The Patriot's Fate

The Patriot’s Fate

by

Alaric Bond
 

For Lyla Mollie, with love.

Fireship Press

www.fireshippress.com

The Patriot’s Fate by Alaric Bond
 

Copyright © 2012 Alaric Bond
 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN:13-
 
978-161179-238-6
 
Paperback

               
978-1-61179-239-3
 
eBook

BISAC Subject Headings:

FIC014000FICTION / Historical

FIC032000FICTION / War & Military

Cover Design By Christine Horner

This media Cover file is in the public domain in the United States This applies to U.S. works where the copyright has expired, often because its first publication occurred prior to January 1, 1923.

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Poem

Who fears to speak of Ninety Eight?

Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot’s fate

Who hangs his head for shame?

“The Memory of the Dead” –
John Kells Ingram.
 

Chapter One

It had been a simple meal of boiled pork, onions and potatoes and, now that they were finished, Crowley sensed no one would feel the need for anything further. He took a pull from his tankard as his gaze roved around his four companions. Three he had known for many years and considered friends, even if they had been strangely distant that evening. Each had an odd, almost preoccupied, air that was quite alien, and none were drinking anything stronger than water.

“I think you would notice a few changes, were you to be there,” the stranger, Liam Walsh, began to speak again. This was the fresh faced young man he had been brought to meet, and Crowley had long ago decided there were far too many words in his head. “Things have altered in many ways, and not all for the good.”

“Aye, that’s right, an’ all,” Doyle agreed. Patrick Doyle, the red haired southerner, was probably Crowley’s oldest friend, even if they had not met for three years or more. He was known for his lively wit, evil humour, and a steady hand with a bodhrán. And as a seamen he could be counted on: there had been times when Crowley had trusted him with his very life and had never in any way doubted his ability or judgement. But now the man was oddly subdued, as if he had finally encountered a problem that could not be solved, tolerated, or avoided.

“Back in April the British introduced free quarters,” Walsh continued. “All of Queens County had troops billeted upon them. Within two days British soldiers had seized most of our arms and ammunition. Weapons we had been saving like misers were taken off us, an’ anyone who had the nerve to object was not seen no more.”

The others nodded in silent agreement.

“And I expect you will realise that the very army who persecutes us so costs more’n three million pounds a year; close on half the Irish revenue: we’ll be lucky if it don’t bankrupt the country it pretends to protect.”

“Yet support for the cause has never been stronger,” Doyle added. “Wherever you go brothers have been cutting down trees to make their own pike handles, and near on every blacksmith’s working all hours to forge the heads.”

“They can torment us all they wish, but they won’t break our spirit,” MacArthur said, a little pompously, Crowley thought, “and we will fight with our bare hands if we needs to.”

“Indeed, we now amount to over three hundred thousand,” the young man had started again. “That outnumbers the military by more than five to one. And despite everything, we still have weapons,” he assured them.

“You make a strong case,” Crowley agreed, reaching for his pot once more. “And I cannot say that I am against you.”

“Yet still you will not join us, Michael?” Doyle’s tone was mildly accusative.

“This is not the man who sailed with the fleet in ‘ninety six,” Doherty spoke for the first time. “Are you really so set under King George’s belt?”

Crowley replaced his tankard without having drunk. “It is not the crown, or him that wears it that I care for,” he said. “I have no love for either; you should know better than that.”

“For the last few years you have been serving in a King’s ship.” Doyle said pointedly.

“That is true, but I swore no allegiance, and neither would I ever.”

“Then there is nothing to stop you from joining with us again,” MacArthur’s words hung open, and there was a silence that no one felt able to break. Crowley fiddled with the handle of his tankard, suddenly unable to raise his eyes to meet those of his fellow countrymen.

“It is a hard task to explain,” he said finally, his fingers rubbing up and down the dark pewter. “Most of you know me of old, and know that I have never left a friend in need.”

There was a brief exchange of glances amongst the others, but no one said a word. Crowley continued.

