recently married both his daughters to good men. Five years ago, his wife had died, and he had supposed that this part of his life was over. But rather to his surprise, he had found happiness again. Even more wonderful, this last December, his new wife had given him his first son. In a mood of great celebration, they had named the baby Fortunatus.

And now, in a series of events that could never have been foreseen, the continuing faith of the Walshes, and countless families like them, had been granted a new hope. King Charles II of England, a man who loved building, the sciences, and his many mistresses, had suddenly died four years ago, and been succeeded by his brother James. And James II was a Catholic. He had arrived in Ireland ten days ago, and was coming to Dublin to hold a Catholic Parliament. The situation was by no means without danger. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. Perhaps the Catholics of Ireland would be tested again. But this much was certain, Donatus would be in Dublin that Sunday to welcome the new king, come what may.

When he got back to the house and found the letter from his cousin Maurice, he read it with curiosity. But also with a smile. Maurice Smith was a good man of business. He had done well enough during his time in France. And when the more easygoing rule of Charles II finally encouraged him to return with his family to Dublin, he had managed, despite being a Catholic, to prosper there. Yet there was something of the romantic in his cousin too. He’d be swept away by sudden enthusiasms.

The purchase of his estate was a case in point. When Brian O’Byrne, along with most of the other Irish gentry, had been forced to flee from Cromwell, and the Rathconan estate had been granted to Barnaby Budge, it had been a sad thing, to be sure. Budge had taken over, and though the people up in the Wicklow Mountains hated him, there wasn’t much they could do. Budge had lived in the old fortified house, called himself a gentleman, and obtained other property and leases whenever he could. He’d kept Rathconan through the restoration of Charles II, and lived there until he died a dozen years ago. But when his elder son had come into the place, he’d had trouble. His father and his younger brother Joshua were made of sterner stuff, but Mr. Benjamin Budge was a peaceable fellow, and it wasn’t long before he’d been troubled by Tories.

It always amused Donatus that the two political camps in the English Parliament should be known by such curious names. The party that believed Parliament should control the King, and that was generally more Protestant, were known as the Whigs, which was a term of gentle scorn. A member of the King’s party, on the other hand, was known as a Tory—which meant an Irish brigand.

And it was certainly Irish brigands—local men, mostly, who loved the freedom of the Wicklow Mountains and hated the Puritan settlers there—who had made the life of poor Mr. Benjamin Budge so miserable. By the latter part of the reign of Charles II, that genial monarch had eased the restrictions, so that a Catholic could once again buy land. So when Maurice Smith had made him a fair offer for the estate, Benjamin Budge had taken the money and been glad to be rid of the place. He resided in Dublin, at present, and seemed to have no desire to purchase another estate.

But why had his cousin Maurice been so anxious to go up into the mountains like that? Donatus had often wondered. He knew that Maurice had always had a liking for Brian O’Byrne, and felt an affinity for his mountain estate. Certainly, since living up there, he’d always claimed to be very happy; and since he was a Catholic, with some vague connections to the place, the local people seemed to have tolerated him well enough. But he’d put all his fortune into Rathconan, and Donatus doubted that he was getting much of a return. It was just like Maurice, after years of saving, to do such a thing.

So as he read the letter his cousin had sent from Rathconan once again, and considered the mysterious excitement of its language, he wondered what new idea Maurice might have got now.

Sunday, March 24. Palm Sunday: festival of the Saviour’s entry into Jerusalem. Was the date, also, a sign from God? King James came in through Saint James’s Gate, in the west.

Outside the gate was set a stage, upon which played two Irish harpists. A chorus of friars gave joyous song; and a company of townswomen from the markets, all dressed in white, performed a charming dance before him. The mayor and corporation came out, with pipes and drums, and gave him the key of the city before he entered. Then, through the gate he came, with his gentlemen and cavalry, his footmen and fifes, and made his way along streets that, if not strewn with palms, had at least been freshly gravelled. King James II had come into his own again. At the gates of the castle, he wept.

