The Rebels of Ireland (94 page)

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.