“Indeed, those I trust are very important to me, which is why I feel unable to join in your game.”

“It is hardly play, Michael,” Doyle murmured softly.

“Aye, that’s as maybe,” Crowley replied, “and sure, I can see a time when it might be anything but. Still, there are others I must consider: others who have seen me right in the past, and I will not let down.” He raised his eyes to meet theirs. “And yes, some of them may be British, but that does not make them the worst, not in my mind at least.”

The four men shuffled uncomfortably, but Crowley had begun now, and was going to finish.

“You can hate a country, despise its ways, and begrudge a history of wrongdoing. But that may be the work of a few, not all. I have found there to be good amongst the British, and that good is at least in equal measure to the bad.”

A silence lasted for several seconds before Doyle asked, “If you are not with us, are you then against us?”

Crowley’s expression relaxed, and a few instinctively smiled in return. “No, I will not fight you, lads. Indeed, you shall carry my heart wherever you go. But I have been on one venture such as yours, and it failed. A powerful fleet, an army of men, and we were to set Ireland ablaze, as I recall.”

“It wasn’t the British that defeated us then,” Doyle reminded him. “It were the weather.”

“Worst gales we have known, and just at the wrong time.” Doherty shook his head at the memory.

“Aye, an’ who would have been expecting storms in the middle of winter?” Crowley asked lightly, although this time no one met his look, and he continued in a more serious vein. “No, you are right, the British got off easy. But since then I have grown to know them better, and they are not all the stuck up fools we take them for. Some certainly know of the soft spot in their belly that is Ireland, and because they do, no plan for a French landing can be successful; they cannot afford it to be, for that would truly finish them.”

The young man went to speak, but Crowley was not to be put off.

“And if they cannot allow for such a thing, it will not happen; they are a determined race, you must see that. All you may expect is misery and murder; families will be torn asunder, and the country’ll end deeper in the mire than at any time in its history.”

“The French are to support us, they will help form a republic,” Doyle said.

“Aye, like in Holland, and Italy, and Switzerland,” the young man confirmed.

“I have seen the Dutch,” Crowley’s voice was soft, but clear. “Indeed, I have fought and defeated them. And I know they are no happier being under French domination than we would be.”

“But if you were to choose between a French master, and an English?” The young man asked, his tone verging on the incredulous.

“Then I would choose the latter,” Crowley said simply.

* * *

Thomas King bounded up the stone steps outside the Keppel’s Head and pushed through the double doors. A slight, grey haired man was dozing behind the counter, but the lieutenant paid him no attention as he made for the upstairs room that Kate and Robert Manning had been sharing for the past few weeks. He rapped sharply on the door, which was opened by Kate wearing a long flannel dressing gown and with her hair already in papers. King took a small step back; her eyes stood out: red rimmed against a face that was uncommonly pale. He knew that her pregnancy was not progressing well, and he felt clumsy and strangely out of place in his watch coat, with the scent of the evening air all about him.
 

“Is it a bad time to call?” he asked.

“Indeed not, Tom; you are welcome. And I am far better than this morning.”

“That is good news indeed,” King replied awkwardly, entering the room. Robert was sitting at the small desk under the window and King felt mildly relieved at seeing his friend.

“What cheer, Tom?” Manning asked, turning and rising from his chair. “How was London? Did you meet with Sir Richard?”

“I did so,” King replied, unbuttoning his coat and handing it to Kate. “Though it is not good news, I fear. The ship will be many months more than thought; they cannot be certain of a date.”

“Will you take tea?” Kate asked.
 

King shook his head. “Thank you, no.” Actually, a cup of hot tea would have been very welcome, but he knew his friends were not exactly well-to-do since leaving the East India Company’s employ. In fact he wondered how they were able to maintain their current room, when the prospect of future employment was so poor. King had already moved from the hotel and found himself something a little less expensive. He brought his attention back to Manning. “Much of the fresh coppering has to be replaced; something about the preparation being poor, and fixings insufficient. The yard is taking responsibility, of course, but nothing can make up for the time lost.”