He came modestly. He was not a bad-looking man: his complexion pale and reddish, where his brother’s had been swarthy and dark; his face, once proud, now somewhat humbled by exile and disease. He thanked the good people of Dublin as he passed. He came, he seemed to wish to say, with friendship to all the people of his Irish kingdom, and enmity towards none. Yet as Donatus Walsh and Maurice Smith stood side by side and watched him pass, they knew, each of them, that it would not be easy. For the fact remained, the people of England had already kicked him out, and his rival for the kingdom might invade at any time.

As far as the Protestant people of England were concerned, they had never expected James to be King. His brother Charles II had always seemed to be in rude good health. There had been suspicions that Charles might be a secret Catholic. But if he was, he had been far too clever to be caught. Instead, he had kept his mistresses, attended the theatre, joked with the ordinary folk at the horse races, and generally applied common sense whenever the religious extremists seemed in danger of getting too excited. But if he tried to encourage his Protestant subjects to be more tolerant towards the Catholics, his task was not made easier when at the end of his reign, his cousin King Louis XIV of France had brutally kicked out the Huguenot Protestants from his kingdom, and forced them to flee—some two hundred thousand of them—to Holland, England, and anywhere else that would take them in. London received tens of thousands. But in doing so, the Londoners remembered the Inquisition, the Irish rebellion, and every other outrage, real or imagined, of Catholic against Protestant. So it was a great shock to all England when, quite suddenly, Charles II had died, and his younger brother, an open Catholic, unexpectedly came to the throne.

They were prepared to tolerate him, however, for a single reason. Catholic he might be, but his heir was his daughter, Mary; and she, thank God, was both a Protestant herself and married to another—Prince William of Orange, the ruler of the Dutch. They might have to put up with James for a while, therefore; but once he was gone they could look forward to William and Mary.

So when James started promoting Catholics to high positions, the English gritted their teeth. When he started placing Catholic officers in the army, they looked on in alarm. And when—despite the fact that he hadn’t fathered a child in years, and rumour had it that venereal diseases would prevent him from doing so—the king suddenly had a son by his second, Catholic wife, the English exploded. Was it his? Had the queen even been pregnant? Was it a changeling? Was this another devious Catholic plot to steal the English throne for Rome? The rumours flew. Whatever the truth, the English weren’t having it. With scarcely any loss of blood at all, they simply threw him out. William of Orange arrived, to be offered a kingdom. James fled to France.

But Ireland was another story. Both Protestants and Catholics in turn had been alarmed at the events across the water. But King James’s favourite, the Catholic Lord Tyrconnell, had done well for his royal master. He’d managed to overawe the Protestants with his troops, but at the same time assured them: “King James means you no harm.” The Presbyterians in Ulster were highly suspicious; the walled town of Derry was refusing to submit. But most of the Catholic island hoped that King James would come as a deliverer.

And now, with money and troops supplied by his cousin, King Louis of France, he had arrived to be welcomed by his Irish kingdom.

Once King James had gone into the Castle, Donatus and Maurice had gone to an inn to take some refreshment. Donatus had already gathered all the news.

“He’s going to call a Parliament. It will meet here in Dublin early in May. They want the old Catholic gentry as members. Think of that, Maurice—a Catholic Parliament.”

“And our religion?”

“He has been cautious, and wise, I think. This last ten days, all the way from Cork to Dublin, he has been meeting the Protestant clergy and assuring them that the Protestants will be free to practice their faith. All Christians are acceptable. That’s the word. So long as they are loyal.” He smiled. “But Ireland will be Catholic, of course.”

Then Maurice told him about the Staff and was gratified that Donatus entirely agreed with him about the importance of his discovery.

“The power of such a thing would be great indeed, if we could just put the Staff and the Deposition together. A symbol for Ireland. And if it comes to a fight with King William, to have the true Staff upon the field of battle…”

“You will help me then?”

