The Rebels of Ireland (96 page)

On the afternoon of July 15, John MacGowan received an unexpected visit from Georgiana. Her face was pale, and she begged for his help.

“I saw him, John. I saw my grandson. He was in Grafton Street. He turned off and I ran after him, but you know that area. It's a mass of little lanes and alleys. I lost him. But it was William. I know it was.” She sighed. “I walked home, then I thought of you. It's not two hours ago.”

“Perhaps you were mistaken. The imagination can play tricks.”

“John. Help me.”

He fell silent.

“What do you think he's doing?” he asked at last.

“He came from Paris. With Emmet probably, and others. You tell me what they're doing.”

“I don't know,” he answered truthfully. “They came to me, of course, the United men, months ago. But I refused. I no longer believe in risings.”

“There's to be a rising?”

“There was talk. That doesn't mean it will happen.”

“I lost Patrick. I can't bear to lose this boy as well, John.”

“That was a terrible thing,” he said quietly. “The boy's father couldn't help?” The expression on her face was enough. “I will ask,” he said. “I promise nothing.”

He came to her house that evening.

“They are saying nothing.” To be exact, Smith the tobacconist had told him: “There is no one of that name involved.” And having seen the ambiguity of this statement and asked if he might be under any other name, Smith had asked, “Who wants to know?” His grandmother, he'd said. “Ah, I couldn't say,” Smith had replied.

Which told him, of course, that William was there.

MacGowan sat in a wing chair in her parlour. He half-closed one eye and gazed at her thoughtfully with the other, which seemed unnaturally large and all-seeing in the evening light. He felt her distress. It touched his conscience.

“I'm sorry I cannot help,” he said. “But wherever he is, he's made his own decisions, and it's clear that he doesn't want to be found.”

Having brought Georgiana no comfort, he left.

On Saturday, July 16, the Liberties of Dublin were surprised by a small explosion in a storehouse near St. Patrick's Cathedral. Three men were injured and taken to hospital, where one of them subsequently died. Fortunately, the damage was not great, and the small fires were quickly put out by the men inside, so that when the city firefighters arrived, they were told there was no need for their services.

“You'll only make a bigger mess than there is already,” the foreman told them. The little crowd outside watched with interest as the foreman argued with the firemen, who finally left disgruntled. The next day, in the evening, the city police came to look at the premises. They found them deserted, but there were suspicious traces of gunpowder. “Perhaps they were making fireworks,” somebody said.

But a report was made.

The meeting on Sunday morning had been sombre. Emmet's face was pale and drawn.

It had been a close thing, and they all knew it. By dawn that morning, the arms and ammunition had all been transferred to a house on Coal Quay, as the ancient Viking Wood Quay was now called, down on the Liffey. “A couple of night watchmen tried to stop my boys on the way,” Smith the tobacconist reported. “They pretended to be drunk, but it was a close thing.” He shook his head. “We're going to be found out any day now.”

Only a fool would have disagreed. Their time was running out, and they knew it.

It was Russell who spoke now. He was the most experienced of the men of '98, and his voice carried weight.

“We've two options. We can close down the whole operation and disperse. Or we have to start the rising at once. If we don't, we risk losing the element of surprise, or worse, of getting everyone arrested.”

“And the French?” asked Emmet.

“Have you any news?” There was no answer. “If we wait for them, we'll all be hanged before they arrive.”

There were several murmurs of agreement.

“We're not ready,” said Emmet.

“We have a large cache of weapons,” another of the old guard, Hamilton, pointed out. “We may never have such a good opportunity again.”

“I'll raise the north,” promised Russell. “I'll have Ulster marching in three days.”

It wasn't clear to William how convinced Emmet was by these arguments, but after some further discussion, it was agreed that the rising should take place as quickly as possible.

“If you want to bring large numbers in from the country, without arousing suspicion,” Hamilton reminded them, “Saturday market day is best. You've got all kinds of people coming in anyway, then.”

