The Rebels of Ireland (59 page)

“To avoid eviction,” Walsh replied with a laugh. And he told them about the visit from his cousin Barbara Doyle, and her fury over Mr. Wood's copper coins. “I haven't the least idea,” he confessed, “how to satisfy her.”

“From all accounts,” remarked Sheridan, “there will be protests in the Dublin Parliament from every side.”

“Which the government in England will ignore,” said Swift bluntly. “For I have it upon excellent authority that they mean to do nothing at all.”

“Yet surely,” said Fortunatus, “after the scandal of the South Sea Bubble, the London men will know that their reputation is at a low ebb. You'd think they'd be anxious to avoid any financial transaction that looks improper.”

The great crash, three years ago, of the entire London financial market, in a staggering series of overblown expectations and bogus stock offerings, had left the reputation of the City of London and the British government in tatters. Walsh could only be glad that his own savings, and those of most of his friends, had been safely in Ireland. There was hardly a town in England where someone hadn't been ruined.

“You underestimate the arrogance of the English,” Dean Swift replied grimly. “The government believes that the complaints from Ireland are due to political faction. They suppose that those who raise objections do so only because they are friends of members of the opposition party in the English Parliament.”

“That is absurd.”

“The fact that a proposition is absurd has never hindered those who wish to believe it.”

“I wish, Dean,” said Fortunatus fervently, “that you would use your satiric pen in this cause. Even an anonymous pamphlet would
be a far more powerful weapon than any poor speech I could make.” The Dean's satires in the past had been published anonymously—though no one ever doubted who'd written them.

The Dean and Sheridan glanced at each other. Swift seemed to hesitate.

“Were I to consider such a thing,” he said guardedly, “it could only be after the Dublin Parliament has debated the issue and had a response from London. For me to write, even anonymously, must be a last resort. As Dean of Saint Patrick's, I may speak out on a moral question, but not a political one.”

Fortunatus nodded.

“If it should come to that, however,” he smiled, “you must let me tell my cousin Margaret it was only thanks to my prompting that you did so. If I can take the credit, I may keep a roof over my head.”

“Very well. As you wish,” Swift answered. “Yet the truth is, Fortunatus, that I not only share your view about this business; my indignation surpasses your own.” He frowned, before continuing with some heat: “For this man to flood Ireland with his debased coinage, I find the most insupportable villainy and insolence. Then, when we complain, Wood and his hirelings represent it as disloyalty. It is infamous. Yet it is believed. And the reason for it,” he continued angrily, “I must acknowledge as an Englishman, is that while the English have a contempt for most nations, they reserve an especial contempt for Ireland.”

Walsh was quite taken aback at the sudden anger of this outburst from the taciturn Dean, but Sheridan smiled affectionately.

“There, Jonathan, you are a wise and circumspect fellow, yet your passion for truth and justice will suddenly come out and make you quite as reckless as I am.”

“Ireland's wool trade is ruined,” Swift went on, “she is vilely treated at every turn, and it is done with impunity. Let me say, Walsh, what I think the Dublin Parliament should do. It should forbid English goods to enter Ireland. Perhaps then the English Parliament, and these operators like Wood, might learn to mend their ways.”

“That is strong medicine,” Fortunatus said.

“A necessary cure for a national reproach. But even this would be just a little bleeding, Walsh, a temporary cure. For the underlying cause is this. Ireland will be mistreated so long as its Parliament is subservient to that of London. We elect men as our representatives, yet their decisions are set at naught. London has not the moral or constitutional right to legislate for Ireland.”

“A radical doctrine.”

“Hardly so. It has been said in the Dublin Parliament for more than twenty years.” Indeed, leading Irish politicians of the previous generation like Molyneux had advanced just such a case. But Walsh was still surprised to hear it coming from the Dean of Saint Patrick's. “Let me make clear,” Swift said emphatically, “it is my opinion that all government without the consent of the governed is the very essence of slavery.”

And it was now that young Garret Smith suddenly burst into the conversation.

The truth was that, for some time now, the other men had forgotten him. He had been sitting on Swift's right but had not said a word, and while he was talking to Walsh and Sheridan, the Dean had had his back to him.

“Welcome,” he cried quite loudly, “to the Jacobite cause.”

The Dean turned sharply. Fortunatus stared at him. The young man's face was flushed. He wasn't drunk, but he'd evidently been drinking quietly by himself all through the meal. His eyes were shining. Was there genuine excitement, bitter irony, or outright mockery in his tone? It was impossible to say. But whatever it was, there was more of it to come.

“The Catholics of Ireland will bless you.” He laughed a little wildly.

And Fortunatus felt the blood drain from his face.

The boy didn't understand what he had said. That was evident. But it was too late now. Dean Swift was turning upon him, and his face was black with fury.

“I am not, Sir, a Jacobite,” he thundered.

