EMMET

1799

 

BY THE START of the new year, Georgiana realised that she was rather lonely. She loved Mount Walsh, but she did not want to go there now. She wanted to stay in Dublin; she missed the lively company she had enjoyed when her husband was alive. Could she, as a widow, have that again?

To her surprise, she found that she could.

After the rebellion, people with liberal views were out of fashion. Sympathizers with the United Irish cause tried not to draw attention to themselves. Old Doctor Emmet had closed up his town house and left the city. So when, early in 1799, Georgiana opened her house once more, those who remembered the kindly hospitality of old Fortunatus and of her husband were only too glad to find a haven there. Congenial people of every political persuasion were welcome; she even found that people from the Castle came to her.

For if Hercules and his friends were eager for revenge upon the revolutionaries and their Catholic friends, there were calmer voices in the British government who took a different view. And the most influential of these was the new Lord Lieutenant himself.

Lord Cornwallis might have had to surrender to the American colonists, but he was a fine general and he had become a wise statesman. With the Irish revolt under control, he looked for solutions, not revenge; and Hercules and his Ascendancy friends did not impress him.

What solutions were available? Firstly, he wanted to reduce the tension. Large numbers of rebels had been captured. The leaders had to be tried, but executions should be limited, and most of the rank and file could be pardoned. Leading United Irishmen like Tom Emmet, who had been held before the revolt, would have to stay in custody, but negotiations were started for their eventual release. More significant, however, was another, growing perception.

“The biggest problem in Ireland,” Cornwallis and his colleagues were concluding, “is the Irish Parliament.”

Grattan’s Parliament: seventeen years ago it had seemed to bring hope of a new and liberal Patriot regime, but the reality had been so different. It was Hercules and his friends, and the Troika, who had triumphed. And what had been the result? A huge revolt and three attempted French invasions. The argument was growing in Westminster: “these Irish Ascendancy men aren’t fit to govern. They’ll always bully the Catholics. And the last thing we need, when we’re fighting the French, is trouble on our western flank.” Indeed, some thoughtful men concluded, the system of the two parliaments was inherently flawed anyway. “The London Parliament will always want to limit Irish trade, which they see as a threat; and between Dublin and London, there’s always going to be a dispute about who pays for what.” The solution?

Union. Unite England and Ireland. Just as England and Scotland had been united, the two lands would become a joint kingdom. A hundred Irish MPs would sit in the London Parliament and have a vote in governing both lands; thirty-two Irish peers and bishops would sit in the British House of Lords. Trade would be unrestricted; Ireland would be better off, as Irishmen and Englishmen joined together to form a stable nation. Wasn’t that a better way to proceed?

The Irish did not think so at all. Take away the ancient grandeur of the Dublin Parliament and its magnificent classical building? Anathema. At the start of 1799, they voted it down. But the English government was not to be so easily put off. The proposal was raised again, insistently.

And in the easygoing atmosphere of Georgiana’s house, this was soon the main topic of conversation.

She found that her Patriot friends were divided. Grattan’s followers eloquently defended the Parliament their leader had created. But some Patriot members, shocked by Hercules and his friends, had lost faith in Dublin and confessed: “We’d probably do better in London.”

Nor, for that matter, were the hard men of the Ascendancy all agreed. Some, shaken by the revolt, thought that a united kingdom might indeed bring more safety and order to the island. But Hercules himself was in no doubt. “I’ve been talking to the Orange lodges up in Ulster,” he told her, “and they want none of this union. They think the London men are far too soft on the Catholics. And they’re quite right. We must keep the Dublin Parliament.”

But even the Protestants of Ulster were by no means agreed.

“Many Ulster Presbyterians are quite in favour of union,” Doyle informed her.

“But they rose against the English,” she pointed out.

“True, but it didn’t work. And they think union would be good for the linen trade.” He grinned. “Calvinists like profits, as you know.”

“And you,” she asked the Dublin merchant, “what do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m quite against it,” the old man replied. “If the Parliament moves out of Dublin, it will be terrible for the Dublin tradesmen, and for people like me with houses to let.”

But perhaps the most interesting discussion took place at her house at the start of the summer. It was a gathering of old friends, Patriots mainly from the days of old Fortunatus. John MacGowan was there. And one of the Patriots had brought a young lawyer with him. “For I know that you like to meet the coming young men.”

The young lawyer was a tall, handsome fellow with a mop of curly brown hair. He came from an old Catholic gentry family in County Kerry. Whether it was normal when one was getting older she didn’t know, but she often found that young people were happy to confide in her things that they might have hesitated to say to others. Certainly, young Mr. Daniel O’Connell did not try to hide the fact that he was ambitious.

“I have to make my way in the world, Lady Mountwalsh,” he said. “So I have just joined the Freemasons.”

“A wise move,” she agreed, “especially, if I may say so, for a Catholic.”

He nodded when she said this, but at the same time, he sighed.

“To tell you the truth,” he confessed, “though my family is Catholic, I’ve little personal interest in the Catholic religion. You could call me a Deist, I suppose.”

He was also frank about his politics.

“I saw the excesses of the French Revolution,” he told her, “because I was actually in France at the time. I abhor violence.” And he was entirely pragmatic. When one old gentleman, who was an enthusiast for the Irish language, began to wax lyrical upon the subject, O’Connell would have none of it.

“I don’t deny the poetry of my ancestral tongue,” he said. “I was brought up to speak it. But I must say that I think it tends to hold my fellow countrymen back, and I shouldn’t be sorry if it disappeared.” The old gentleman was horrified, but O’Connell remarked to Georgiana: “You know, I only said what many ordinary Irish people think.”

He wasn’t sitting near her at dinner, so they had no further conversation until, with the dessert course, a general discussion broke out upon the question of the union. Several views were expressed. Most of the Patriots were against it on principle. To her surprise, however, John MacGowan, whom everybody knew to be a United Irishman, was prepared to consider it.

“We know we shall never get any satisfaction from the Troika and the Dublin Parliament as things stand,” he pointed out. “Even a London Parliament might be better than what we have.”

This was immediately countered by a Patriot member.

“For better or worse, there has been a parliament in Ireland for centuries. Take it away, and you’ll never get it back,” he warned.

“And what,” Georgiana asked, looking down the table, “does Mr. O’Connell think?”

She could see that he didn’t particularly want to be called upon, but he spoke up nonetheless.

“I don’t like the idea of the union, because Ireland is a nation. But of one thing I am certain: whether Ireland forms a union with England or not will scarcely matter as long as the vast majority of Irishmen are treated as inferior citizens because of their ancestral religion.” He looked around the company. “Until Catholic disabilities are all removed, until Catholics can enter Parliament and hold office as high as any Protestant, we shall have explosive discontent in Ireland whether the Parliament sits in Dublin or London. It will hardly make a difference.”

It was now that a white-haired old Patriot spoke.

“I was one of those who voted with Grattan, so I am not easily persuaded of the benefits of Union. But I was in London recently, and I should tell you this. Cornwallis is entirely of your opinion. Prime Minister Pitt in London is coming round to the same view. They’d like to assure the Catholics and their Patriot allies that, as soon as Ireland is unified with England, the new British Parliament will grant the Catholic Emancipation that you want. The only problem is that they can’t say it openly, because if they do, they’ll never get the Protestant majority in the Dublin Parliament to consent to the Union. That’s the message, in private, they want to convey.”

“Do you mean,” said Georgiana, “that the English government has to hoodwink the Irish Protestants?”