They agreed to go on the twenty-third.

“That gives us five whole days to prepare,” Emmet said with a laugh.

If Emmet had any private doubts, you'd never have known. His headquarters and the main arms depot were at the storehouse on Thomas Street, a little beyond the ancient Hospital of St. John that lay in the Liberty to the west of the old city wall. It was a capacious premises with a yard. A narrow street called Marshalsea Lane ran from Thomas Street here, down towards the quays. Here Emmet worked and slept round the clock.

William had never been so excited. It was exhilarating to feel that he was making history. Emmet had a sense of style. A tailor had made green uniforms trimmed with gold and lace. “They are the uniforms of French generals,” Emmet explained. “I and the other leaders will wear them. It will remind our men that they are a proper revolutionary army.”

There was so much to be made ready: ammunition, supplies, even loaves of bread for the men. It was impossible to keep the depot secret anymore, and numbers of men from the various Dublin brigades were sent on errands there. Soon after William got there on Monday morning, O'Byrne arrived, and he quickly made himself useful, checking all the weapons and noting any deficiencies. “We need more shot, Mr. Emmet,” he reported, and William was sent out to buy it. At the end of the day, he accompanied William home, buying him a drink on the way.

Emmet was also busy writing manifestoes. They were long, but powerful. The time had come, he wrote, for Ireland to show the world that she was competent to take her place amongst the nations. Leinster and Ulster would lead; all Ireland would follow; there was no need of foreign assistance. But the rising must be honourably conducted, the manifestoes urged. There must be strict military order, followed by free elections and justice for all. “Get it printed right away, William,” he instructed.

Russell, Hamilton, and some of the others went north to raise Ulster. Kildare sent word that they would come in on Saturday with almost two thousand men. Messengers also had to be sent to Wexford and Wicklow.

“Who knows the Wicklow Mountains?” Emmet asked.

“I know them like the back of my hand,” O'Byrne volunteered.

“You're the man, then,” Emmet told him. And he gave him detailed instructions on the message he should deliver to the commanders there.

“Take care,” William said to him, quite affectionately, as he was leaving.

The Earl of Mountwalsh listened carefully.

“You are sure of all this?”

“I am, my lord.” Finn repeated exactly the message he was to deliver. The attack would begin on Saturday night at ten o'clock. A
rocket, shooting stars, would be the signal. After collecting arms from the Thomas Street depot, the United men would first take Dublin Castle.

“You are not to deliver the message to Wicklow, but you had better stay out of sight until Saturday,” Hercules ordered.

“There's an inn out at Dalkey I could use.”

“Good. On Saturday you will return, tell them the message is delivered, and observe the preparations. At one o'clock that day, you will meet me at Strongbow's tomb in Christ Church Cathedral, and I will give you further instructions.”

“Your lordship will give me fifty pounds when this is done?”

“When my son is arrested, I will give you a hundred pounds, O'Byrne. Now go.”

It was hard for John MacGowan. He was no coward, but he was an older and wiser man than he had been five years ago. And though he wanted the same things as Emmet, he had no belief in a new rising. He found nowadays that he had more belief in people than in causes. And he had patience. If not me, he thought, then my children and grandchildren. In the meantime, as long as England sent over humane men like Cornwallis and the Lord Lieutenant who had now replaced him, life was bearable.

Yet his conscience troubled him.

It was not about the rising, but about friendship. It was Georgiana's face that haunted him. And she was quite right to be afraid. If young William had gone to join Emmet, then he was in great danger. When the conspiracy was discovered, or the rising failed, as it surely would, the authorities would be no more lenient towards him than they had been to Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

He thought he could predict how it would go. The rebels would need to secure Dublin first. A Saturday market day was always the best time for such a thing. But when? He'd no idea. If, as he suspected, the mysterious explosion in the Liberty had anything to do
with it, the plans were probably far advanced. Time was not on young William's side, therefore.