The Rebels of Ireland (105 page)

As his eyes took in Stephen Smith, he saw much that he did not like. A trace of carelessness in his dressing. He himself was always fastidious. An intelligent face, certainly, but not a university man. A pity. The earl had said that he was poor, and poverty, Dudley Doyle considered, was always a mistake. Also that he was amusing. But what were his verbal weapons? Were we speaking of a mere gift of utterance, the broad blade of humour, the vagaries of vulgar whimsy, thrown over a company like a gladiator's net? Or were we speaking of something with more politesse, the rapier of repartee, with which he himself was adept, quick, and deadly? It remained to be seen.

“You are an associate of Mr. O'Connell, I understand?” he said to Smith. “Do I take it, therefore, that you are a Whig?”

Since his astonishing election for Clare, fifteen years before, it was hard to imagine how Daniel O'Connell could have played his cards better. The English government had been so shocked by the result that it had promptly removed the right to vote from the forty-shilling freeholders, Catholic and Protestant alike, and raised the qualification so high that only the better sort of farmers—the more responsible element—could vote in future. But they had been forced to give way and let Catholics sit in Parliament. O'Connell,
hailed as the Liberator, had gained his main objective. And soon after that, when the liberal Whig party had come to power, O'Connell had seen his chance. Building up a large following of sixty Irish members, he had skilfully managed an alliance with the Whigs that had been fruitful. He charmed the Whig grandees in person; and leading his sixty followers to their aid in close votes, he made them very grateful to him. The Irish Catholics gained. “We'll do all for you that we can,” the government promised. A year after young Queen Victoria came to the throne, even the vexed question of tithes was finally resolved. Above all, the long decade of Whig government saw enlightened men sent out to govern Ireland: fine men like the Under Secretary, Thomas Drummond, who came to love the country and who never ceased to remind the Ascendancy landowners: “Property has rights, gentlemen, but it also has responsibilities.” A dozen years after his election, O'Connell could say that his compromise with the Whigs had produced real benefits.

Could he have done better? The cause of Repeal—the breaking away from Union with England—had been indefinitely postponed. It couldn't be denied. And some of his younger followers felt that the great Liberator had degenerated into a political deal-maker. “But since the government wasn't going to give us Repeal anyway,” he'd remarked to Stephen, “I think I did the right thing.”

“I am that noblest of beasts, Sir,” Stephen replied to Dudley Doyle with a wry smile. “I am a Catholic Whig.”

“For reform, but through Parliament? You are prepared to be patient?”

“I am a political animal. I abhor violence, just as O'Connell does. That is why,” he said with a sigh, “I have been his man for twenty years.”

“Then what, might I ask, do you intend to do now?” asked Doyle. “After Clontarf?”

Stephen shook his head.

“My life,” he answered sadly, “has reached a point of crisis.”

It was three years ago that the strategy had started to break down.
First Drummond had died, and the Irish had buried him with sorrow. Then the Whig government had fallen and the Tories had come in. What should O'Connell do now? Some of his young followers were certain—Young Ireland, they called themselves, and even had their own journal,
The Nation
. “It's time to fight for Repeal,” they declared, “by any and all means, if necessary.” The great Liberator wasn't ready to lose the movement he'd built up. He placed himself at their head, and this very year he had launched a campaign of huge rallies across Ireland. O'Connell's monster meetings were beyond anything seen before. Tens of thousands would come to hear the great Liberator speak. All over Leinster, Munster, and Connacht he went: Dublin and Wicklow, Waterford and Wexford, Cork, Sligo, and Mayo; to Ennis, where he had triumphed; even to the ancient royal site of Tara. “We will force the British government,” he cried, “to give us justice or our freedom.” But Britain's Tory government would not be moved. The monster meetings were to climax with the biggest rally of them all. It was to be held just outside Dublin, on the northern bank of the Liffey estuary, at Clontarf, where, eight centuries before, Ireland's heroic king, Brian Boru, had fought his final battle. The massed ranks of priests, the Repeal men with their banners were all prepared—most of the population of the capital would probably turn up. But the Tory government had had enough.

“Call off your meeting or face jail,” it told O'Connell.

It had been the terrible decision. Stephen had been at a meeting with O'Connell and a number of others when the matter was discussed. “We must operate within the law,” the Liberator had declared, “or we give up everything we stand for.” Stephen himself had agreed. “In politics,” he'd reminded everyone, “you can live to fight another day.” But not all the great man's followers had agreed, especially the Young Ireland men.

Two weeks ago, O'Connell had called the meeting off. Nobody knew what to do next. Some of the younger men spoke of revolution, which Stephen knew to be useless and mistaken. The movement was in shock. He himself had experienced a huge sense of
frustration. And he had been grateful indeed when, shortly afterwards, he had received an invitation from Mountwalsh to come and spend a few days down in Wexford. “It might,” his lordship had kindly suggested, “cheer you up.”

“A crossroads rather than a crisis, perhaps,” Dudley Doyle offered, not unkindly.

“The crossroads, I believe,” Stephen said, “is for Ireland rather than myself. For whatever good we have been able to do in these last dozen years is still so little, when you consider the problems that beset our country. The poverty is terrible.”

“Take some comfort, Stephen,” said William Mountwalsh. “Things here in Leinster are not so bad. And remember,” he added, “the war with Napoleon was very good for Ireland, because we sold the English so many provisions. When it ended, we were worried. The beef industry took a terrible knock. Yet look what happened,” he went on cheerfully. “Thanks to the new railways in England, we can send live cattle to every part of the market there, which we never could before. There are more people, so the price of grain has held. Our farmers do well. Speaking for myself, I've never done better.”