“Lady Mountwalsh,” the old man said with a smile, “I never used those words at all.”

She did not see Daniel O’Connell again for some time, though she heard word that his career was thriving. But the conversation of that evening was often in her mind.

For the old Patriot’s words were soon borne out. Nothing official was said, but she heard from friends: hints were being dropped, private assurances given. By the autumn, it was clear that a bill would be brought before the Irish Parliament, around the turn of the year, which would invite that body to vote itself out of existence, and that the Patriots and supporters of Catholic Emancipation had been assured that, soon afterwards, their wishes would be granted. But even if these liberal men could be squared, what about the Ascendancy diehards who formed the majority? How would they be persuaded to give up their local power?

She was rather surprised, therefore, shortly before Christmas, when Hercules casually informed her:

“I’ve changed my mind. Union’s for the best. It’s the path of progress, I’m convinced if it.”

She wondered why.

The parliamentary debates began in January 1800 and went on for months. Georgiana listened to many of them from the public gallery. There were many fine speeches defending the Irish Parliament, but the most memorable came from Grattan himself, who, though sick at the time, came down to the Parliament for the late-night debate, dressed in his Volunteer uniform, pale as a ghost, and gave one of the greatest speeches of his life. Hearing such power, logic, and eloquence, Georgiana thought that the Union cause must be lost. Yet as the weeks went by, one by one, those who had opposed it before were rising to speak in favour.

One day she found young Robert Emmet discreetly watching from the gallery, and they chatted briefly. She knew from William’s letters that Emmet had been in Paris, too, and he was able to give her news of him. “He speaks excellent French now,” he reported. “I shall tell him I saw you upon my return.” She asked him what he thought of the prospect of the Catholics getting their Emancipation if the Union came. “I think the English may be somewhat cynical there,” he answered. “They must calculate that, in a much larger British Parliament, the number of Irish Catholic members would still be too small a minority to have any effect at all.” When she remarked upon the number of members who seemed to be changing their minds about the Union, he grinned. “They’ve all been bought, Lady Mountwalsh. And for good prices. I think we may be sure of that.”

The meeting with Emmet brought her grandson so vividly into her mind. She missed William. She had tried to take an interest in his younger brother, though her cool relations with Hercules did not make it easy. He was a sweet, good-natured boy who loved his brother William. But he was an odd young fellow who lived in a world of his own. He had a great aptitude for mathematics and loved astronomy. His father had even bought him a telescope, and he would occupy himself with it for hours, perfectly contented. She was glad he was happy, but was unable to follow him in these interests.

William’s letters came regularly, once a month. She sent him money and was glad to do it. His letters were informative. He had no shortage of Irish company in Paris. There were over a thousand Irishmen in the French capital, he told her, many of them on the run after the revolt. There were United Irishmen who had left or been exiled; most of the students who had been expelled from Trinity College had graduated to Paris, too. As for the French, Napoleon Bonaparte, the adventurer-general, had now made himself master of France, as consul; and she learned with amusement that the fashionable world of the republic was just as pleasure-loving as it had been under the ancient regime. He said no word about returning to Dublin, though, and she supposed he was glad enough just to be away from his father.

All through the spring and summer, the debates about the Union went on. But when the final votes came, the Union won: Ireland’s Parliament voted itself out of existence. And the means by which it was done? Emmet was right.

For if the vote took place in the new century, the process itself belonged, wholeheartedly, to the old. The Parliament, in its final act, brought all the eighteenth-century political arts to a magnificent climax. Jobs, titles, ready money—nobody could remember when they had been promised with such ruthless liberality. Cajoled, flattered, honoured, paid, peers and humble members alike sold their votes.

No wonder Hercules had seen the wisdom of the Union. Not only was his peerage raised in degree, so that instead of being a humble baron, he was now the Earl of Mountwalsh, no less; but he was even chosen as one of the select group of Irish peers with the right to sit in the British House of Lords in London. He was also able to get titles and favours for a number of friends. He even got a knighthood for Arthur Budge, who, he had assured the government, was a loyal fellow who should be encouraged.

It was in this manner that, in the summer of 1800, Ireland and England became united.

The winter season that followed was a strange one. Georgiana opened her house and people came, but Dublin was half empty. People brought their daughters in to find husbands or enjoy the theatre. But not only was there no Parliament to attend, some of the greatest social and political figures had gone to London. Hercules was so rich that he intended to keep a house in both capitals, but most members of the new Parliament were not so fortunate. Their Dublin houses were standing empty.

The north side of the Liffey was especially hard hit. Across from College Green, the broad artery of Sackville Street had led to a series of terraces and squares favoured by the Parliament men. One November morning, as she was passing through the area in her carriage, Georgiana saw old Doyle standing in front of a handsome town house, directing some workmen. She was never quite sure of his age, but she knew he must be in his eighties. “The spirit of his mother Barbara lives on in him,” Fortunatus used to say. “Cousin Barbara never let go of her business until the day she died, nor will he.” Telling her coachman to wait, and stepping out, she went to ask the old man what he was doing.

“Making alterations,” he growled. “Tenant’s gone. Can’t find another.” He was standing by the open door, and she looked in. The house was typical of its kind. A long hall and staircase; fine decorative plasterwork on the ceiling. Halfway up the stairs, a tall window with a semicircular upper frame graced the return.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Put a caretaker in the parlour. Let the rest of the house room by room.”

“But…” she gazed at the noble scale revealed within, “this is a gentleman’s house.”

“Find me a gentleman.”

“What sort of people will rent the rooms?”

“People who pay.” He shrugged. “I’ve three other houses without a tenant, and seven more that will be vacant during the next three years. I’ll probably have to do the same to all of them. This is the result of the Union.”

“Hercules says that the Union will bring progress,” she remarked sadly.

“Not all progress,” said the old Irishman wisely, “is for the better.”

She looked up at the window over the stair. A grey light was falling slowly through it, onto the empty return. It seemed to presage a new and shabbier world.

But it was not until February that the real bitterness of the Union was tasted. For Georgiana, it came when John MacGowan arrived unexpectedly at her house one afternoon and, with a face more agitated than she had ever seen it before, cried out:

“May England be cursed, Georgiana. We are betrayed.”

You’re only a traitor if you’re caught. That was how Finn O’Byrne saw it, anyway. There had to be proof. To Deirdre’s accusation that he had betrayed the Rathconan men, he would simply point out: “Why would I do such a thing? It makes no sense.” As for her claim that he had set the Yeomen on Brigid, he would shake his head and say: “Her grief has affected her brain.” Most people, including even Deirdre’s own family, were inclined to agree with him.

But she wouldn’t give up. She made the air of Rathconan poisonous for him. By the time the Union debates had begun in Parliament, he had decided to leave Rathconan and move into the city. She took some satisfaction in the knowledge that she had driven him out.

Yet the fact was, he considered, that she had done him a favour. He found various kinds of work to keep body and soul together, while he lived in cheap lodgings in the Liberties; but it was after a year in Dublin that he found his niche as a caretaker in one of the houses where Doyle was letting rooms on the north side. Within a few months, he had made himself rather useful to the old man. He kept the house in good order, but he also had an uncanny knack of knowing when a tenant was likely to be late with the rent or, just as important, when they had the money to pay. “You seem to know everyone’s business,” Doyle said approvingly, and soon he began to give Finn small commissions. He even used him to collect rent from some of his other properties. From these activities, Finn was able to make a modest living; but he also had time to spare, and he wondered how to use it for profit.

The answer was provided by King George III of England.

