The Rebels of Ireland (85 page)

It was an admirer from the Castle who had been good enough to caution her, a year ago, that Patrick was suspected of conspiracy. She had immediately turned her dark-eyed gaze upon him.

“Why?”

“His cousin, the new Lord Mountwalsh, says so.”

“I suppose you know that Hercules hates him. He has since they were boys, the malicious devil.” She smiled. “I'd never let him do such a thing.” Then she'd laughed. “In any case, I can assure you, Patrick wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Some time later, her friend had remarked: “By the way, about Patrick: I passed on what you said to FitzGibbon himself.”

“What did he say?”

“He just nodded and said, ‘I know.'”

The men at the Castle no doubt assumed that Patrick was sympathetic to the United Irishmen, but so were all kinds of people. He'd always been careful. It was unlikely that they had evidence for anything more. Indeed, she had thought wryly, the known malice of Hercules had probably made Patrick less of a suspect than he might have been otherwise.

All the same, she was relieved when the next sound at the door turned out to be Patrick.

He was glad, but not surprised, to find Lord Edward there. The news was already out that a number of the United Irish leaders had been captured together. He also agreed at once that Fitzgerald should not stay there long.

“I'd trust our servants not to give you away. But sooner or later, even if no one gives me away, there's a chance this house will be searched, and there's nowhere to hide you.”

The two men considered, and discarded, several deserted places inside and outside the city. “There's no use looking for a ship, either,” Patrick said, “because all the ports will be watched.” It was Brigid who finally came up with the solution.

“The safest place isn't out of the way at all. It's right in the middle of Dublin, not a mile from the Castle itself.” She smiled. “If you don't mind the surroundings, you should go to the Liberties.”

The Liberties: the teeming, stinking warrens that once had been the Church's feudal enclaves and were now home to Dublin's poorest. You might be an honest Catholic weaver, a Protestant labourer, a whore or a common thief; you might love your neighbour, or plan to kill him; but whoever you were in the Liberties, there was one thing you had in common with everyone else there: a loathing and distrust of the authorities. Even the military patrols preferred to stay out of the Liberties.

Lord Edward asked only one question.

“How?”

“Leave it to me,” promised Brigid. “But be ready before dusk.” Then she went out, and did not return for more than an hour.

No one disturbed the two men as they sat together. There was much to discuss. Depending on how many the Troika had arrested, the leadership of the United Irishmen would clearly be a smaller group. “I shall rely upon you, Patrick,” Lord Edward said, “to be my link with the world.” An immediate question was that of arms. “There are so many caches in the city that I don't think they will all be discovered,” Fitzgerald declared, “but I want you to keep this list in your safekeeping. Hide it well, for it has them all. If anything happens to you,” he continued, “Brigid will have to pass the information on.”

Above all, they both agreed, after today, it would be critical to keep up everybody's spirits, so that they would be eager and ready to fight when the time came.

But when would that be? Patrick wanted to know. Had Fitzgerald any news from Wolfe Tone in Paris?

“Nothing definite. But both Talleyrand, who is in charge of all their external affairs, and General Bonaparte are well inclined towards us. Tone hopes for an expedition before the summer.”

“I see.” To Patrick this seemed promising.

Lord Edward looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, Patrick. You do not see. In fact, it was that very matter we were to discuss at the meeting of the council today. My view, you see, is different. If the Troika continues to close in upon us, I believe that another course of action may be necessary.” He paused. “We should rise very soon, with or without the French.”

“By ourselves? Without a trained army?”

“Taking Ireland as a whole, I think we could arm a quarter of a million men.”

“I had never considered such a thing,” Patrick confessed. “The risks…”

“Have faith, Patrick,” the aristocrat said.

When Brigid returned, she was feeling pleased. She was carrying a bundle under her arm. She had seen her brother, the tobacconist, and he had promised that by nightfall, he would have a room ready where Lord Edward could lodge, at least for the present. She noticed that Patrick, in particular, was looking concerned, and he asked her nervously if there were patrols in the streets.

“Everywhere,” she answered cheerfully. “But don't worry. I know what to do.” And she began to unwrap the bundle.

It was as well, she thought, that she belonged to the theatre. It took her half an hour to complete her work, but when she had finished, she was proud of the results. In place of the tall, dark-haired, and youthful-looking aristocrat was a stooped, grey-haired figure in a dirty shirt and a shabby old greatcoat. His boots were scuffed, and he had to lean upon her shoulder in order to walk. As for herself, she was clearly a lady of the night who had once seen better days. “You're my father,” she instructed him, “and I'm taking you home.
Tomorrow,” she added, “we'll get your own clothes to you, but you must never wear them out of doors.”

“Which way shall we go?” he enquired.

“By the one way that a fugitive would never choose,” she answered. “We'll walk straight past the gates of Dublin Castle.”

As dusk was about to fall, they set out upon their way, crossing the Liffey to College Green, thence along Dame Street and past the Castle where the sentries regarded them with pity but no interest. They had gone a little farther on when a patrol appeared, and the officer advanced to question them. But Brigid told him sharply that she wanted her father home in the Liberties before dark, and let off such a string of obscenities that the fellow backed away rather than hear any more.

Normally, neither Brigid nor Lord Edward would have cared to walk unguarded about the city at such an hour. For when darkness descended upon Dublin, the city would show its night-time face: like a huge stage set, its houses would turn into black masses, punctuated by candlelight, streets would become canyons, alleys cave-mouths, dark or lamplit—and humans appear like flitting shades. Dangerous shades: from Christ Church to Dame Street, or even the fashionable quiet of St. Stephen's Green, the figure slumped in an alley or by a tree might be a sleeping drunk or pauper, or it could rise up suddenly to rob you, with a knife at your throat. It was the same in every other great city—London, Paris, or Edinburgh was no different.