“Most certainly. We must find it.”

It was not until early May, just as the Parliament was assembling, that Maurice set out upon his quest. He knew that he might be gone for some time. He left Rathconan in good hands. His son Thomas was not a man of business, but he loved the land and everything on it. Thomas would run the estate very well in his absence.

Donatus Walsh, in the meantime, had been busy. His enquiries in Dublin had yielded nothing. But some careful research had produced the names of numerous families who might have information about the Staff; and it was armed with this considerable list that Maurice went out, like a pilgrim or knight errant from olden times, in quest of his Grail.

He went first to County Meath. That was where, if the reports were true, the Staff had last been seen. For two weeks he went from house to house, wherever there was a Catholic of any consequence or a priest. But though he made the most diligent enquiry, he could discover nothing definite. Several said that the Staff had been shown in a house or chapel. It seemed that it might have been brought there by someone from outside the area. But more than this he could not learn.

From Meath he passed into Kildare. The Deposition, after all, had made mention of Kildare. Again, he conducted his search in the same manner, for another two weeks. But in Kildare, he could find nothing at all.

There remained, however, an obvious possibility. There had been so much movement of people since the Deposition was made. In particular, almost every faithful gentry family had been transplanted into Connacht. From Kildare, therefore, he went westwards, and searched out any old Kildare families who might have been sent there. This was a larger and more difficult task; but he was a man on a mission, and the further he went, the more determined he became not to give up.

It was a distressing experience: to travel from farm to farm, even cottage to cottage, and see the ancient Catholic families reduced to poverty after the Transplanting. Many of them hoped that with the new Catholic Parliament, they might be restored to their former estates. Maurice hoped and prayed that it might be so. But none of them had any knowledge of the Staff. Week after week passed. Only when he had used all the money he had brought with him did he leave off his quest and return to his home, with the promise to himself that he would resume his search again, as soon as he could.

It was on a day early in July that he came over the pass in the Wicklow Mountains and descended towards the old house at Rathconan that he loved so well.

He was somewhat surprised, as he came towards the door, to see that he had a visitor. As a horse was tethered by the doorway, it was clear that the visitor must have arrived only just before him, coming up from the opposite direction. His wife was standing by the new arrival. So was his son, Thomas. They were looking at him strangely. He rode up and dismounted.

The visitor was a tall, dark-haired, handsome man. He had the air of a military captain. He was middle-aged, perhaps a decade younger than himself, but he looked fit and athletic. He gazed at Maurice, then moved towards him.

“So you are Mwirish, the son of Walter Smith?”

“That is so.”

“I am Xavier O’Byrne. The son of Brian O’Byrne. I just came up to look at the place,” he indicated the house and the land of Rathconan, “now that it’s to be returned to me.” He smiled. “I was about to ask your family here: where will you be going to live yourself?”

Maurice was to learn stranger things than that, as he sat at table with O’Byrne that evening. So engrossed had he been in his quest that he had hardly bothered to follow the detailed deliberations of the Dublin Parliament. He had known that land might be restored to those transplanted, but he was not aware of the mechanism by which such a thing might be accomplished. And to tell the truth, he had never thought of the O’Byrnes.

“King James is against the whole business,” O’Byrne explained, “because he fears that it will stir up too much trouble, but the Catholic gentlemen in the Parliament are absolutely determined. They want all the lands confiscated and given to Protestants by Cromwell to be returned to their owners. Including those who left the country, if they wish to return. So you see, that includes Rathconan.”

“But I am Catholic, and I bought the estate,” Maurice pointed out.

“You are one of many. But you bought it from Budge, you see, who should never have had it in the first place.” He smiled. “You aren’t alone. There are numerous people in your position, and the latest idea is to pay compensation. There are quite a few Protestants who sent aid to King William when he came to England. Their lands will be taken, and you’ll be paid out of that.”