When John MacGowan had come to Georgiana’s house in such distress, he expressed the shock and horror of Catholics all over Ireland. They had been betrayed.

As it happened, the betrayal was not deliberate. When William Pitt had given assurances that something would be done for the Catholics of Ireland, he had honestly believed he could accomplish it. But even the canny Prime Minister had underestimated the forces ranged against him.

Hercules had been especially active. It had not been difficult to convince stolid English gentlemen in the London Parliament that the Catholic menace of 1641 was still alive. “God knows,” they would say after listening to him, “he was born and bred there, so he should know.” But most effective of all was FitzGibbon, who, once again, got to work upon King George. “I cannot have Catholics in my Parliament,” the old king reiterated, “whatever Pitt may think. It’s against my coronation oath.” And although he was technically incorrect, and Pitt brought all the weight of argument and influence to bear upon him, nothing could break through the barrier of the king’s honest, royal obstinacy. Pitt, who was a man of his word, honourably resigned.

But that was little use to the Catholics of Ireland.

“First Cromwell takes all the Catholic land; King William promises Catholic rights, but then we get the Penal Laws instead; now we are betrayed again. You can never trust the English.” That was how John MacGowan saw it. That was how United Irishmen all over Ireland saw it, and those in Paris, too. So did Finn O’Byrne. But for him, the betrayal brought an opportunity.

It was not until the autumn of 1801 that he went to see Sir Arthur Budge at his Dublin house. The newly made knight listened to what Finn had to say, then he wrote a letter and told him to take it to Lord Mountwalsh. When Finn presented himself nervously at the house on St. Stephen’s Green, he was ushered, after waiting only half an hour, into the bureau of the new Earl of Mountwalsh himself.

Though Finn could not have known it, his timing had been fortuitous. Budge—who didn’t much like him, but admitted his usefulness—was about to give up his Dublin house and live entirely at Rathconan, where his old father was now getting too frail to cope alone. So he had passed him on to Hercules for what he was—a small-time informer wanting to be paid—and he had imagined that Hercules would probably pass him on to some minor official at the Castle. But even Finn could discern that, behind the hauteur natural to an aristocrat confronted by such a thing as himself, the earl was actually rather pleased to see him.

The Union was not turning out quite as Hercules had hoped. True, his title was now magnificent and the Catholics had been denied. Both outcomes brought him satisfaction. But life in London had been a disappointment. He had realized, of course, that his political position would be less significant there. He was one of a few Irish peers in a great assembly. But he had not understood that he would suffer a loss of social status. It was subtle: it would only have been apparent to members of his own exalted class—and the upper servants, who lived vicariously through such distinctions. But the fact was that in fashionable London, an Irish peer, even an earl with a seat in the British House of Lords, was not quite the same thing as an English lord. His ancient lineage and nobility were accepted, but his title was not quite, as the English might say, out of the top drawer. Still more important, though his fortune was ample, it was dwarfed by the fortunes of the greater English aristocrats. Without influence, with a second-rate title and a second-class fortune, Hercules found himself for the first time in his life in a position where he couldn’t bully people. It distressed him deeply.

While he would rent a house in London, therefore, he had decided to spend a good part of his time in Dublin, where, as he calmly acknowledged, “I am hated, but important.”

And this informer Budge had sent him might be rather useful.

Ireland might have the protection of the Union, but that did not mean the island was secure. Nowhere in Europe was safe. To the oppressed of every land, France remained the symbol of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and her ruler Napoleon Bonaparte was a hero. Even great artists and musicians, like Beethoven, believed it. In Ireland, too: “The meanest peasant in Connacht believes that Bonaparte will deliver him,” Hercules could remark with contempt. The United Irishmen might have lost heart after the rebellion, but if the heroic French appeared on Irish shores, that could change in a moment again. True, there was talk of a truce with the French. Cornwallis was going over to France to see what could be done. But it was unlikely that any peace between the British monarchy and the French republic could last for long. And it was equally unlikely, in Hercules’s judgement, that the United Irishmen would behave themselves either. More than a year ago, FitzGibbon had told him: “That wretched little Robert Emmet, that I threw out of Trinity, has been trying to set up a new United leadership here in Dublin. We got wind of it, and if we catch him here again, we’ll throw him in jail.” A spy on the continent had recently reported that young Emmet was one of a delegation seeking help from Bonaparte.

But not much else was known. Were these plots getting anywhere? What preparations, if any, were now afoot in Ireland? Nobody in the Castle knew. So if this fellow O’Byrne can infiltrate the United Irishmen and bring me any information, Hercules considered, he’ll perform a useful service, and enhance my reputation with the government—both worthy causes.

“I pay well,” he told O’Byrne, “but I’ll only pay for what I get. You will also report to me, and to me alone.”

Finn left delighted by his good fortune.

After he had gone, Hercules remained staring thoughtfully in front of him. For the running of Finn O’Byrne was not the only private espionage in which he was nowadays engaged.

It had not been difficult to guess, after young William had absconded from England, that he must be getting funds from someone, and the most likely source of funds had been his grandmother. It had taken patience, but recently he had been able to persuade his mother to employ a particular footman in her house in Merrion Square. The fellow knew how to pick locks, and should therefore be able to open the drawer in her bureau where he knew she kept her most private correspondence. The man was literate, and his instructions were to transcribe the letters. If, as he guessed, William was sending letters, he’d like to know what was in them.

He didn’t know who his son’s associates were, but he suspected they might be fellows like Emmet. Young William had refused to spy for him when he was at Trinity, which had been shockingly disloyal. Perhaps now, unwittingly, he could do better.

Yet it was to be another year before anything came from this source that was really useful.

My dear Grandmother,

Lord Cornwallis’s peace still holds, and we see more English and Irish visitors to Paris than ever. I still continue to hope that you will come here one day.

Robert Emmet has gone to Amsterdam to join his brother Tom and his family, and they all think of going to America. Robert, good fellow that he is, was never happy in Paris, though with his genius for chemistry and mathematics, he had made the acquaintance of some of the greatest French men of science. So as usual, our finest men will go to the new world, since the old world is not worthy of them.

Will the peace last? Some of the Irish here would be glad for it to end. For while we were at war, the French government paid to support the United Irishmen in France; and during the peace, those payments have ended. Some of the better sort, with no trade to fall back on, are hard-pressed to put food in their mouths. Worse yet, it is believed that Bonaparte is quite ready to sell any of the Irish, including Emmet, to the English in return for some French émigrés.

With each passing month, it becomes clearer that Napoleon is not a hero but a Tyrant. Even those Irishmen who still have the strongest hopes of freeing Ireland, and I include my friend Emmet himself, would sooner have King George for a master than Bonaparte.

I remain, as always, your loving grandson,

William

Before I seal this letter, I have just received news that Robert Emmet has left for England, whence he means to journey to Ireland, I know not upon what cause. But see that you tell no one else.

 

Hercules put down the transcript of the letter and smiled. Finn O’Byrne’s monthly reports had been paltry affairs so far, but perhaps now he could achieve something useful.

Two days later, when Finn O’Byrne appeared, he gave him a simple order.

“Find Robert Emmet.”

By the following April, Finn was getting desperate. His last interview with the earl had been frightening. “If you cannot find anything better than this,” Hercules had coolly observed, “I shall conclude that you have joined the conspirators yourself.” Finn had broken out in a cold sweat.

“If Emmet’s here, he’s wearing a cloak of invisibility, your lordship,” he’d protested. “There’s not a sign of him.”