For, strangely, it was not the suggestion of Catholic sympathies that was so damaging to the Protestant Dean of Saint Patrick's: it was calling him a Jacobite.

How could Garret understand? In the complex world of English politics, a man like Swift had to be careful. Though his sympathies had originally been with the Whigs, who had supported the new Protestant settlement after throwing out Catholic King James, Swift as a literary man had found friends and patrons who belonged to the Tory party. So in the minds of the Whigs, who were in power now, Swift was in the Tory camp. And since some of those Tories had formerly been supporters of King James, there was always the suspicion that any Tory might secretly desire the return of the hated Stuart royal house. Any Tory whom they desired to destroy, therefore, they'd try to expose as a Jacobite—a traitor to King George and the Protestant order. Guilt by association.

Hadn't the Jacobite cause died when the Stuart Pretender had so utterly failed to make any headway back in 1715? You couldn't be sure. King George and his family were hardly popular. In the cockpit of Westminster and the great country houses where rich English lords wove their political webs, intrigue was always in the air. Every man had enemies, even the faraway Dean of Saint Patrick's, and there had been whispers from them that Swift was a Jacobite.

Did it matter? Oh, indeed it did. You could complain about Wood's copper coins, you could argue that Ireland should be ruled from Dublin, you could even mock the government in a satire, and probably get away with it because, in the political world, that was considered fair game. But if they could prove you a Jacobite, that was treasonable, and they could bring you down like a pack of hounds upon a fox. It didn't take much, either. A careless word in print, a sermon that could be misinterpreted, even an unwise choice of text, and your position in the church or university, your chances of preferment, the very bread upon your table, could be gone. These niceties were well understood by Walsh and Sheridan, but obviously
not by young Garret. Under no circumstances could Swift allow himself to be labelled as a Jacobite.

“But you are!” cried Garret Smith cheerfully. “And if Ireland is to be ruled with the consent of the governed, then you'll have Catholics sitting in Parliament, too.”

Swift glowered at him, then turned a furious look upon Walsh, as though to say, “You brought him here.”

The trouble was, thought Fortunatus, that the boy was actually right. When Swift spoke of the governed, Walsh knew very well that he meant the members of the Protestant Church of Ireland. Swift entirely believed in the need for the Ascendancy, and for the exclusion of Catholics and Dissenters alike. But the man's innate passion for justice was leading him farther than he himself realised. That's it, thought Fortunatus: he's a good man, at war with himself, who doesn't entirely know it. Perhaps that was the wellspring of his strange satire, of his love for stern classical order and Irish exuberance all together.

“You are impertinent, young man, you are ignorant, and you are wrong,” Swift shouted in a rage. “The Jacobites are traitors, and as for the Catholic religion, Sir, I must tell you very plainly that I abominate it. I abominate it utterly.” And he rose from the table and strode from the room.

“Damn,” said Sheridan. “Damn.” He sighed. “You'd better take your kinsman away, Fortunatus, first thing in the morning.”

It was a clear, crisp morning as they rode away from Quilca, but Walsh's mood was hardly cheerful. Sheridan had spoken to him briefly before he left.

“I'm truly sorry that your stay is cut short, Fortunatus, but I can't have Swift annoyed,” he had said. “Your young kinsman has genius, undoubtedly, but I fear he has much to learn.” What upset Walsh, however, was the thought that because of this, he might not be asked to Quilca again.

Young Garret seemed in better spirits. Though Walsh was not aware of it, Garret too had received a parting word, not from Sheridan, but from Tidy. The Dean's factotum had skilfully waylaid him by the corner of the house where no one should see them.

“Well, young Smith, you've been thrown out on your ear, haven't you?” he said nastily.

“I suppose I have,” said Garret.

“This isn't a place for the likes of you,” Tidy continued, “sitting down at table with the quality. You don't belong in the company of the gintry, and you never will.”

“I go where I'm asked,” Garret replied reasonably. “It's rudeness to refuse hospitality, you know.” To this, Tidy made only a sound in the back of his throat as though he were about to spit. “Anyway,” said Garret, “Art O'Toole was welcome here, and he isn't gintry, I should think.”

Since Tidy privately had no use for O'Toole either, he confined himself to silence; but something in his look suggested that, as a performer, O'Toole belonged in the servant class.

“Don't give yourself airs and talk back to your betters,” he replied. “You should have been whipped last night, and thrown out into the stable yard where you belong. Now, get along with you.”

“Thank you,” said Garret.

As Garret rode beside him on the road south, Fortunatus wondered what his destiny would be. Would he settle down quietly as a grocer in Dublin? Would he get in trouble with the law? Would he do something entirely different and surprise them all? And what, after all, had he made of the last two days' events? After they had gone a mile or so, he ventured to remark:

“I'm sorry you fell out with Dean Swift. He is a great man, you know.”

