Dark Rosaleen (21 page)

‘And that was all?’ asked Castlereagh.

‘Shortly after this the servant came and asked was he ready for dinner, and I went away. He wanted me to stay to dinner, but I would not.’

‘Is Lord Edward to be at this meeting at Oliver Bond’s on the twelfth?’

‘Yes, my Lord, all the leaders will be there. It is the final consultation before the rising.’

‘Very well,’ said Castlereagh. ‘I think there is no more to be said, Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Hanlon will write you an order for five hundred pounds. You may make yourself easy on the score of the damage to Kilkea Castle. Of course,’ he added, ‘further rewards may be yours if your information proves valuable and you care to claim them. The government would pay very well, and no doubt there would be those who would hail you as the saviour of your country.’

‘What am I to do in the meantime, so?’

‘Go back among these men, maintain your place with them, keep their confidence, especially the confidence of Lord Edward Fitzgerald; get, of course, all the information you can and lay it before us.’

‘By God, that is a dangerous thing to ask me to do, my Lord!’

‘I believe you do not lack courage nor effrontery, sir. You will be able to hold your own with these men.’

‘I run the risk of being murdered,’ remarked Reynolds, but without timidity, rather with a grim audacity.

‘You run also the chance of being extremely well paid — pensioned for life,’ snapped Castlereagh. ‘A fine position in England, nay, somewhere abroad on the Continent, what you will. And then your patriotism — your resolve to serve His Majesty. Just stand firm for these few weeks, Mr. Reynolds, and you need have no more anxiety for the rest of your life. The British Government will be grateful.’

These words, though gracious in their sense, were spoken in a tone of pure insult, which made even the brazen front of Thomas Reynolds flush a little, and his bold eyes shift aside.

‘Between you and Captain Armstrong,’ added Castlereagh, ‘I think that we shall put our finger on all the ramifications of this conspiracy.’

Reynolds asked: ‘What will be the fate of these men, sir, when they are arrested?’

‘It is not part of the bargain we have just made, Mr. Reynolds, for me to tell you that. You are perfectly aware of the punishment to which traitors make themselves liable.’

‘In the case of Lord Edward, I suppose,’ said Reynolds, who seemed to speak with more curiosity than compunction, ‘the brother of the Duke of Leinster, the nephew of the Duke of Richmond, I imagine some compassion might be shown?’

‘Imagine what you please, Mr. Reynolds.’

The informer shrugged, hesitated, then put his hand in his pocket and drew out another paper.

‘I’m obliged to your Lordship for your consideration about Kilkea Castle,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to see this, the proclamation drawn up by the United Irishmen. It is meant to be published on St. Patrick’s Day and given away in handbills.’

With that he gave a brief salutation and with a showy lift of his shoulders, left the room, sauntering, much at ease.

The Secretary for Ireland turned with an unchanged face. ‘Have you made a note of all that?’ he asked.

‘I’ve taken the heads of the conversation, my Lord. The rest I can remember. It all seems clear sailing. But supposing the fellow plays double, goes back and warns these men he’s sold them or that Armstrong sold them? Dealing with villains is damned awkward.’

‘He won’t. One knows the type. Cupidity. They haven’t any money to give him. He’s lived beyond his means, aspired beyond his rank. He shows himself in the Rotunda with his mistress, who is dressed up in brocade from his own warehouse with his mother’s diamonds in her hair. He likes to be flattered by his superiors. One or two pleasant words from Campden would buy him for life, but it isn’t necessary. We have him already. Cupidity, Hanlon, cupidity. We have him safely — besides, he is afraid of his neck. Since Hoche didn’t land, and Abercrombie did, men like that think the rebellion can’t succeed.’

‘I thought, too, sir,’ suggested the confidential secretary respectfully, as he put his papers together, ‘that he was envious of Lord Edward, hated a superior —’

‘Yes. Such creatures do. They want to destroy what excels them. A very vile fellow. But useful, Hanlon, useful.’

CHAPTER 14

Lord Castlereagh, who did not intend to pause till he had defeated this vast, dangerous conspiracy, went, when he left the glover’s shop, direct to the residence of Lord Clare and laid before him all the information he had received from Thomas Reynolds, which was the most important they had yet received from any spy.

The Lord Chancellor, who remained staunch to the English Government, received the news with grim pleasure. ‘So, we have them at last.’ He looked with amazement at the writings in Lord Edward’s hand. ‘The young fool, and he was warned!’