“But I love Rathconan.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But my own family have been here for centuries.”

Maurice sighed. He couldn’t deny the justice of what O’Byrne said; but he wished it were otherwise.

“Nothing will happen for a long while,” O’Byrne assured him. “The Parliament men will go on arguing about it for years, I dare say. And besides, we haven’t secured Ireland yet.”

When he discussed the military situation, O’Byrne was both interesting and cynical. “I am a soldier of fortune, Mwirish,” he declared. “I look upon these things with a cold eye. The Irish troops that Tyrconnell has raised—and he has thousands of them—are poorly armed. Some of them haven’t even got pikes. They’ve no training. Brave as lions, of course: it makes me proud to be Irish. But useless. There are Irish officers like myself, men whose families fled Ireland long ago, and who’ve come back to see what they can get. We train them as best we can. French troops are coming, too. They’ll be tough professional soldiers. But if King Billie comes over, he’ll bring an army that’s fought in every major campaign in Europe.” He sucked on his teeth. “Most of your boys have never seen anything like that.”

“Will he come?”

“That’s the question.” O’Byrne shook his head. “I don’t know. So far he doesn’t seem to want to. That has to be the hope—that he’ll leave King James to keep Ireland. It’s a family business: James is his father-in-law, after all; and they were always on friendly terms as long as William and Mary were to inherit England. Perhaps they can come to a new agreement.” He paused to reflect. “Mind you, whether the English Parliament could live with a Catholic Ireland on its doorstep I’m not so sure.”

“At least we have secured Ireland itself,” Maurice said.

“Probably, Mwirish. Probably. Those Protestant boys up in Ulster are still waiting for King Billie. It’s a powder keg up there, in my opinion. And you know, we still haven’t taken Derry.” It was one of the most remarkable features of that summer. The obstinate defenders of Derry had closed their gates and refused to surrender to James’s forces. They’d been trapped and blockaded inside their walls since April, but they still hadn’t given up. “They must be eating the rats by now,” said O’Byrne, with a soldier’s admiration. “And even when the place does fall, it’s very difficult to subdue people like that.”

But the real surprise for Maurice Smith came when they turned to family matters. He had already ascertained that his old friend Brian O’Byrne had passed away—on a campaign, he’d learned, fighting for the King of France. It was only late in the evening, when he remarked sadly that he’d never known what had become of his own father, that O’Byrne said: “After he fought at Rathmines, you mean?”

“Rathmines? My father was never at the Battle of Rathmines.”

“Oh, but he was,” answered O’Byrne. “My father was with him and he told me the whole business.” And he related all that had passed. “He was no soldier, you know,” O’Byrne added with a smile. “But he fought like a hero, my father said. He never knew for certain, but my father always wondered if he’d gone up to Drogheda, and perished there.”

For some moments Maurice digested this extraordinary piece of news. Then, suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for his vanished father, he felt his eyes fill with tears, and had to look away. “I had no idea he would do such a thing,” he said at last.

“He was a true Irishman,” O’Byrne said quietly.

Then Maurice told him about the Staff of Saint Patrick.

For Donatus Walsh, the autumn and winter of 1689 was a trying time. To everyone’s astonishment, Derry had not only held out; late in the summer it had been relieved. To the Protestants of Ulster it was an inspiration; to King James, a bitter blow. Despite the fact that he was a Catholic King on a Catholic island, it showed his enemies that he could be beaten.

Not that King William had fared so much better. He sent over his long-time commander General Schomberg. But instead of sweeping down towards Dublin, the old veteran got stuck up near the Ulster border. Many of his men fell sick during the cold and damp of the Irish winter. The months that followed were, for the most part, a grim stalemate.

Grim for the troops, grim for the people. The winter was cold. The Irish, determined to do nothing to support the English across the water, gave orders that all English imports, including the usual coal for heating the houses of Dublin, should be turned back. They needn’t have bothered. The English didn’t send any. Shortly before Christmas, Donatus tore down two of the hedges on the estate, to provide fuel for his people. At the start of the new year, going into Dublin, he discovered that half the wooden posts and railings in the city had already been taken for firewood.