“Find him or suffer the consequences,” the aristocrat had replied bleakly.

And the devil of it was, Mountwalsh was right. Several people had whispered to him that Emmet was in Dublin, but nobody knew where. And that wasn’t the only problem. From the very start of his attempt to infiltrate the United men—that was eighteen months ago now—he had run into unexpected problems.

The first person he had gone to see had been John MacGowan. He’d remembered his visit to Rathconan with Patrick. If anyone could involve him in the movement again, it would be the Dublin merchant. But he had got nowhere. MacGowan had been straightforward.

“The movement is lying dormant until there’s a real chance of success. That much I know. Ulster, Wicklow, and the other regions will only rise if Dublin is secured, and the Dublin men don’t want to rise without the French. Who can blame them? The chain of command has also been changed. But that’s all I know, because I refuse to take part anymore.” When Finn had expressed surprise, he’d explained. “Our rising in ’98 failed miserably and cost too many lives. I no longer believe in risings. We can achieve more by patience and peaceful means. Perhaps my children will see justice. Meanwhile, things could be worse. Cornwallis was wise and humane. There are others like him.” Seeing that this was not at all what Finn wanted to hear, he added: “You might try the Smith brothers.”

When he had told the earl of MacGowan’s lack of interest in the cause, Lord Mountwalsh had not been pleased. “A pity,” he had declared irritably. “MacGowan is a man who needs to be hanged.”

Finn had been hesitant to approach Deirdre’s sons, and had tried other avenues first. He soon discovered that MacGowan’s reluctance was shared by many of the Dublin tradesmen. Finally, after putting out several feelers, including one to the Smiths, and waited two weeks, he had been visited by a man he did not know, who had invited him to join a small group under his command. But there his progress had halted. Who the other companies might be, to whom his own commander reported, he was never told, nor was there any way of finding out. He was part of an invisible army. And, he soon discovered, this was deliberate. After the failure of the last rebellion, the United Irishmen had learned the value of secrecy. “If you or I are arrested and tortured,” his commander told him, “there’s almost nothing we can tell them.” He grinned. “Next time we fight, it will be like the dead arising from their graves.”

And it hadn’t got any better. Talking to others, travelling into Wicklow and Kildare, he’d sometimes been able to glean small bits of information; but generally, he’d only been able to tell the contemptuous earl that the United men were biding their time.

So he’d been almost grateful at first for the chance to go after Emmet. At least it was something definite to do.

Old Doctor Emmet had died in December. A family friend was in charge of his affairs, and the house to the south of the city was to be sold. His remaining family had taken lodgings meanwhile. Surely young Robert Emmet might appear at one of these places? Finn had even employed a boy to watch them, but there had been no sign of Emmet.

In late March, however, he had seen a change. His commander had suddenly been more forthcoming. He even looked excited. Something was up. Important men, leaders of the movement, were arriving from France. Were either of the Emmets here now? he ventured. “That is possible,” his commander admitted. A few days later, he had made a trip down, himself, to Doctor Emmet’s former house.

The house, which was called Casino, was an old structure with eighteenth-century embellishments, sitting in a small park south of Donnybrook, only half an hour’s walk south from St. Stephen’s Green. It was shuttered and silent. Skirting the house, he found a small window at the back he could force, and moments later he was inside.

The place was empty. Everything had been removed. His footsteps echoed unnervingly. Up on the attic floor where the servants had slept, he found an old bedstead, some bedding, and a couple of ancient blankets, presumably left because they were not worth taking. Had somebody used them? Possibly. He returned downstairs. In the kitchen he found a couple of plates, a cracked pitcher, an empty wine bottle. There were some crumbs on the floor. He couldn’t decide how old they were. He went back to the hall. There was only one strange thing about the empty house.

He felt as if he were not alone. He couldn’t say why; it was just a sensation. But all the time, as he moved from empty room to empty room, he felt as if some other heart was also beating there, some other person, quite close, yet whom he could not see. He went round once more. Nobody. Nothing. No sounds, no fleeting shadows. Only blankness. He shrugged. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He left, closing the window behind him.

A week later, he nervously made his report to Lord Mountwalsh. “Just a little patience,” he begged. “The United men are about to show their faces.” But to his surprise, the earl did not seem particularly concerned. Instead, he picked up an oval miniature from his desk and told Finn to look at it. “Can you remember that face?” he asked. The face belonged to a young man. It was broad, strong, and pleasant. “This was done about four years ago,” the earl remarked, but the features will not have changed much, I think.” Finn nodded. “I believe he is in Dublin. Perhaps with Emmet. Find him.”

“I’ll try, my lord. But who is it?”

“My son. His name is William. You might start by watching the movements of his grandmother. She lives in Merrion Square.”

With this new commission, Finn left, greatly surprised.

My dear Grandmother,

The rumour here is that Bonaparte is preparing for war again. And unofficially, it is said, certain persons close to Bonaparte have approached certain other persons—I could not say who—to know whether a rising might be effected in Ireland.

As you can imagine, this has caused quite a stir among our friends. On the one hand, this might be the opportunity for which they have waited so long; on the other, they are now so anxious that Ireland should not fall under the rule of the French dictator himself, that they are eager to ensure that any rising is under their own control before the French arrive. It is said also that the American ambassador has offered funds from his own pocket to purchase arms.

Meanwhile, I myself think of visiting Italy, so do not be alarmed if a little time passes before you hear from,

Your affectionate grandson,

William

 

Georgiana gazed at the letter. Almost two months had passed since it arrived, and since then she had received no further letters. It was possible that he had gone to Italy, of course, but she did not think so. It was surely a stratagem to explain the fact that he could not write to her from Paris.

He was probably in Dublin, then. Every day since getting the letter, she had looked out of her window, half hoping to see him walking towards her through Merrion Square. But, of course, she hadn’t seen him. And if he was here secretly, he must be with the United men. She trembled to think what danger he was putting himself in.

But the circumstance that had frightened her most of all was something that had happened in her own house. A week after she had locked the letter away, she had taken it out of the locked drawer in her bureau again, and noticed to her astonishment that the letter had been replaced in the drawer the wrong way up. She was quite certain: she had put the letter in there with the writing facing towards her; now it had been reversed. She had tested the drawer after locking it. Someone, therefore, had picked the lock, read the letter, and replaced it. But who had done so, and what did it mean? And how much danger was her grandson in?

It was strange to be invisible. At first it had seemed exciting, but now William found it lonely.

Robert Emmet was living under an assumed name out at Rathfarnham, a couple of miles farther south. It had been Emmet’s idea that William should use Casino. “It’s empty,” he explained, “and when I was there before, I made some false panels and trapdoors. So if anyone should come there, I can show you how to hide.” That was exactly what William had done the day the fellow had come snooping round the house. The hiding place had been effective, but he was sorry that it didn’t allow him to get a sight of the intruder’s face.

Meanwhile, he had grown a moustache and some bushy side-whiskers of which he was rather proud. On Emmet’s advice, he called himself William Casey. “And since nobody outside our Paris group knows a thing about you now,” Emmet had pointed out, “you could be very useful.” The United leaders, Hamilton, Russell, McCabe, Swiney, were a mixed group, some gentlemen and men of intellect, others artisans, but all idealists. He was the youngest of the men present at the meetings, which were usually held at Rathfarnham. “But we take no account of age,” Emmet smiled. Anne Devlin, the girl who acted as housekeeper of the place, was only sixteen, yet they all seemed quite content to trust her with their lives. Men came to see them from all over the island. The men from Wicklow and Ulster promised, “Take Dublin and we’ll rise.” The men from Kildare said: “We’ll help you take it.”