“Of course he is,” said Garret obligingly. “I admire Swift.”

“Indeed?” Fortunatus was surprised.

“At least he's honest.” They rode on a few more paces. “It's you and Sheridan,” he resumed cheerfully, “that I despise entirely.”

“Ah,” said Fortunatus.

But if Garret Smith did not even glance at him to see how he received this insult, it was because he did not really care. He had already made up his mind what he was going to do.

 

GEORGIANA

1742

 

T
HE TRAP WAS SET
.

As he walked swiftly across the bridge towards the north bank of the Liffey, Doctor Terence Walsh smiled to himself. He was glad to be useful to his kindly brother—assuming, of course, that the trap worked, and snared its prey. But the thing had been so carefully and cunningly devised that, in his own estimation, there was a very sporting chance it would. Like cattle raiders from old Ireland, Fortunatus and he would lead the prize home together, and the family would rightly applaud.

The Walsh brothers were going to trap a young lady. The trap was set for that evening.

It was a fine April morning. As usual, whenever he could, Terence liked to walk. Though middle-aged, his wiry body might have belonged to a younger man; there was a spring in his step, and his eyes were still keen as a falcon's. He gave a smile and a nod to each of the people who greeted him as he strode along—for he was a popular fellow—but he didn't stop to talk, as he was going about his business.

He couldn't remember when MacGowan the grocer had last complained of any ill health, so when one of the grocer's many children arrived at his door to say that his father was poorly, Terence had sent the child back with the assurance that he'd be there within the hour.

Approaching the house and entering the yard, he noticed that the place seemed strangely quiet. He was met at the door by MacGowan's wife. He observed that she looked pale and that there were hollow rings around her eyes. She murmured something he didn't catch, and motioned him towards the fire.

The grocer was slumped in a chair. His face was ashen, his spine bent as if he were a little old man. He'd lost so much weight that his clothes hung on him like rags. As he looked up at Terence, his eye seemed full of pain and hopelessness.

The previous summer, Terence had been down in Munster. In the winter of 1740–41, there had been a terrible winter all over Ireland, and there had been widespread crop failures every season since. The failures varied by region, however. The area around Dublin had not suffered much, and supplies had been maintained in the capital; but Munster had been very badly hit. He had been shocked by the state of the countryside, where the poorer folk were literally starving. As always at such times, it was the elderly and the infants who were being carried off, but the numbers were large. He had never seen a famine before, and the memory of the people he encountered in the villages through which he passed had haunted him ever since. Many of them had looked as MacGowan did now.

But it was surely not starvation that was affecting the Dublin grocer.

“Have you any pain?” he asked.

“Just in my back, Doctor.” MacGowan indicated the hollow between his shoulder blades. “Just a dull pain, but it keeps coming on.”

Had the poor devil a wasting sickness of some kind, or was he declining towards a crisis?

“Are you short of breath?”

“Not really.”

“No other pains? Do you sleep?”

“He does not,” broke in his wife. “He tosses and turns all night, and then he'll sit like this for hours. He hardly moves.” There was both concern and a trace of anger in her voice. “He hardly attends to his business.”

Over the years, within the limits imposed upon his profession by the almost complete lack of any medical science, Terence Walsh had become a good doctor. The reason for this was that he had the two most important qualities for a general practitioner in any age: a knowledge of human nature, and a sense of his patient's health that came from intuition—for he rightly believed that a doctor without intuition is useless.

“And how is your business, Mr. MacGowan?” he asked.

“Well enough.”

His wife, however, was shaking her head.

“It was that shipment of wine, Doctor. He was well enough before that.”

Terence gazed at the grocer thoughtfully.

“Mrs. MacGowan,” he said, “I shall need two small cups, and then I shall need to be left alone with the patient.”

When this was done, Terence produced from inside his coat a small silver hip flask.

“Brandy, MacGowan,” he remarked. And he poured some into each cup. “I'll have some, too.” He watched while the grocer swallowed his, and took a sip himself. “Now,” he said quietly, “why don't you tell me all about it?”

It did not take long for Doctor Walsh to concur in Mrs. MacGowan's diagnosis. The cause of the grocer's condition, almost certainly, was a cargo of wine.

In a way, the grocer's problems were the result of his success. His business had always been sound, and as the years went by, he had been able to expand his activities. He had enlarged the size of his market stall. He had engaged in some modest wholesale activities,
buying in quantities of grain, flour, and butter from the region's farmers and selling these commodities on to other traders. In these activities, his being a Catholic was an advantage, for just as Catholic tradesmen in Dublin employed fellow Catholics to work for them, the Catholic farmers in the region preferred to do business with other Catholics. He had built up quite an extensive network. With his older children all apprenticed to other tradesmen, or set up on their own account, and with his younger children helping him in the grocery business, MacGowan in his fifties was a vigorous man on the verge of entering that coterie of grocers whose names appeared amongst the merchant fraternity of the city.