He saw Maurice Smith several times. His cousin also introduced him to O’Byrne. Nothing was being done about the land settlement for the time being, and it seemed that, whatever the outcome, the two men were quite resolved to remain friends. As for Donatus, he was intrigued to meet the soldier of fortune, and enjoyed the soldier’s clever, worldly mind. As for the news that the soldier had brought to Maurice of his vanished father, it seemed to have had a strange effect. The solid, punctilious merchant of whom Donatus had always heard, evidently was a far more romantic soul than anyone had realised. Maurice never said so, but Donatus was sure that his cousin felt a new sense of closeness to the parent he had lost. There was a look of peace and joy in his eye when he spoke of Walter now. And Donatus was glad that Maurice should have found such a wellspring of unexpected emotion in the latter half of his life. If anything, the knowledge that his father had sacrificed himself for the Catholic cause seemed to have made Maurice more determined than ever to pursue his quest for the Staff. He spoke of returning to Connacht again in the spring.

But the military stalemate could not go on forever. By February, the rumour was that William, having given up on General Schomberg, might be coming over himself. In March, a force of several thousand Danish soldiers, hired from the King of Denmark, were landed in Ulster. “The Vikings are being used against us again,” the Catholics of Dublin complained. Yet in a way, the forces sent to help them by the King of France were almost as bad. In the first place, they marched into Dublin with every sign of arrogance and contempt for the Dubliners. And they had no sooner arrived than another discovery was made. Several thousand of the mercenaries were Protestants!

Through the month of April, English, Dutch, and German troops were starting to arrive in the north. One of William’s naval commanders even made a cheeky raid into Dublin Bay and took away one of James’s ships. One way or the other, it seemed to Donatus that matters must come to a head that summer.

Only one piece of cheerful news came during this time. A little before Easter, Donatus learned from his wife that she was pregnant again.

The priest came to his door one day in the middle of May. He was an old man. The cloak he had wrapped around him was spattered with mud and torn in several places; but his blue eyes were keen.

“You were inquiring about the Staff?” In fact, during the winter, Donatus had not been inactive. It had occurred to him to write to the several Irish colleges on the continent, explaining the recently found authentication and asking whether they had any news concerning the Staff. So far, the replies he had received had been courteous and evinced every sign of interest; but sadly there had been no positive news. One never knew, however, what further conversations such an enquiry might provoke in the great Irish Catholic network of the European world. And it seemed that just such a thing had now occurred. “I had a letter,” the priest said, “from a dear friend in Douai. So as I was passing through Dublin on my way overseas, I thought to call upon you.”

“Have you seen the Staff?” Donatus asked eagerly.

“I haven’t. But a certain Father Jerome O’Neill, who died two years ago, told me that he had. Some time ago, he assured me, it was kept where you might expect it to be.”

“Expect?”

“In the centre of Saint Patrick’s ministry. I think you might expect it to be there.”

“The centre of his ministry has always been held to be in the north. At Armagh.”

“Quite so. Well, that is where it was.”

“This is remarkable.”

“I cannot tell you more. I wish I could. But I haven’t the least reason to suppose he was mistaken. He was a most precise and scholarly man. It is possible that it has been moved since, of course. But the likelihood would be, I should say, that you might find it there.”

Donatus had begged the priest to stay, but he had been anxious to be gone. “I shall take a glass of brandy, if you will be so kind, but then I must return to Dublin. I leave tomorrow.”

That very evening, Donatus sent a message to Maurice. They met in Dublin three days later.

It seemed to Donatus that his cousin was a little feverish. He wondered if Maurice was sickening for something. But when he told him the details of what the priest had said, it was all he could do to stop Maurice leaving at once. “I was going to Connacht again very soon,” he cried. “But this…This…”

“The Staff may not be there. And even if it is, you may not find it.”