‘I don’t know that he’s such a fool. The whole thing seems pretty well planned out — a good soldier, a good organiser… He’s credulous, that’s all. He can’t believe in treachery.’

‘It’s damnable,’ cried Clare angrily. ‘What are we going to do with him? Leinster’s brother! I like him, too. He won’t leave, I suppose? No persuading him?’

‘I’m afraid not. My wife can’t get anything out of Lady Edward, poor creature, either. She’s very staunch. I believe she knows everything.’

‘Well, we must try and save him — for the rest, let ’em hang.’

‘There must be no weakness — none. Yet I’m sorry,’ said Castlereagh, ‘for men like Emmett, the Sheares, and Bond too, educated, intelligent, misguided men, but not scoundrels.’

Clare did not share these humane views. He picked up one of the papers which Castlereagh had handed him. It was the proclamation intended to be published on St. Patrick’s Day which Reynolds had given his Lordship on his departure.

‘Read this; one of their handbills, I suppose! Look here, my Lord, you talk about misguided gentlemen! Traitors, treasonable scoundrels, I say! What have they written here?’ He read aloud:

‘The organisation of the Capital is perfect, no vacancies existing on our staff. Arrangements have been made and are still making, to secure for our oppressed brethren the benefit of freedom. And the sentinels whom we have appointed to watch over your interests stand firm at their post, vigilant of events and prompt to give you notice and advice, which on every occasion at all requiring it you may rely on receiving. The most unfounded rumours have been set afloat, fabricated for the double purpose of delusion and intimidation. Our enemies talk of treachery in the vain and fallacious hope of creating it.’ Clare glanced up at Castlereagh and smiled, then continued:

‘But you, who scorn equally to be their dupes or their slaves, will meet their forgeries with dignified contempt, incapable of being either goaded into untimely violence or sunk into pusillanimous despondence. Be firm, Irishmen, and be cool and cautious; be patient yet awhile; trust in no unauthorised communications; and above all we warn you, again and again we warn you, against doing the work of your tyrants by premature, by partial or divided outbreaks. If Ireland should be forced to throw away the scabbard let it be in her own time.’

‘This fine rigmarole,’ cried Clare, ‘is the work of one of those damned Sheares, I expect!’

Castlereagh made no comment on this. He remarked:

‘I suppose they’ll secure a conviction in O’Connor’s case?’

‘Oh, yes, he’ll be hanged, certainly. A pity it isn’t over here instead of in England. It would have a good effect.’

‘Campden is most uneasy. He feels this situation almost intolerable. I suppose he’ll be recalled.’

‘I think so, and Cornwallis sent. We need a soldier.’

‘I should have thought reinforcements for Abercrombie would have arrived before now.’

‘They’ll come, I expect, with the first fair wind. But we can do without them. I only regret that Fitzgerald’s in this.’

‘But he is,’ said the Secretary for Ireland quietly, ‘committed beyond concealment or excuse. Put him out of your mind, my Lord. He has deliberately made his choice — this lunatic attempt at revolt. As we have made ours, to suppress it. England for us — as Ireland for him. I’m sorry, too — we have no choice now.’

PART 4

CHAPTER 1

On the 12th of March the United Irishmen met at the house of Mr. Oliver Bond. Nothing had occurred to disturb their sense of security. It was ten o’clock on a Monday morning, a bright cold day. As the gentlemen took their places round the table, the servant brought in a note to Mr. Bond. It was from Thomas Reynolds. He wrote that he knew there was particular business on hand and that he had been desired by Mr. M’Cann to be punctual, but that he could not attend, and made his apologies on the score of his wife having been taken suddenly ill.

Oliver Bond gave this information to the other men, who made nothing of it; nor was the presence of Thomas Reynolds necessary on this occasion.

Lord Edward, the Sheares brothers, and some others were late. The meeting was a little delayed on that account, the members talking to each other in broken conversation.

Pale sunlight streamed through the high windows illuminating the tense, eager faces of the men as they passed the little handbills for St. Patrick’s Day to one another.

All were young and enthusiastic. All, by the severity of their clothes, showed their republican sympathies. All wore the close-cut hair, dressed in classic style that, directly opposed to the loyalists’ queues and powder, had gained for the Irish the nickname of ‘croppies.’

Mr. William Michael Byrne, a handsome, elegant young man, went to the window and glanced down the windswept street.

‘There are a great many soldiers about,’ he remarked. ‘They seem to be patrolling round here.’

