The Rebels of Ireland (88 page)

“Come out or burn.”

“What is it you want?” cried Patrick.

“To burn down the house of the infamous Lord Mountwalsh,” the voice called back. “You'll not be harmed if you come out.”

Patrick told them all to stand back, then turned to one of the servants.

“Open the door,” he said. “I'll talk with them.”

It did not take him long to talk them round. They were United Irishmen, about fifty of them. They weren't local, but had come from some miles away. On their way to a great muster tomorrow, they had thought to turn aside and burn the house which they understood belonged to the hated Hercules.

“It isn't his,” he told them. “It belongs to his mother, who's a Patriot. It's she who sent me here.” And he gave them a quick account of who he was and the purpose of his journey. It wasn't difficult for him to prove the truth of what he said. “The house stands for our cause,” he explained. “It shouldn't be touched.”

The leader of the group did not seem entirely pleased. To judge by his accent, he came from Ulster.

“My name is Law,” he said, “and I've no great liking for that lady either. But we'll do as you ask.”

Patrick expressed some surprise at finding an Ulster man in Wexford.

“There are several of us arrived,” Law told him. “For myself, I came down here for a change of air after I was flogged.”

Patrick asked him how the disposition of the forces stood.

“Wexford has started late,” Law explained. “There's been no difficulty recruiting. Some of the local gentry are like Lord Mountwalsh, and they've even started Orange lodges. Even the moderate Protestants hate them. But they've been quite effective up the coast around Arklow. They arrested quite a few people in southern Wicklow and north Wexford. That set us back a day or two. But we had whole companies of men out this afternoon. Some of them said they were going turf-cutting. By dusk they were all under arms. Tonight, the whole of Wexford is rising.”

“And what forces oppose us?”

“Down in Wexford town there's a garrison of two thousand men, with artillery. There's another garrison farther away, guarding Waterford harbour, in case the French arrive. But apart from that, and a Yeomanry garrison at Enniscorthy, there are only small garrisons in the smaller places. We can overrun them easily. You should come with us to the big muster,” he added. “You could meet all the commanders.”

Since this was exactly what he wanted, Patrick agreed at once.

“Rest here with your men a few hours,” he suggested, “and we'll go on together at dawn.”

Law agreed, and Patrick retired with Brigid to get a little sleep.

Brigid did not sleep, however, but watched over him until first light.

At dawn, before he left, Patrick gave his orders to young William.

“Wait here and be at the ready for a message from me,” he instructed him. “There may be things I require you to do. In the
meantime, you are to guard Brigid.” To Brigid he whispered: “Keep him here at all costs, and see that he comes to no harm.”

Brigid liked the peace of the great house. The huge quiet of the countryside was like a silent echo of her own childhood up at Rathconan. But comforting though this was, she could not escape the growing anxiety she felt about Patrick. She tried to occupy her mind with other things.

She spent a good deal of time with young William. It was pleasant for her that he took an interest in the library. “Though whether my father will let me enjoy my patrimony seems uncertain,” he remarked sadly. He was quite happy to take turns reading a book aloud with her in the evenings. More difficult was the task of keeping him there. The first two days, he went for a ride to take some exercise. But by the third, he was fretting that he should go to join the Wexford rebels. “If Patrick has told you to wait,” she reminded him, “you can be sure it's for a good reason. He has a very high opinion of you, so you mustn't let him down now.” Unwillingly, he agreed; but she wasn't sure how long she could keep him reined in. Though she had no use for the order to which he belonged, she couldn't help liking him all the same.

The weather was dry. She spent a good deal of time outside, often in Georgiana's walled garden, which she found a pleasant haven. Sometimes she and young William would walk in the grounds. She had come to love the wide, classical streets of Dublin, but the massive Palladian structure of Mount Walsh, so grandly uncompromising, seemed to her eyes to be alien and out of place in that soft and gentle landscape. Thinking of the poor folk with whom she had grown up in Rathconan, she could quite see why people might want to burn it down. But she did not say so to William.

On the evening of the fifth day, thank God, Patrick returned.

He arrived with his friend Kelly, the neighbouring landowner. Both men were looking pleased with themselves, like a pair of boys.

“You won't believe how well it's gone,” Patrick said.

The progress of the United Irishmen had been astonishing. The very afternoon of the rally, they'd been attacked by a force brought in from Munster, the North Cork Militia. “And we saw them off,” Kelly cried triumphantly. Thousands of them had swept round the local villages, and the little garrisons there had fled. One garrison in their panic had left a huge cache of arms. “We couldn't believe it,” Patrick explained. “They'd left us a present of eight hundred carbines and cartloads of ammunition. The next day, having no artillery, the garrison at Enniscorthy had surrendered. More rebel contingents had arrived. “We all camped on Vinegar Hill, outside the town,” Patrick went on. “It's a pleasant place.” But the most extraordinary stroke of good fortune had come the next day when a military detachment had foolishly allowed itself to be ambushed and given up its cannons. For now the rebels were not only a huge horde, with firearms and pikes, but they had artillery as well. Faced with this, even the commander at Wexford, the one real garrison in the region, had panicked and withdrawn.

