The Rebels of Ireland (6 page)

It had been that morning when Doctor Pincher came round the side of the mound on the slope above the River Boyne. Like so many others who had come that way, he had gazed down to where the swans glided in their stately fashion upon the Boyne's waters, and noted the quiet peace of the place. Like others, he had stared at the huge grass-covered mounds that stood like silent giants along the little ridge and wondered what the devil they were and how they came to be there. Had anyone been able to tell him—which they couldn't—that the ancient mounds had once been tombs constructed according to precise astronomical calculation, he would have been astonished. Had any Irish-speaking local informed him—which they didn't, because he spoke no Irish and wouldn't have asked them anyway—that under those mounds lay the bright halls of the legendary Tuatha De Danaan, the genius warriors and craftsmen who had ruled the land before the Celtic tribes had come, he would have snorted with disgust. But he did notice that, in front of the largest of the mounds, there seemed to be a broad scattering of white quartz stones. He wondered if, perhaps, they had any value.

As Doctor Pincher crossed the Boyne below the ancient tombs and made his way southwards that morning, his mind had been busily occupied. For he had just spent several days up in Ulster, and they had been interesting. Very interesting. So much so that, during all that morning and afternoon, he had not spoken a single word to his servant, not even when they stopped to eat.

He had been ten years in Ireland now, and his views on the Irish had not changed. King James himself had it correctly: he referred to the native Irish Catholics as wild beasts.

Some might have thought—given that the king's own mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had been a notable Catholic, and that the rulers of Scotland descended from Irish tribes—that these opinions seemed strange. But since the new Stuart monarch was divinely anointed, and a scholar besides, the correctness of his judgement could not be doubted. As for their governance, the repeated Irish attempts to evade British rule proved that they were incapable of governing themselves.

As he came to the Plain of Bird Flocks, Doctor Pincher saw the Walshes. He ignored them.

Whatever his views about the Irish, his teaching position at the new foundation had given Pincher some cause for satisfaction. Trinity College was resolutely Protestant, and he was not the only teacher there with Calvinist learning. Hardly surprisingly, therefore, the Catholics avoided Trinity, while the government servants and other new arrivals from England gave it their enthusiastic support. Pincher's successful lectures on the classics, philosophy, and theology soon ensured that he was asked to preach at Christ Church Cathedral itself, where he earned a good reputation with his listeners. His stipends from teaching and preaching allowed him to live well.

Especially as, so far, he had not married. He had it in mind to do so, but although he had met young women, from time to time, to whom he was attracted, sooner or later they had always said or done something that indicated to Pincher that they were unworthy, and so he had never brought the business to any conclusion. He had
other family, however. A sister who after a somewhat prolonged spinsterhood had married a worthy man called Budge. And not six months ago, a letter had come with the announcement that she had borne her husband a son and that his name was Barnaby. Barnaby Budge. It was a solid, godly sounding name. And until such time as he should marry and produce children himself, Pincher considered this infant child his heir.

“I mean to do something for him.” So he had written to his sister. And though he wrote it out of natural family affection, he had a further reason, too. For, if truth were told, in years past, his sister had sometimes shown a slight lack of respect in her manner towards him. The fault was his own. He couldn't deny it: certain features of his youth; that foolish business that had caused his rapid departure from Cambridge—she had known about that too, alas. These remembrances gave Pincher some pain. His exemplary career in Dublin had put to rest any question about his character long ago. His reputation was solid. He'd worked hard and he'd earned it. For years he had saved. He had been prudent. But he still lacked the tangible proof of his position: property; best of all, some land. And now, it seemed, the means were at hand.

Ulster. It was God's reward.

Several times as he rode southwards that day, he had found fragments of the Twenty-third Psalm coming into his head with wonderful appropriateness.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
He had been a faithful servant, God knew. He should have faith now that the Lord would provide.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…my cup runneth over
. Yes, the chosen congregation would be fed, feasted even, in the midst of the Irish.
Thou makest me to lie down in green pastures….
Ah, those he had seen, this very week. The green pastures of Ulster. The reward of the Lord. Very soon, the sower should sow his seed upon the good ground there.

It had been a friend, a godly man, who had told him of a farm up there. The leaseholder was planning to give it up in a year or so,
and the place could probably be bought at a good price. The land was excellent. If he went up there now, he might secure a promise that it would be offered to him first.

So he had visited Ulster and been much impressed. The place was wild, of course, but fertile. In particular, he had been glad to find, along the coast, that communities of Scots, staunch Calvinists like himself, had already crossed the sea and set up little farming and fishing colonies of their own. As for the property in question, he had inspected it, and there had been a meeting of minds. The place, if he wished it, could be his. But more inspiring even than this prospect, for a godly man, had been another thought that the sight of the land, and the good people he found there, had put into his mind.

Just think, he had said to himself, if this land could be planted.