Indeed, he had calculated, if he invested all the money he had on hand in one big shipment, a valuable cargo of the kind the city's leading merchants handled any day of the week, he would be able to take that step. And then he had made one fatal error. Having proved his competence in one business, he had been tempted to go into another he did not know. He had invested his entire capital, and half as much again that he'd borrowed, in a shipload of wine.

It had come from Bordeaux, through a merchant in Galway. The price was good—too good. Had he consulted any of the wine merchants in Dublin, they'd have told him not to deal with the Galway man or the Bordeaux shipper. But because he was poaching business where he didn't belong, he had kept his activities dark. He'd paid for the wine; the ship had delivered; the wine was undrinkable; and the Galway man was nowhere to be found.

His capital was gone. He owed a large debt. He'd been able to get some credit from his usual suppliers and continued to trade. But no matter what he did, the weight of his debt was like an incubus upon his back that could not be shifted and that was crushing the life out of him. As the weeks passed, he could see no end in sight. No matter what he did, he could not seem to lessen the debt. It was going to destroy him. Worse. After pressing him down into the ground, it would leave a great pit into which his poor family would fall as well. He could not bear to think of it. He sagged. He lost the will to do anything.

And if no remedy is found, thought Terence Walsh, this man will either waste away or suffer a crisis and drop dead. The question was, what could be done?

The wretchedness of the thing, he considered, was that if it weren't for his debt, the grocer had an excellent business. He might not have enjoyed being a merchant himself when he was young, but he knew enough thoroughly to understand how MacGowan was situated. Not only had the man a large stall and any number of loyal customers, but thanks to the farmers who were his suppliers, he was in an excellent position to take advantage of the opportunities offered when food supplies were short and prices high. Indeed, he considered, this would be an excellent time for him to expand, rather than contract, his trade. If the debt were smaller, and I didn't have my own family to look after, he thought, I might take a chance and make him a loan myself.

“I can promise nothing, but do not give up hope,” he told the grocer. “I do not think your debt is as hopeless as you suppose, and I shall call again in a few days. In the meantime, you are to eat, to take a glass of brandy each day, and to walk to Christ Church and back each day. I shall tell your wife to make sure you perform each of these. Then we shall see.” And having given these instructions to Mrs. MacGowan with some emphasis, he went upon his way.

It would be the first time that he had set out to cure a patient's illness by raising money, but he looked forward to the challenge. He liked MacGowan, and if he possibly could, he was determined to save him.

It was as he reached the end of the street and glanced back towards the grocer's house that the memory of another person he had tried to help, long ago, came into his mind. It was a very long time since he had arranged for young Garret Smith to be an apprentice there; almost twenty years since the young man had suddenly disappeared out of Dublin. God knows what had become of him now.

The evening sky was pink. The carriages had poured out their passengers by the precincts of Christ Church, and the fashionable world of Dublin was flowing, like a glittering stream, down to the handsome structure of the Music Hall, which now stood squarely on one side of the old medieval thoroughfare of Fishshamble Street. As they reached its wide doors, it might have been noticed that the ladies had omitted to put in the hoops that would normally have caused their skirts to balloon out like so many beribboned battleships, and the gentlemen had put off the jewelled swords which were the mark of their order. These reductions had been made at the special request of the stewards of the Musical Society, since the audience was so large that they could never have been packed in otherwise.

Inside, it was a brilliant scene. The Music Hall seemed to be lit by ten thousand candles. At one end, upon a dais, sat the combined choirs of Christ Church and Saint Patrick's Cathedrals—the most powerful chorus to be found in Dublin. As the nobility and gentry came in to find their allotted places, members of every great family could be seen: Fitzgeralds and Butlers, Boyles and Ponsonbys, bishops, deans, judges, gentry, and even the greatest merchants. Seven hundred people had been issued tickets—even more than had filled the hall for the triumphant rehearsal five days before.

They were all inside when the party of the Lord Lieutenant made its entrance, coming last, as befitted the royal representative. And upon seeing the stately duke, the whole place burst into applause—not only out of respect for his office and person, but because it was he and his magnificent patronage that had brought the renowned composer to Dublin in the first place, as a result of which it was the
beau monde
of Dublin, rather than of London, who were now to hear the first performance of what was already being hailed as the composer's greatest work.

They had come to hear Handel present his new oratorio:
The Messiah.

So magnificent and so joyous was the scene that it would have been a churlish spirit indeed who could not forget, at least for the
evening, that there was anybody starving in Ireland. But as Fortunatus awaited this encounter with the sublime, his face was anxious. He had paid a good deal of money for his seats. His wife was beside him; so was his son George. And so was a gentleman he knew slightly named Grey. But the next five seats in the row remained empty. People were still moving about, taking their places. He dared not look round.