But the meetings which most impressed William were the ones with the lesser, local commanders. For this was where Emmet really came into his own. It was extraordinary how persuasive he could be, painting a glowing picture of how things would be as soon as Ireland was free. “Napoleon is looking to us Irishmen,” he would tell some humble artisan, “to see whether we have the fight in us. If we want his help, we have to prove ourselves. So where do you stand?” It never seemed to fail.

During May, news came that Napoleon was officially at war with England again. This added urgency to the preparations. By June, a message was sent to Paris to tell Bonaparte that they were almost ready for him.

One evening, they had gone into Dublin to meet some local townsmen. Emmet had been inspiring, but one fellow, who had been especially impressed, had also stared with interest at William, and afterwards had come up to him. Would he also have come from Paris? he asked respectfully. And when William nodded, the fellow remarked: “I could see you were a man of birth and education, Sir. I am Finn O’Byrne, at your service.”

“I am William Casey.”

Finn nodded. “And would you be living in the city, Sir, might I ask?”

“Outside.”

“I am caretaker of a house in the city, Sir, and I have access to others. If ever you should require lodgings, or a place to store anything, I can arrange it and no one need even know you’re there. Would you tell Mr. Emmet that as well?”

William said he would, and Finn O’Byrne gave him the address where he could be found. “Would there be anywhere I could find you, Sir?” he asked.

“Through Mr. Emmet,” William answered cheerfully, “who can be reached through the usual channels.”

“You know where to find me, Sir,” Finn repeated, “if ever I can be of service to you.”

He seemed a good fellow, thought William.

With Emmet acting as quartermaster, the preparations went forward at speed. There were three secret caches of weapons in the Dublin Liberties. Only a handful of men, which included the Smith brothers, knew where they were. Blacksmiths had made hundreds of pikes. They had flintlocks, pistols, a formidable quantity of gunpowder. William made himself useful acting as a secretary and right-hand man for Emmet. Only one thing was lacking.

“We need money, William,” Emmet remarked one day in June. “Can you get us any?”

William had a hundred pounds left. He gave fifty to Emmet. He even thought for a moment of going to his grandmother for funds; but if he did that, he’d break his cover; and besides, even if she’d give him money, he couldn’t drag her into the conspiracy in such a way. But thinking about it made him realize with a stab of pain how much he missed his family.

Not that he really missed his parents. He was frankly glad to avoid his father, and his mother, though she loved him, so completely identified with his father’s wishes that he never really felt he could talk to her. But Georgiana was another matter. Once or twice, at dusk, he had walked past her house, hoping to catch sight of her at a lighted window. How he’d longed to go up the steps to the door, with its broad fanlight, and make himself known. The second time he had done this, he had been delighted to see the door open and his brother come out. He had watched him walk dreamily along the street, no doubt happily engaged in some mathematical puzzle, and wished so much that he could come up beside him.

William found Emmet more extraordinary every day. Not content with collecting weapons, he was inventing new ones. He had designed a folding pike that could be concealed under a man’s great-coat. The blacksmiths had complained and only made a few, but they worked. As a chemist, he designed grenades and some signal rockets. These last were formidable monsters, with eight-foot poles that would rise hundreds of feet into the sky before discharging different-coloured fireworks that would act as prearranged signals to the troops. Early in July, they tested one, quite effectively, in some fields near Rathfarnham.

William also knew that, at the same time as all these other activities, his friend was conducting a love affair with the daughter of a gentleman whose family house was nearby. William had met Sarah Curran, a dark beauty with a beautiful singing voice, and he counted Emmet a fortunate fellow. His friend was doing so much that it seemed to William that a day of his life must be worth a month of living for most other people.

As July began, however, he could tell that Emmet was concerned. By the middle of the month, he was getting nervous.

“We must act soon, William,” the young man confessed. “We’re almost out of money, and it can’t be long before we’re discovered.”

“What about the French? We can’t go without them,” William pointed out.

“Not a word.” Emmet paused. He seemed to be considering something, then irritably shook his head. “The time’s drawing close,” he said suddenly. “I need to be in the city from now on, and you should be, too. Have you a place you can use?”

Remembering the helpful offer from Finn O’Byrne, William had gone to see him the next day. O’Byrne had been delighted. “There’s a room you can use in the very house where I live,” he assured him. “It’ll be no trouble at all.”

Finn O’Byrne was in luck. Two weeks ago, when he had reported seeing both Emmet and William, Lord Mountwalsh had been pleased. And now, when he told him about this new arrangement, Lord Mountwalsh even smiled.

“You think the conspiracy is moving towards a final phase?’

“I do, your lordship.”

Hercules considered. When O’Byrne had first reported seeing Emmet and William, he had felt duty bound to inform the Castle, at least, about Emmet. But the officials there hadn’t been very impressed.

“We know some of the United men have come over from France, but they’re small beer. Robert Emmet is very young. He may be here to arrange his family’s affairs. Have you anything more specific?”

“No,” Hercules had answered regretfully.

But if O’Byrne could place young William under surveillance, William would probably lead him to Emmet, and who knows what else.

“You are to follow my son,” he told O’Byrne, “and report to me.”

The only thing that puzzled Finn was what this aristocrat meant to do about his son once he had found the conspiracy. Extract the young man to a place of safety, he supposed. Personally, he didn’t care, as long as he was paid.

“I will make sure that the young gentleman is not implicated,” he said helpfully.

But he didn’t know his man.

Hercules gazed at him. When he had first begun this business, he had only wanted information. But that was before he had realized how far his son was involved. But now his view had changed. First the boy had been thrown out of Trinity, then run away to Paris, and now he was planning an insurrection. For a moment, he even allowed himself to show his feelings to this wretched spy.

“He was my son. But he has betrayed his family, his religion, and his country. He has betrayed me. He is no longer my son.”

“As your lordship pleases.”

“I want him caught in the act, O’Byrne. There must be no uncertainty. The evidence must be irrefutable. I want him arrested. And then I want him hanged.”

O’Byrne stared at him.

“You will say nothing to anyone,” his lordship continued. “You will keep me fully informed and I shall alert the authorities when appropriate. But if you lead the troops to my son at the right moment, I will give you fifty pounds. Can you accomplish that?”

Fifty pounds was a lot of money.

“Oh yes,” said O’Byrne, “I can.”

On the evening of July 14, Dublin was startled by a series of bangs and a burst of fireworks over the Liffey. At Dublin Castle, the officer on watch treated the matter calmly.

“It’s Bastille Day,” he said in a bored voice. “Republican fireworks.”

Nonetheless, Dublin city’s chief of police, the Town-Major, took a detachment of men down to the quays, where he found a huge bonfire and a crowd, some of whom had discharged shots into the air. He immediately tried to close the festivities down by force. The enraged crowd pelted his men with stones and he was forced to withdraw.

“We must be careful,” an official at the Castle remarked afterwards, “before we take these republican displays too seriously. The Town-Major would have done better not to intervene.”

On the afternoon of July 15, John MacGowan received an unexpected visit from Georgiana. Her face was pale, and she begged for his help.

“I saw him, John. I saw my grandson. He was in Grafton Street. He turned off and I ran after him, but you know that area. It’s a mass of little lanes and alleys. I lost him. But it was William. I know it was.” She sighed. “I walked home, then I thought of you. It’s not two hours ago.”

“Perhaps you were mistaken. The imagination can play tricks.”