“I accept what you say for Wexford,” replied Stephen. “Though I can tell you that up in the mountains of Wicklow, my family and their neighbours live near subsistence. Last time I was up at Rathconan, I found twice the number of folk that I remember as a child, with miserable little potato patches dug right up onto the bare hillside, where nothing but sheep have ever been raised before. Some of the people are quite wretchedly poor.”

“That may be,” Dudley Doyle countered, “but consider the case of Ulster. The people there have small farms, but they are prosperous. They have the linen industry, and much else besides.”

“Ulster I scarcely know,” Stephen confessed. “O'Connell never goes there. The Presbyterians have become so strident of late that he'd hardly be welcome.” He paused. “But I was thinking of the west above all. Of Clare, Galway, Mayo. The situation there is terrible and getting worse.”

“Ah, the west. That is another matter,” Mountwalsh acknowledged.

“Isn't it a case of bad landlords?” asked Henrietta. “I mean, if the landlords were like William…”

“It would be better,” Stephen said politely, “but the problems are too big even for the best landlords to solve. I really don't know what's to be done.”

William glanced around the table. There was a fifth person there, who had not yet spoken during the present conversation. He turned to her now.

“And what does Miss Doyle think?”

It was strange that Dudley Doyle's eldest daughter was not married. Both her younger sisters were. She was handsome, and it was known that her father had settled three thousand pounds on her. She was twenty-five, with a calm and pleasant manner; her colouring was good, her brown eyes fine and intelligent. She smiled now.

“I leave those things to the men,” she said.

“Oh, so do I,” said Henrietta.

Doyle looked at his daughter curiously. Now why, he wondered, would she say that? Stephen also gave her a glance—polite, but just a little weary.

“I fear I disappoint you, Mr. Smith,” she said.

“Oh no, not at all,” he answered, though of course it was not true.

“The problem really,” said William Mountwalsh, “is that there are too many people for this island to support. The government estimates that we are well past eight million now. Farming methods, especially in the west, need much improvement. But it seems that Ireland is living proof of the theories of Malthus: that humans will always breed faster than the food supply increases. That is why we have always had wars down the ages.” Having brought the conversation back to life, as a good host should, he turned to Doyle. “You make a study of these things, Dudley. Tell us what is the answer.”

Doyle surveyed them all. He did not mind having an audience. He paused for a moment.

“The answer,” he said, with a faint smile of satisfaction, “is there is nothing wrong with Ireland at all.”

“Nothing wrong?' Stephen looked at him incredulously.

“Nothing,” said the economist. “And I am surprised, Mr. Smith, that you, as a Whig—which you say that you are—should think that there is.”

“Explain, Dudley,” said William with a broad smile, as he settled back in his chair.

“As a Whig,” Dudley Doyle addressed Stephen, rather as a lawyer in court addresses a witness before a jury, “you believe in free trade, do you not?”

“I do.”

“You do not think that governments should intervene, as the British government was once so fond of doing, to protect inefficient farmers and manufacturers with tariffs or restrictions on trade? You believe in the operation of the free market—that, over time, it is always best?”

“Certainly.”

“Then that is what we have. There is now an excess of people in Ireland. Very well. The result is that their labour is cheap. There is therefore an incentive for enterprising manufacturers to employ them.”

“That may happen in Ulster, but it does not happen in Clare. And the people go hungry.”

“I believe that eventually it will, but no matter. The hunger of the people is not a bad thing. It will drive them to seek work further afield. Do we not see that occurring?”

“Labourers from Clare take their spades and migrate for seasonal work as far as Leinster, or often England,” Stephen agreed.

“Excellent. Britain benefits thereby, for the cost of its labour is reduced and the Irishman is fed.”

“Many have to leave entirely, though,” Stephen said sadly, “forced to emigrate, to England or America.”

“Do you know,” interposed Mountwalsh, “that over a million
people have left this island during my own lifetime? About four hundred thousand in the last decade.”

“Splendid,” said Doyle, smiling at them both. “The whole world benefits thereby. There are too many people in Ireland? Well and good. America has need of them. A vast, rich continent in need of willing hands. They can do very well there. Indeed, without Ireland, what would America be? We must take a larger view, gentlemen. The temporary misery of the Irish peasant is a blessing in disguise. Do not interfere with the market, therefore. Thanks to the market, the whole world turns.”

“But the process is so cruel,” Stephen said.

“So is nature.”

There was a thoughtful pause.

“Isn't it fascinating to listen to them?” said Henrietta to Caroline Doyle. “I think it's time for the dessert.”

William was delighted when Caroline Doyle asked him to show her the library after dinner. It was he, after all, who'd suggested to Doyle that he should bring her. She admired the collection and found a few of her favourite books. Then she turned to him and smiled.

“Well, Lord Mountwalsh, I know you've asked me here to meet him. So what sort of man is Stephen Smith?”

“I suppose,” he answered truthfully, “that I wouldn't have asked you if it were easy to say.”

Her father had only agreed to the business because, as he freely confessed to the earl, he didn't know what to do with her. He might have an incisive mind himself, but though he admired his daughter's intelligence, he couldn't really see the point of it in a woman. It was certainly no help in getting married. “I must warn you,” he counselled her, “that men don't like too much intelligence in a woman. A man likes a woman with just enough intelligence to appreciate his own. If you wish to be more than that, you would be wise to hide it.” But though she agreed to do this—usually—she made a further
demand that was just as awkward. “She wants to find a man,” he told William, “who she thinks interesting. I told her, ‘Interesting men usually give their wives a lot of trouble.' But I'm not sure she believes me.”