“It’s more information than we’ve ever had before,” Maurice pointed out. And this could not be denied.

There was also the problem of geography. Armagh lay in enemy territory. King William’s forces were spread all over that part of Ulster now, and there was every sign that they were getting ready for battle. “If you go up there at present, looking for the Staff of Saint Patrick,” Donatus warned him, “you are courting great danger.”

“Set against that the effect upon our own troops,” replied Maurice, “if I could bring the authentic Staff to them, before they go into battle.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I shall return to Rathconan to get ready. Then I shall go north.” It was quite evident that nothing would stop him.

“At least come by my house then, when you set out,” Donatus begged. “It’s upon your road. Perhaps I shall come with you, part of the way.” This Maurice promised to do.

But in any event, his journey was delayed. Donatus had been right in thinking that his cousin was feverish. A message from Rathconan a few days later informed him that by the time Maurice got back home, his head was throbbing and his wife had to put him to bed. The next day he had a raging pain in his throat; by the sound of his sickness, it might be a week or two before he was ready to travel.

It was in the last week of May that Donatus chanced to meet Xavier O’Byrne in Dublin. He had gone into the city on some business, and was just walking by the Castle when he saw O’Byrne coming out. As they were both going eastwards, they walked together, and fell into such easy conversation that, passing an inn in Dame Street, they decided to continue their talk in there. As he took a glass of wine, O’Byrne was in a meditative mood. He expected to go north with King James before long. “For I’ve no doubt,” he told Donatus, “that the battle proper will begin within a month.” When Donatus told him about Maurice’s plan to search for the Staff at Armagh, O’Byrne smiled.

“He is a well-meaning fellow, this cousin of yours,” he remarked. “I am sorry at the thought of taking Rathconan from him, you know, even if the place is rightfully mine.” Then he grimaced. “Though if King Billie beats James, there won’t be any Catholics getting their estates back, we may be sure.”

“You think that William will win?” Donatus asked.

“It is hard to say. Last year, we had more men than we could use. Every Catholic gentleman and merchant in Ireland was turning up with recruits, none of them trained. We were turning them away. I dare say we’d take some of them now; for our numbers are down. But the troops that we have are professional. And so are King Billie’s.” He sighed. “I am a mercenary, Donatus. I have fought for years for the King of France. But I could still end my life fighting for the Holy Roman Emperor or for Spain. I’d have to fight for a Catholic, I think. I’d not fight for a Protestant. But I’m still a mercenary. I’ve a son nearly grown. He’ll probably do the same in his turn. We are mercenaries, and so are many of the professional troops in Ireland now. King Billie has Dutch and English troops, but also his Danes and Germans. We have Irish recruits, of course, but we have Frenchmen, Walloons, and our own Germans, too—who are mostly Protestants, God help us. It’s a mercenary’s war.”

“Maurice sees it as a Catholic crusade. Actually, I thought I did, too,” said Donatus.

O’Byrne took another sip of wine, stretched his legs, and gazed towards the window through half-closed eyes.

“For Ireland, it is. I agree. For England, too, you might say. This little war will decide whether Ireland is to be Protestant or Catholic, that is certain. But a crusade?” He paused. “Consider the chief participants, Donatus. King Louis of France seeks to dominate Europe. Against him is ranged a grand alliance of countries: King William with his Protestant English and Dutch; Austria and Spain, both devoutly Catholic; even the Pope, do not forget. The Pope, in this conflict, is not on King James’s side at all: he supports Protestant King Billie. This business in Ireland is just a little skirmish in that wider war. There will be Te Deums sung in Catholic churches all over Europe if King Billie wins. I can’t call that a crusade. Can you?”

“Well, at least we and King James are fighting for Ireland,” Donatus said.

“It would be comforting to think so.”

“You will not allow me even that?”