‘No,’ said Mr. Bond, ‘no more here than anywhere else. They search, and if need be, burn suspect houses everywhere. No, we are safe enough —’

‘I think, though,’ replied Mr. Byrne, ‘that the sooner we act the better —’

‘Why, if Lord Edward is listened to, it will be soon enough — he becomes every day more impetuous,’ said Mr. Bond, who was setting out the papers for the meeting.

‘I don’t wonder. My God! I’m for action, too. I don’t know how it is to continue, indeed I don’t. I saw that villain Sirr this morning, with his people. He seemed active —’

‘How many have we here?’ asked Mr. Bond, glancing round the company. ‘Fourteen. We might open the meeting. The others will, surely, be here immediately.’

‘A moment,’ said Mr. Peter Bannan of Portalington, who was at the door and listened. He heard Mr. Laurence Kelly, who kept the street entrance, exchanging the password with some newcomers.

‘Where’s M’Cann? Is Ivers from Carlow come?’

Mr. Bannan held the upper door open. He had not recognised any of the voices, so thought that these were delegates from the country. A party of strangers in rough clothes mounted the stairs. The foremost held a large pistol and came on at a run.

‘Put up the papers!’ cried Peter Bannan suddenly. At the same instant the stranger swung him from the door and rushed into the room, covering the company with his pistol.

‘I am Mr. Swann, a magistrate of County Dublin. I have a warrant for the arrest of all of you —’

‘On what charge?’ cried William Byrne, springing from the window.

‘High treason. Hold up your hands or I’ll shoot.’

But Mr. Byrne, with the utmost boldness, leaped to the table and catching up some of the papers, began to tear them across. He was immediately seized by a couple of the disguised sergeants who had accompanied Mr. Swann.

‘They know the password!’ whispered Mr. Bannan, as he was arrested.

‘Betrayed!’ cried Oliver Bond, staring in front of him — ‘and by whom?’

Broken exclamations fell from the lips of the others, but they quickly silenced themselves, communicating only by glances. Now on their discretion depended their property, perhaps their lives, the safety of their families.

Mr. Swann read from his warrant.

‘Dr. M’Nevin, Mr. Addis Emmett, Dr. Samson, Lord Edward Fitzgerald —’

‘None of these gentlemen is present,’ said Mr. Oliver Bond, very pale and tense. ‘I know nothing of their whereabouts.’

‘We have separate warrants for them,’ replied the magistrate, who was gathering up the papers. ‘They will be easily apprehended. Mr. John Sheares and Mr. Henry Sheares,’ he added, glancing round the room. ‘Neither of these gentlemen is present?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Bond, who conducted himself with great firmness. ‘I know nothing of them. I have seen none of them for weeks. Pray, sir, tell your man to loosen my hands a little.’

‘Mr. Thomas Reynolds?’

‘He is not present either.’

‘Well, gentlemen, we must take such as we have found. Those are my orders, and as I said, for the others we will soon find them.’

A glance of agony was exchanged between the conspirators. They knew that all the men mentioned in the warrants must be on their way to the meeting. Only by some peculiar chance had they had been so late.

As the prisoners were conducted down the stairs, Mrs. Bond came out on the first landing, followed by a maid with a service of coffee prepared for the meeting. Mr. Swan pushed her against the wall roughly.

‘Stand aside, ma’am.’

‘Oliver.’ She looked frantically for her husband among the crowd.

‘May I speak to my wife?’ The young man resisted the two police who hurried him forward

‘No, you may not. The charge is high treason.’

‘Don’t struggle,’ whispered Mr. Byrne to his companion. With a fierce effort Mr. Bond controlled himself, but, as he saw his wife jostled by the police and himself brutally torn away from her, he realised the awful situation — his utter ruin — high treason — the rope.

‘Where are you taking us?’ he demanded, as he was dragged from his own front door.

‘To Newgate —’

‘The prison for common criminals!’

‘That will not demean us, but those who put us there,’ said Mr. Byrne.

Mr. Bannan exclaimed: ‘God strike the traitor!’

But the prisoners forgot the unexpected cruelty of their own fate in their relief on finding that, as they left the house there was no sign of their friends. Either by chance, or through some warning they had not come to the meeting. Mrs. Bond remained at the top of the first flight of stairs, gazing down into the street, through the door that the police had left open. She neither moved nor spoke. As the trembling maid set the coffee service down she had overturned the pot, and a stream of brown liquid, unheeded by either of the women, trickled down the empty stairs.