“John. Help me.”

He fell silent.

“What do you think he’s doing?” he asked at last.

“He came from Paris. With Emmet probably, and others. You tell me what they’re doing.”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “They came to me, of course, the United men, months ago. But I refused. I no longer believe in risings.”

“There’s to be a rising?”

“There was talk. That doesn’t mean it will happen.”

“I lost Patrick. I can’t bear to lose this boy as well, John.”

“That was a terrible thing,” he said quietly. “The boy’s father couldn’t help?” The expression on her face was enough. “I will ask,” he said. “I promise nothing.”

He came to her house that evening.

“They are saying nothing.” To be exact, Smith the tobacconist had told him: “There is no one of that name involved.” And having seen the ambiguity of this statement and asked if he might be under any other name, Smith had asked, “Who wants to know?” His grandmother, he’d said. “Ah, I couldn’t say,” Smith had replied.

Which told him, of course, that William was there.

MacGowan sat in a wing chair in her parlour. He half-closed one eye and gazed at her thoughtfully with the other, which seemed unnaturally large and all-seeing in the evening light. He felt her distress. It touched his conscience.

“I’m sorry I cannot help,” he said. “But wherever he is, he’s made his own decisions, and it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be found.”

Having brought Georgiana no comfort, he left.

On Saturday, July 16, the Liberties of Dublin were surprised by a small explosion in a storehouse near St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Three men were injured and taken to hospital, where one of them subsequently died. Fortunately, the damage was not great, and the small fires were quickly put out by the men inside, so that when the city firefighters arrived, they were told there was no need for their services.

“You’ll only make a bigger mess than there is already,” the foreman told them. The little crowd outside watched with interest as the foreman argued with the firemen, who finally left disgruntled. The next day, in the evening, the city police came to look at the premises. They found them deserted, but there were suspicious traces of gunpowder. “Perhaps they were making fireworks,” somebody said.

But a report was made.

The meeting on Sunday morning had been sombre. Emmet’s face was pale and drawn.

It had been a close thing, and they all knew it. By dawn that morning, the arms and ammunition had all been transferred to a house on Coal Quay, as the ancient Viking Wood Quay was now called, down on the Liffey. “A couple of night watchmen tried to stop my boys on the way,” Smith the tobacconist reported. “They pretended to be drunk, but it was a close thing.” He shook his head. “We’re going to be found out any day now.”

Only a fool would have disagreed. Their time was running out, and they knew it.

It was Russell who spoke now. He was the most experienced of the men of ’98, and his voice carried weight.

“We’ve two options. We can close down the whole operation and disperse. Or we have to start the rising at once. If we don’t, we risk losing the element of surprise, or worse, of getting everyone arrested.”

“And the French?” asked Emmet.

“Have you any news?” There was no answer. “If we wait for them, we’ll all be hanged before they arrive.”

There were several murmurs of agreement.

“We’re not ready,” said Emmet.

“We have a large cache of weapons,” another of the old guard, Hamilton, pointed out. “We may never have such a good opportunity again.”

“I’ll raise the north,” promised Russell. “I’ll have Ulster marching in three days.”

It wasn’t clear to William how convinced Emmet was by these arguments, but after some further discussion, it was agreed that the rising should take place as quickly as possible.

“If you want to bring large numbers in from the country, without arousing suspicion,” Hamilton reminded them, “Saturday market day is best. You’ve got all kinds of people coming in anyway, then.”

They agreed to go on the twenty-third.

“That gives us five whole days to prepare,” Emmet said with a laugh.

If Emmet had any private doubts, you’d never have known. His headquarters and the main arms depot were at the storehouse on Thomas Street, a little beyond the ancient Hospital of St. John that lay in the Liberty to the west of the old city wall. It was a capacious premises with a yard. A narrow street called Marshalsea Lane ran from Thomas Street here, down towards the quays. Here Emmet worked and slept round the clock.

William had never been so excited. It was exhilarating to feel that he was making history. Emmet had a sense of style. A tailor had made green uniforms trimmed with gold and lace. “They are the uniforms of French generals,” Emmet explained. “I and the other leaders will wear them. It will remind our men that they are a proper revolutionary army.”

There was so much to be made ready: ammunition, supplies, even loaves of bread for the men. It was impossible to keep the depot secret anymore, and numbers of men from the various Dublin brigades were sent on errands there. Soon after William got there on Monday morning, O’Byrne arrived, and he quickly made himself useful, checking all the weapons and noting any deficiencies. “We need more shot, Mr. Emmet,” he reported, and William was sent out to buy it. At the end of the day, he accompanied William home, buying him a drink on the way.

Emmet was also busy writing manifestoes. They were long, but powerful. The time had come, he wrote, for Ireland to show the world that she was competent to take her place amongst the nations. Leinster and Ulster would lead; all Ireland would follow; there was no need of foreign assistance. But the rising must be honourably conducted, the manifestoes urged. There must be strict military order, followed by free elections and justice for all. “Get it printed right away, William,” he instructed.

Russell, Hamilton, and some of the others went north to raise Ulster. Kildare sent word that they would come in on Saturday with almost two thousand men. Messengers also had to be sent to Wexford and Wicklow.

“Who knows the Wicklow Mountains?” Emmet asked.

“I know them like the back of my hand,” O’Byrne volunteered.

“You’re the man, then,” Emmet told him. And he gave him detailed instructions on the message he should deliver to the commanders there.

“Take care,” William said to him, quite affectionately, as he was leaving.

The Earl of Mountwalsh listened carefully.

“You are sure of all this?”

“I am, my lord.” Finn repeated exactly the message he was to deliver. The attack would begin on Saturday night at ten o’clock. A rocket, shooting stars, would be the signal. After collecting arms from the Thomas Street depot, the United men would first take Dublin Castle.

“You are not to deliver the message to Wicklow, but you had better stay out of sight until Saturday,” Hercules ordered.

“There’s an inn out at Dalkey I could use.”

“Good. On Saturday you will return, tell them the message is delivered, and observe the preparations. At one o’clock that day, you will meet me at Strongbow’s tomb in Christ Church Cathedral, and I will give you further instructions.”

“Your lordship will give me fifty pounds when this is done?”

“When my son is arrested, I will give you a hundred pounds, O’Byrne. Now go.”

It was hard for John MacGowan. He was no coward, but he was an older and wiser man than he had been five years ago. And though he wanted the same things as Emmet, he had no belief in a new rising. He found nowadays that he had more belief in people than in causes. And he had patience. If not me, he thought, then my children and grandchildren. In the meantime, as long as England sent over humane men like Cornwallis and the Lord Lieutenant who had now replaced him, life was bearable.

Yet his conscience troubled him.

It was not about the rising, but about friendship. It was Georgiana’s face that haunted him. And she was quite right to be afraid. If young William had gone to join Emmet, then he was in great danger. When the conspiracy was discovered, or the rising failed, as it surely would, the authorities would be no more lenient towards him than they had been to Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

He thought he could predict how it would go. The rebels would need to secure Dublin first. A Saturday market day was always the best time for such a thing. But when? He’d no idea. If, as he suspected, the mysterious explosion in the Liberty had anything to do with it, the plans were probably far advanced. Time was not on young William’s side, therefore.

Yet what was the boy to him? The son of a man he hated, and who hated him. True, but also the grandson of an old friend. And the cousin of Patrick, a man he had loved.