Plantation. It was actually the Catholic queen, Mary Tudor, who had begun the process of plantation. Despite the fact that the Irish were Catholic, she distrusted them; and so she had set up two areas on the edge of South Leinster, which were called Kings Country and Queens Country, in which colonies of English settlers were established to act as a sort of military garrison for the area. The process was known as plantation. Other plantations had also been tried, especially down in Munster, where tracts of land had been seized by the government after the big rebellion in Queen Elizabeth's reign, in the hope that the settlers might teach the Irish how to live as sturdy English yeomen. Although these plantations had not always been successful, the English royal council was still enthusiastic for them. As for Pincher, it seemed to him that the plantations were a wonderful opportunity to do God's work. Weren't they exactly the same as the new colonies—Virginia and others—in the New World? Armed communities of godly pilgrims amongst native heathens who, in due course, would either be converted or pushed back into the wilderness, and probable extinction?

The procedure of plantation was straightforward enough. A huge area would be set aside for subdivision into parcels of land of various sizes. English and Scottish investors—they were called
undertakers—would be invited to underwrite the venture, and they in turn were to manage their land grant, supply sturdy tenants from England—yeomen, craftsmen, and the like, of good Protestant persuasion—and enjoy the eventual profits of their enterprise. Thus, they would become landowners of an ideal community. And for a modest investor like himself, there should be excellent opportunities to acquire leases from the undertakers, which could be sublet for a handsome profit.

No wonder then that his heart rose in exaltation as he considered the idea: a huge tract of Ulster, rid of its papists.

Would it ever come to pass? Who knew? In God's good time, he had to believe that it would. Meanwhile, he would begin, if all went well, with a little foothold in the place.

So he was in a cheerful mood as, coming to the Plain of Bird Flocks, he caught sight of the Catholic Walshes away to his left. He did not let their presence trouble him.

Since that embarrassing first meeting, he had only encountered the Catholic lawyer occasionally. He suspected that Martin Walsh did not like him, though Walsh was far too much of a gentleman ever to show it. For Walsh's Jesuitical son, he had only loathing. Of his two other children he knew nothing. But he bore families like the Walshes no special ill will. The fact was—you couldn't escape it—that Walsh was a gentleman even if he was a papist. So long as he was loyal to the English crown—and Martin Walsh was certainly that—there was no need to dispossess them as if they were mere Irish. Pincher wasn't quite certain what the fate of families like the Walshes should be. They'd be pushed quietly out of power, of course. Some, like the Jesuit Lawrence, would be dealt with in due course. Others would gradually be worn down. They were not the first priority.

And then a happy thought struck him. By the time his nephew Barnaby Budge was a man of his own age, would Walsh's younger son still be a papist, enjoying all the fruits of the Walsh family estate? No, he did not think so. Indeed, Pincher cheerfully consid
ered, he could practically guarantee it. By then, to be sure, the Walshes and their kind would be finished.

It was early in August when Orlando was told by his father: “You're going to meet young Smith. The man your sister is to marry.”

Orlando knew that his father had been busy with the matter ever since Anne and Lawrence had left for the continent. There had been discussions with his cousin Doyle, long talks with certain Dublin priests, and meetings with the Smiths themselves. After each of these negotiations, his father would return from Dublin looking preoccupied, but as to the substance of the discussions, his father had never divulged anything. So when his father told him that the young man was to come out to their house alone on a Saturday afternoon, spend the night there, and then go to Mass with them the following morning, he was highly excited, as well as full of joy for his sister.

“I think you'll like him,” his father said kindly.

“Oh, I'm sure I shall,” Orlando replied.

And how carefully he had prepared himself. He had not forgotten his promise to his sister. No one should ever know about the clandestine meetings of the lovers. Neither by word nor by sign would he give anything away. When he met young Smith, he would look as if he had never seen him before in his life. Again and again, he went over it in his mind. He thought of every foolish slip he could make and prepared for them all. As the day approached, he felt nervous and excited; but he was sure of himself also. He would not let them down.

He spent the morning with one of the farmhands. He was unloading a cartload of turves, brought down from a bog to the north, when he saw the figure in the distance, riding towards the house. His father was inside, and for a moment he wondered whether he should run out to meet young Smith, to let him know that his secret was safe and that he wouldn't be giving him away. But after a moment's hesitation, he decided that this might make Fintan suspi
cious and that it would be better to leave everything exactly as he'd planned it. So he turned round instead and went into the house, and found his father and told him that a stranger was approaching.

It was his father, therefore, who went out through the door to greet the young man and call to the groom to take his horse, while Orlando, pretending to be shy, remained inside in the shadows of the hallway.

From where he stood, it seemed to Orlando as if he were gazing along a tunnel towards the great gash of bright sunlight of the open doorway. He heard the voices outside, saw shadows move briefly before the entrance, then saw two figures, his father leading, blocking out the sunlight. They were inside, moving towards him. This was his moment.

“Well,” he heard his father say, “here he is.”

And then, blinking slightly as the sunlight came pouring in again though the doorway behind them, he found himself staring with horror and evident astonishment at the face of young Smith.

For it wasn't young Smith at all. It was somebody else entirely.