“As of today,” Patrick informed them, Wexford shall be the model for the new United Ireland. We have a Senate of eight governors, four Catholic, four Protestant. Similarly, we have both Protestant and Catholic commanders, with about ten thousand under arms.” He smiled. “Before I left Wexford, I already sent a messenger to Rathconan to tell them—it's time to rise.”

There was not much time. Finn O'Byrne looked up at the sky. The afternoon was wearing on. The message from Patrick had come the evening before. Conall had been out since dawn, travelling around the area putting the word out. The rising was to take place in the middle of that night. On Conall's instructions, he had already organised the men to fetch the weapons from their hiding places once darkness had fallen. The signal would be given sometime after midnight. Then they'd strike.

The target would be the house. Old Budge would be in there, of course. He was to be taken prisoner and held. Finn had been against that himself. “Kill him,” he cried. But Conall had only shaken his head. “You're too bloodthirsty, Finn. He could be worth more as a hostage anyway.” The people working in the house had not been informed, but as they were all local, no one expected any trouble, and they'd just be told to get out. More problematic was the question of the landlord's two sons. If either was there, they'd certainly put up a fight.

“We capture them if we can, but we kill if we have to,” Conall had told him.

Jonah Budge and his Yeomen had last been seen ten miles away. His brother Arthur was down in Wicklow. That morning, however, seeing Old Budge by his door, Finn had asked after his elder son and Budge had answered: “He'll be here this afternoon.” It was a piece of information Finn had kept to himself.

For he had needed to decide. And he had been having second thoughts.

Finn O'Byrne had been waiting for this rising all his life. For months he had been savouring the thought. At times, he could almost taste it. He'd been furious a week before when Patrick had made them wait.

The idea of seeing all the Budges dead—and all Protestants, for that matter—was sweet indeed. Conall said that there were good Protestants in the United Irishmen. But what did Conall know?

Whatever his feelings, though, he wasn't a fool, Finn told himself. There were things, important things, to be considered about the present situation. Things to make a man pause.

The men down in Wexford might have had a big success. But they possibly did not realise that, elsewhere, the rising had not been going so well.

Dublin was held by the government in a viselike grip. Despite all Lord Edward's efforts, his scattered forces were not really ready. Munster and Connacht had not risen. The risings in Meath and Kil
dare had been contained, and almost collapsed now, after big defeats at the ancient sites of Tara and the Curragh. There were signs of a Presbyterian rising up in eastern Ulster now, but would that be enough to topple Dublin? The men down in Wexford had been lucky, but they were more isolated than they realised. And even if Wicklow joined them, the outlook was bleak.

Unless the French came. That might change everything. But the French had not come, and who could say when they would?

They'll take Rathconan, he thought, and places like it, and three weeks later they'll all be flogged or in chains. He could see it clearly. At Rathconan, Conall would be singled out as the ringleader, of course. But the next person after Conall would surely be himself. It was a frightening thought.

Well, now he had made his decision. It was the only logical thing to do. But it needed to be done carefully, and there wasn't much time.

He could go to old Budge, of course. That might have seemed the simplest way. But it carried risks. He'd be seen, almost certainly. He wasn't sure how the landlord would react. The old fellow might not even get away. The alarm would not be sounded. He could see the whole thing blowing up in his face.

Or he could leave. Go down into Wicklow himself. Perhaps too late to do much good. And they'd know he betrayed them. He'd be a marked man. A knife in the back, sooner or later. Or worse.

No. There was only one good way to do this.

He began to walk down the track that led down the valley. There was a cache of arms a short distance down there. A good excuse to be going in that direction, if anyone should see him. But he was not seen. There was a clump of trees by a turn in the track, and he concealed himself on a high bank, with the track below him. Then he waited.

An hour passed. Then another. If Arthur Budge did not come soon, then his plan would collapse. Perhaps his father had made a mistake or the man had changed his mind. Perhaps he wasn't coming.

Or what if someone had already betrayed the rising? What if both the Budge sons should come riding up the track with two dozen Yeomen this very minute? No words would be any use then. It would be too late. They'd take him as a rebel. Dear God, he could feel the rope around his neck already. He broke into a cold sweat. Maybe he should take his chances and run back to the old man. In an agony of indecision, he let another half hour pass.

Then the lone figure of Arthur Budge appeared, riding up the track below him. He scrambled down the bank.

“Your Honour. You mustn't be seen…” It only took him a few sentences to explain. Budge was staring at him with angry eyes. But he was listening.

“Who's the leader?”

“Conall Smith. He's out raising half the country now.”

“Midnight, you say?”

“Or soon after. Your Honour, now that I'm after telling you, you must arrest me, too. If they know that it was me that warned you, I'm a dead man.”

Arthur Budge grunted.

“I'm thinking,” Finn continued, “it'd be better I didn't tell your father, in case he let anything slip and gave the game away.”

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“It was decided only this morning,” Finn answered, with perfect truth.