What could he do anyway? The only way to help the boy would be to talk to him, persuade him to cut and run. And how the devil could he find him? Only by joining the conspirators himself, for long enough to do so—and even then, he probably wouldn’t be able to persuade the boy anyway. What would happen then? Would his grandmother come and kidnap him? Actually, he thought with a smile, she probably would.

And if he did such a thing, for her sake, he’d clearly be putting his own life at risk. He’d been lucky not to be arrested in ’98. This time, he might not be so lucky. A nice present for his grandchildren—to see their grandfather swinging from a bridge. No, it was young William who’d have to swing. He sighed, and tried to put the matter out of his mind.

He argued with himself this way, every day, for almost a week.

On the evening of Friday, July 22, Smith the tobacconist was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him at his door. It was John MacGowan. He said he wanted to become active again. Smith gazed at him thoughtfully.

“Why have you changed your mind, John? Is this something to do with the Walsh boy you were asking about?”

MacGowan had prepared himself for this.

“In a way, yes. I thought to myself, if he’s in it, then why is it that I am not?”

“And if he isn’t?”

“If you’re not in it,” MacGowan grinned, “then I’ll stay out, too.”

“You’ll risk death?”

“I did before. My children are all grown.”

Smith nodded thoughtfully. Then he gave MacGowan a long look.

MacGowan knew what he was thinking: Was it possible, the tobacconist must be wondering, that his old comrade had turned into a double agent? Such things had happened. The silence was long. In the end, MacGowan spoke.

“If you don’t trust me, it’s better I go home. The fear of having a traitor beside you does more harm than any good I could possibly do you.” He turned. He was sorry he’d failed, yet also relieved. At least he’d tried; his conscience was clear. He’d gone a dozen paces when he heard Smith’s voice behind him.

“Thomas Street. Just past Marshalsea Lane. Tomorrow morning.”

By late Saturday morning, the place was crowded and chaotic. Hundreds of men from Kildare had arrived. There were constant demands: “Where are the blunderbusses? We need more ammunition. Who emptied this powder keg?” William was constantly being sent on errands. Several hundred more men came in from Wexford. They had been persuaded to wait down at the storehouse at Coal Quay. Another group of Dublin men was going to congregate at a house in Plunkett Street. Finn O’Byrne had returned to say that the message was delivered, but he couldn’t say at what hour the Wicklow men would arrive.

Amidst all the chaos, there was another welcome addition. John MacGowan had appeared early in the morning and been welcomed by several of the men. He was a calm presence, working at William’s side.

“It’s still set for ten o’clock tonight,” Emmet confirmed. “We fire a rocket, then swing down to Coal Quay, collect the Wexford men, and march straight to the Castle.”

Finn O’Byrne, who’d been travelling all night, said he was going to rest at his house, but promised to be back later in the day.

Georgiana was restless. The fact that she had dreamed about William was not surprising. But the sensation that afflicted her now was of a different order. She did not form mental pictures of William. Nor did she feel a sudden panic, like a mother who cannot find her child. The feeling that came to her was not a fear, but a knowledge, quiet but certain, that he was in danger. She had heard people speak of such hidden understandings between people who were close. But she didn’t know what she could do about it.

Late in the morning, she ordered her carriage. First she drove to Grafton Street, because that was where she had seen William. Then she went to the house of John MacGowan, to be told that he’d be out all day. After that, to the bafflement of her coachman, who had no idea what she was doing, she drove aimlessly along Dame Street and round by the Castle. She hoped she might receive some sense of where he was, but nothing came. Reluctantly, she went home.

Lord Mountwalsh was waiting in the shadows, half hidden by a pillar, when Finn O’Byrne reached the tomb of Strongbow. He was wearing a nondescript coat with the collar turned up, and a thin scarf covered the lower part of his face. His boots were hardly polished. The disguise was simple but effective. He might have been any Dublin tradesman.

“Tell me all,” he commanded.

Finn gave him a brief account of all that he’d seen. “It will be ten o’clock,” he said. “There will be a rocket.” And he explained the route that Emmet meant to follow.

“Good. I shall tell the Castle to be ready at ten. Nothing will be done to alert the rebels. We want them to show their hand. I shall remain at my house, but at half past nine, I shall come in a plain carriage to the old Hospital of St. John. Meet me there and we shall walk along Thomas Street together. I think this will be sufficient disguise.”

“Yes, my lord. But why do you want to come to Thomas Street?”

“So that you and I may witness Emmet and my son emerging. It might be hard to identify them afterwards, and there must be no question as to their guilt. There must be unimpeachable testimony at their trial.” He drew himself up. “I intend to testify myself.”

And now there could be no mistaking the terrible Earl of Mountwalsh.

It was during the afternoon that things started to go wrong.

At two o’clock, Emmet went out to a nearby inn with the leaders of the men from Kildare. They were gone a long time. When he returned, Emmet looked pale.

“We may have to do without the Kildare men,” he told William quietly. “They aren’t satisfied with the preparations.” He sighed. “You know, we’ve had to do everything in such a devil of a hurry. But perhaps some of them will stay.”

By late afternoon, though there were still hundreds of men there, the depot was quieter. But the doubts of the Kildare men had affected some of the Dublin commanders, too, and further groups of men were leaving. When Finn O’Byrne reappeared round seven, William explained what had happened. A few minutes later, Emmet called them together.

“With the men here and the Wexford boys, and the other groups who will surely come when the rocket is fired, we still have enough men to surprise the Castle,” he announced.

A little before eight o’clock, O’Byrne went out.

“I’m going to see if I can’t bring in some more men,” he said.

“Be back by ten,” said Emmet.

“Take a weapon,” said William, and he gave him one of Emmet’s folding pikes. “You can hide it under your coat.”

“Thank you,” said O’Byrne.

It was two hours since a carriage containing the Lord Lieutenant had rolled out of the gates of Dublin Castle and headed out towards the Liberty.

The Lord Lieutenant had been called in to the Castle that afternoon because of a report that a large insurrection was planned for that night. Both he and the Commander in Chief, General Fox, were sceptical.

“The 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 pull 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 bloodstained 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.

“Drive up there,” she ordered.

“That’ll take us into the Liberty, my lady,” the coachman warned. But she made him do it.

The word of the rising had spread like wildfire. Some of the men drinking at the inns still had their weapons with them. Mobs, often half drunk, were forming in the streets, shouting for the rebellion.

Georgiana didn’t care. She’d been to the Castle area where the military patrols were out, and she’d been down by the quays. Now she meant to try the Liberties. If there was any chance of catching sight of her grandson, she wasn’t giving up. They crossed Francis Street. Several times, knots of men and women slowed their progress and even knocked against the side of the carriage. But when a fellow gave her coachman a thoughtful dig in the ribs with his pike, she knew she couldn’t ask him to go on. “Go down to Thomas Street,” she said. “It’s bigger than these lanes, and we’ll go back to Christ Church from there.”

But now, as they came out into Thomas Street, they found their way barred. A crowd of several hundred had gathered. And from their shouts and curses it was obvious that they were in a vicious mood. They had just stopped a carriage in the middle of the street. Some of the men were carrying lanterns. By their light, she saw a flash of pikes. The coachman was trying to whip his horses forward, but some of the men had caught them by the bridle. They were forcing one of the carriage doors open, dragging an elderly gentleman out. Then another man, a clergyman by the look of him. She heard screams. They were starting to trample the old man. Then, as if of their own volition, over the heads of the crowd, she saw several pike blades moving towards the spot. She saw one of the blades dip. Then another. The crowd roared. They had just skewered the clergyman.