“Oh, the Irish are fighting for Ireland.” O’Byrne smiled. “The Old English like yourself included, of course. Perhaps I am fighting for Ireland too, Donatus. I think that I am. King James, however, has a different mind. He is Catholic, of course. But why is it that he has been so insistent on granting complete religious freedom to Protestants ever since he came here? He is courting the English. Even as we speak, there’s a plan being considered for James to take part of the army to England as soon as King Billie arrives, while Tyrconnell keeps Billie at bay here in Ireland. I know it from Tyrconnell himself. The French think he’s mad, and they’ll stop it, I’m sure. But King James wants England, not Ireland. He can’t wait to be gone.”

“So does nobody care about Ireland?”

“Nobody. Neither King Louis, nor King Billie, nor King James.” He nodded thoughtfully. “The fate of Ireland will be decided by men not a single one of whom gives a damn about her. That is her tragedy.”

Donatus parted from O’Byrne an hour later, on the most friendly terms. But he returned to Fingal with a sense of sadness and misgiving. He hoped that the cynical soldier was wrong.

Maurice Smith arrived at his door at the end of the first week in June. He was fully recovered from his illness, and eager to go into Ulster. Proudly he showed Donatus the Deposition, which he kept in a special pocket he had made, hidden inside his coat. With his sword at his side, he had an almost martial air. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm and excitement. Donatus tried to persuade him to rest at his house for a day, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“I will ride with you, then,” Donatus said. They left early in the afternoon.

How happy Maurice looked as they rode along. His face was radiant with a sense of purpose. He truly believes, Donatus thought to himself, that he will find the Staff. His heart went out to him.

What was he to say? Had he hoped to dissuade Maurice from his quest? Most certainly, it was madness. With the armies gathering now, there wasn’t a chance of Maurice getting safely through. He was sure of it. Was there even any point? He thought of his conversation with O’Byrne. Should he share that with Maurice? Would his cousin even pay attention if he did? Probably not.

And what if, by some miracle—and one should never turn one’s face away from such a possibility—God should grant that Maurice found the Staff and brought it safely down to the army of King James? Would it make a difference? Yes. Whatever O’Byrne might say, it probably would. The conflict would become a crusade. Who knew what the effect upon Ireland might be? Not only the Staff itself, but the fact of its being brought forth, the fact of the Deposition being found at such a time, would be taken as signs. In his way, Maurice was right. Dreamers and visionaries had won battles before. The chances were slim, the dangers obvious; but he had a feeling that Maurice did not really care about that.

“Your chances are not good, you know,” he did bring himself to say. “You are courting great danger.”

“No greater than my father faced,” Maurice replied, with contentment, “when he fought alongside Brian O’Byrne.”

Donatus nodded. He thought he understood. They rode all afternoon together and camped that evening within sight of the Hill of Tara. The night was warm. Early in the morning they continued, until they came in sight of the River Boyne. “I shall leave you now,” said Donatus. And he embraced his cousin warmly. He watched, for a short while, as Maurice rode northwards, then he abruptly turned his horse’s head and made his way back. He had a strong presentiment that he would not see Maurice again.

In the second half of June, news came that William had arrived up in Belfast with a large fleet. James and his forces set out for the north at once. A week passed. Soon reports came that they had gone up into Ulster. Then, some time later, that they were being driven back, towards the River Boyne.

Donatus heard no word from Maurice. It was a July evening when the first men came riding past his house, heading south in a hurry.

“King William has broken through. At the Boyne. He’s on his way down.”

The letter from O’Byrne did not come until three weeks later. It was affectionate in tone. He was writing to Donatus, he explained, because he felt that he knew him, and he asked Donatus to convey the news, as he saw fit, to Maurice’s family.