But as two poor folk themselves, Brigid and her companion seemed ready to merge with the tattered shadows as they continued westward and passed, unmolested, into the Liberties.

Turning down a small street, then into a stinking alley, Brigid led Lord Edward to a doorway where another shadow, this time her brother, awaited them. Taking them up a rickety stairs, he unlocked the door of a room, which, by the pale light of his lamp, was revealed to contain one wooden chair and some bedding on the bare floor. And here Lord Edward Fitzgerald, son of a duke, descendant of the greatest feudal dynasty and of half the native princes of an
cient Ireland, and accustomed to life in the huge palace of Leinster House, prepared to spend a cold March night.

When young William Walsh heard, on the eighteenth of April, that every man in Trinity College was summoned to attend, without fail, a visitation of the dreaded Vice Chancellor in the great dining hall the following day, he was sure he knew why.

The arrest of the leading United Irishmen in March had been followed by a huge hunt for Lord Edward. Some said he was still in Dublin, others that he had fled abroad to France, or even America. Nobody knew.

But the arrests had also turned the harsh light of enquiry upon a fresh target: Trinity College. Several of those arrested, including Robert Emmet's older brother Tom, had been graduates of the place. Indeed, Wolfe Tone himself had been a Trinity man, and had friends on the faculty still. To his fury, FitzGibbon found his colleagues telling him that the university of which he was Vice Chancellor appeared to be a seedbed of sedition. Redoubled efforts were made to weed out troublemakers. Two undergraduates who could be proved to have taken the Irishmen's oath had already been expelled. Now, clearly, FitzGibbon meant to launch a public examination of the entire student body. So when, that afternoon, William happened to encounter his friend Robert Emmet, he was eager to know what he thought of it and what he intended to do.

“If the chance arises,” William asked, “do you mean to make a speech?”

For in recent months, Robert Emmet had sprung a surprise on the world of Trinity College. He'd always been such a quiet fellow that, when he had joined the Historical Society, no one had expected to hear much from him in their debates. Yet the first time he had risen to speak, he had shown a remarkable talent as an orator. “He sits there quiet as a mouse,” one of the members told William, “then gets up and turns into a lion.”

But to William's enquiry, Emmet shook his head.

“FitzGibbon hasn't come to debate with us, William. This is a ritual trial and execution. And I'm sure to be one of the victims. He's always been suspicious of my family. Now my own brother's been arrested. He means to expel me, I assure you. But I shall deny him the chance to bully me in public. I shall not go. I shall force him to condemn me without a hearing, and show himself for what he is.”

“You think him such a bully?”

“Isn't our whole Ascendancy just a vast system of bullying?” Emmet smiled grimly. “Be ready to witness it tomorrow.”

There was one thing, however, that William was not ready for. The next day, as he prepared to go to the assembly, he received word that he was to report at once to the Provost's. On arriving there, he was immediately ushered into a room where, instead of the Provost, he found himself alone with FitzGibbon himself.

He'd never met FitzGibbon in person before, so he couldn't help observing him with some curiosity. The leader of the Troika was a formidable figure, yet for all the terror he inspired, William knew that as a lawyer he had earned a reputation as a fine advocate and judge, and even a fair one. It was as soon as he stepped into his governmental role that he became so dangerous. Strangely, this pillar of the Ascendancy had actually been born into a family that had converted to the official Protestant Church. However—perhaps because he came from a convert family—he seemed to have conceived a violent hatred of all Catholics as well as of radicals. As FitzGibbon stood before him now, in his academic gown, he might have been some grim Roman governor cast in bronze.

Yet seeing William, he held out his hand.

“Ah, William.” His first name, though they had never met before. The tall man even smiled. “Your father assured me I could rely upon you, and I see from your honest face that I can. We have important work to do today.”

“My lord?”

“I shall look to you for support.”

“I see,” said William, who didn't.

“You are still young.” FitzGibbon spoke quite kindly. “But today, all will be tested. Today will be the day to stand up for what you believe. I count upon you.” He gave a brief nod to indicate that the interview was over, and William withdrew.

As he entered the great dining hall, William found it already crowded. On a platform at the far end stood a table and two chairs, like a pair of thrones, awaiting FitzGibbon and his fellow judge. Below, in the main body of the hall, the entire college sat on benches in hierarchical order: first the Provost and fellows, the scholars, graduates, undergraduates, even the college porters. He made his way quickly to a place. When everyone was assembled, the doors were closed. They all waited. Then, with an awful majesty, FitzGibbon and his fellow judge entered and assumed their thrones. For a moment, they sat in silence; then FitzGibbon arose.

He spoke clearly, like a prosecutor outlining his case. Let them remember, he pointed out, their privileged position. They were the future leaders of their country. Most of the important positions in Ireland were filled by graduates of Trinity College. Privilege, he reminded them, brought responsibilities. And also—a note of warning could be heard in his voice—it brought risk. To attend Trinity was to open up a bright path; to be expelled from it would destroy all hope of a successful career. And some of those present were about to learn that terrible lesson. For he knew, he told them, he had positive and irrefutable information that some of those before him had flirted with treason.

As he said this, his lawyer's gaze travelled accusingly round his audience, as though he could see into the secrets of every heart.