Her own coachman was trying to back the horses up to turn the carriage, but like a tide, the crowd was running back and flowing round them. There was a hammering on the door.

There was nothing else to do. She pulled down the window and showed her face.

“What is it you want?” she called out.

“A woman. It’s a woman,” somebody cried out. A man leaped up and poked his head inside. “It’s just a woman,” he called out. And the crowd slowly parted as her carriage moved through. She tried not to look at where the two men who had been butchered lay. The carriage rolled slowly towards Christ Church.

The assault, when it came, was so sudden that she didn’t even have time to be frightened. The man ran out, leaped up to her door, and adroitly swung himself in before she could even scream. The coachman didn’t even see it. She gasped and prepared to defend herself. But the intruder threw himself back into the seat.

“Go down Winetavern Street, quickly,” said a voice that was familiar. And with a flood of relief, she realized it was John MacGowan.

He did not explain, just quietly gave her directions for the coachman. In moments, they were going westward again, in the area by the quays, then turning up a narrow lane until he asked her to stop by a dark alley.

“Tell the coachman to wait, and whatever you see, don’t say a word,” he said.

He disappeared into the alley and was gone a little while. At last he reappeared, almost carrying a figure with a bandage round his head. He pushed the figure into the carriage and called up to the coachman: “My nephew. Those rebels set upon him. It’ll be safest if you go back along the quays towards College Green.”

Once back in the carriage, he leant down to the figure on the floor, who had just let out a groan, and whispered:

“Keep quiet, for the love of God. You’re in your grandmother’s carriage now, and it’s all over.” Then he exchanged a few urgent whispers with Georgiana, who, as they came to College Green, said loudly so that the coachman should hear:

“You’ll do no such thing. You’ll bring the young man to my house for the night.” And she ordered the coachman: “Drive straight home.”

In her house, it was easy enough to get the bandaged young man up the candlelit stairs to a bedroom, without anyone having the least idea who he was. There MacGowan remained with him, while Georgiana and the coachman related to the servants how nearly they had all been killed by the rebels who had also assaulted her friend’s nephew. When the cook had prepared a bowl of stew and a jug of claret, Georgiana insisted on taking it up to the invalid herself.

“I had to give him quite a bang on the head with my pistol,” MacGowan explained when the three of them were alone. “Then I gagged him and tied him up in the alley, and prayed no one found him before I could get back. I thought I’d have to get a cart from my house when, by God’s providence, I recognized your carriage.

“But the rising…” William began weakly.

“It’s over, William. You could see it was collapsing before Emmet left. There’s nothing but some drunks in the street, who have killed several innocent people, and who nearly killed your grandmother. You must rest now. Nobody knows who you are, and that’s for the best. We’ll decide what to do when we know more in the morning.”

It was Georgiana who devised the plan. The following morning, she went to the Castle herself to ask for information. She then declared loudly to the officials there, and to her servants when she got home, that she wasn’t staying another day in Dublin if the government couldn’t keep better order than that; and she practically ordered MacGowan to accompany her to Mount Walsh, and to bring his nephew with him. By late morning, they were on their way.

They spent the night at Wicklow, where MacGowan made some enquiries. In the morning, capriciously, Lady Mountwalsh decided to board a vessel which was leaving for Bristol that day. MacGowan’s nephew went with her as a servant. When they disembarked at Bristol, the young man changed his identity again, between the dock and the inn, so that he now became her grandson William. A week after that, with personal letters to her relations in Philadelphia and letters of credit to several merchant houses, the Honourable William Walsh, who so far as anyone knew hadn’t been in Ireland for years, embarked on a ship bound for America.

“As soon as it’s certain that no one has given you away, you can return,” she told him.

The rising of Robert Emmet was very brief. As a rising, it was an utter failure. The Wexford men, after looking for him half the night, melted away like the rest. Russell, Hamilton, and their friends found the men of Ulster sceptical—with good reason—and Ulster did not rise. The mobs in the Dublin streets were dispersed by troops in the end, with some loss of life, but not before they had killed several innocent people, including the judge and clergyman whose murder Georgiana had witnessed. About a dozen men with pikes were arrested, most of whom were later executed. Some others were transported. But that was all. For weeks the government expected a larger insurrection.

But there was none, and the leadership was gone, and Napoleon looked elsewhere. With only two exceptions, the leaders of the revolt vanished abroad.

Emmet remained. Though racked by a sense of guilt at the useless deaths he had caused, his main reason for continuing to reside near Rathfarnham was the presence of Sarah Curran, the girl he was courting there. He begged her to elope with him to America, and had she agreed, he would have emigrated and become no more than a footnote to history. As it was, more than a month after the rising, he was found and arrested.

The sixteen-year-old girl who had acted as his housekeeper was also thrown in jail. Since she was only the daughter of a farmer, she was interrogated and lightly tortured. The authorities made clear their nicety of feeling, however, when it came to Sarah Curran: as the daughter of a gentleman, she was, of course, only questioned most politely. She was not unpunished, though, for loving Robert Emmet. Her father, a lawyer with liberal ideas, being now desirous of showing his loyalty to the government, threw her out of his house and cut her off entirely.

There was one other casualty. Russell, who had urged that the rising should go ahead, and who had failed to rouse Ulster, returned to Dublin in a futile bid to rescue Emmet from jail, was caught, and was executed. Some of his friends thought he was seeking martyrdom.

But to Georgiana, it was truth which was the greatest casualty. It was not long before the government, reverting to ancient prejudice, declared that the rising had been a strictly Catholic affair. “How they can say it,” MacGowan pointed out to her, “when Emmet is a Protestant—as, indeed, is every single one of the leading conspirators—I cannot understand.” Even the conservative Roman Church was accused of complicity, since, it was argued, the conspirators must surely have told their priests all about it in the confessional. The spirit of Hercules was still very alive in the Ascendancy.

But the person of Lord Mountwalsh was very dead indeed.

A week went by before a certain smell caused neighbours to seek out the spot where he lay. By then, his disappearance from his household had been well known. Georgiana herself had gone to make the identification. That one of the rebels should have killed such a hated Ascendancy figure was not surprising, but how he came there was a mystery. His servants knew he had left in a hurry. And a military patrol, discovering the depot late on the night of the rising, had reported finding an empty hansom cab waiting at the place. But the cab had vanished later, and the cabby was never heard from. So the thing remained a riddle, and Georgiana herself was not inclined to pursue the matter.

“And the fact is,” she would often remark as the years went by, “that it’s young Emmet who, after all, has triumphed.”

For if Robert Emmet in life had been unfortunate, history had prepared him a place among the heroes. That September, at his trial, he scorned to defend himself; but then, the jury having found him guilty, he claimed the last word by making a speech which all Ireland heard, and which even his accusers admired.

“I was there,” Georgiana liked to remind people. “The judge tried to interrupt him, but he had his say. And what a gift he had. I’ve heard Grattan, and many others, but he would have surpassed them all.”

Using the material he had already worked up in his manifesto, but adding to it the passionate inspiration of the final moment, he drew his rising together and launched it into the annals of national legend with his peroration. He asked only, he declared, to depart in silence; his noble motives need not be explained.

 

Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.

 

His words would echo, and never cease to echo, in Ireland’s mind thereafter.

In March of the following year, young William Walsh, residing in Philadelphia, was greatly surprised to receive a letter from his grandmother telling him firstly that, all enquiries into the rising having ceased without any mention of his name, it was safe for him to return. And secondly, that he should do so at once, since he was already the Earl of Mountwalsh.