The Battle of the Boyne had been more like a big skirmish, really. But it had been decisive. King William himself, bravely wearing his star and garter for the enemy to shoot at, had led his own cavalry against the Irish troops. They had broken through. James, having done nothing, had fled. He had spent one night in Dublin, where he had blamed the Irish for his own failure. Then he had left for the safety of France. The remains of the Irish army who, like him or not, had respected William’s courage, and felt nothing but disgust now for James, had regrouped in Limerick. It was from Limerick that O’Byrne wrote. The story he had to tell was quite surprising.

Maurice Smith had gotten to Armagh. How he had managed it, even O’Byrne could not imagine, but so he had. And there, for days, he’d searched for the Staff. “Without success, alas,” the soldier wrote. Only when William’s army was on the move southwards was he forced to ride south again. “They drove the good man, so to speak, into our arms,” wrote O’Byrne, “and the rest, I dare say, will not surprise you.”

The soldier had urged Maurice to return home. There was nothing useful, he assured him, that he could do. But Maurice wouldn’t hear of it. He had shown the Deposition to numerous people. Even to Tyrconnell, who’d mentioned it to the King. But without the Staff itself, the document could not inspire great interest.

 

He felt he had failed, and for that reason, I should guess, was all the more determined to fight. I kept him in my sight, you may be sure, so far as I could. But it was a stray musket ball that carried him off, during the business at the Boyne. He was, I should say, as brave a man as I have ever known; and in his own way, I believe, he died as he would have wished.

 

It was not until the end of the following year that Donatus heard from O’Byrne again. Without the presence of King James, the remaining Irish forces had acquitted themselves well, maintaining a resistance in the west. King William had gone about his other business, but sent a good Dutch general, Ginkel, to complete the pacification of the island. The Catholic forces were led by Sarsfield. Donatus knew him slightly. On the mother’s side, Sarsfield was the descendant of Irish chieftains; on his father’s, an Old English gentleman like Donatus himself. Conducting his campaign with considerable daring, he had kept the Dutch general busy for another year. Finally, in the autumn of 1691, he had held out in Limerick for months until he could conclude the best and most honourable terms.

Amongst these was the promise that the Catholics of Ireland might continue to practise their religion without persecution.

After this, Sarsfield and some twelve thousand men were permitted to march out of Limerick and take ship for France. Donatus had heard that O’Byrne had stayed to the end, largely, he suspected, from feelings of loyalty to Ireland. He was touched, nonetheless, that the soldier of fortune should have taken the trouble to send him a final word of parting.

 

It is over, Donatus, and I am departing. There is nothing more for me here. I shall roam the world, as I have done before for so long, and as my son, I dare say, will do after me.

But I am glad to have come home to Ireland, and to have seen Rathconan, and to have made the kind friends that I have.

And now we who leave Limerick—Irishmen, soldiers, Catholics that we are—will fly away on the wind, like the wild geese, and I do not believe that we shall ever return.

I am sorry that Maurice never found the Staff.

 

Yet if, in the years that followed, Donatus often turned to that letter, it was with increasing sadness. Within a year the Protestant Parliament had overturned the terms of the Limerick agreement—though King William was quite happy to leave the Catholics in peace. Those who had fought in the Battle of the Boyne—and alas, the name of Maurice Smith had been found—were to lose their land. The Flight of the Wild Geese, as the departure from Limerick came to be called, assumed the character of a recessional: the last, echoing cry of a noble, Catholic leadership, lost to the island forever. Of the Staff of Saint Patrick, he never heard another word.

It was when his son Fortunatus was a boy of seven that one day, after going to the well at Portmarnock and remaining there longer than usual, Donatus returned and made an unexpected announcement to his wife. Their second child had been a boy also, whom they had named Terence; but there had been no more children after that. Looking at the two boys now, he quietly announced: “I have promised the saint—and my dear father also—that Terence shall always be brought up a good Catholic.”

“I should hope so,” his wife replied.

“There is something more, however, which may at first be harder to bear, yet which I believe, for the preservation of the family, and of the faith itself, may be necessary.”

“And what is that?”

“Fortunatus shall be brought up a Protestant.”