The Rebels of Ireland (36 page)

During this period, the Catholic forces of Sir Phelim O'Neill were laying siege, without much success, to the port of Drogheda, fifty miles up the coast from Dublin. The Justices in Dublin, meanwhile, were still taking Depositions from anyone who could give them evidence of who was behind the original plot. Informers were coming forward regularly, though it was hard to know how much of their evidence was true and how much invented. In the last week of November, the Dublin administrators did manage to send out a force of six hundred poorly trained troops to relieve Drogheda. Two days later, however, the news came back: “The Catholic rebels have smashed them.”

It was time for the Justices in Dublin to take more serious measures.

It was at this juncture that Tidy's wife witnessed a curious meeting. She was taking Doctor Pincher to visit a family lodged in Dame Street when they saw Father Lawrence Walsh coming towards them. She expected the two men to ignore each other; but after the triumph of his recent sermon, Doctor Pincher was in no mood to avoid anyone. He began to reprimand the Jesuit from ten paces.

“I am surprised, Priest, that you show your face in the street after the evil that you papists have done,” he cried.

“I do not condone the killing of innocents,” Father Lawrence calmly replied. But Pincher took no notice.

“O'Neill and his friends are traitors. They'll pay with their lives,” he announced grimly. “And you, too, Priest. You, too.”

“Yet I hear,” Father Lawrence mused, “that Sir Phelim is acting with the king's support.”

Nothing about the Ulster rebellion was more infuriating to the Protestants than this. Partly to confuse the opposition, and partly to induce the loyal Old English Catholics to join him, Sir Phelim had announced that he was acting on the king's behalf. He had also produced a written commission to prove it. The document was a forgery, as it happened. But was the king capable of using this Catholic army against his own Protestant Parliament? Nothing was more likely, in Doctor Pincher's estimation. He gave Father Lawrence a look of pure hatred.

“Do not imagine that I am ignorant, Priest,” he answered bitterly. “All over Europe you papists have been planning this for years. You would convert or kill us all.”

Father Lawrence regarded him dispassionately. In a sense, what Pincher said was partly true. Holy Church meant to recover Christendom. For a generation and more, brave souls in Ireland, many educated on the continent, had patiently awaited the chance of deliverance. Outside Ireland's shores, Irish soldiers in Europe's Catholic armies, the huge network of priests and friars, and watchful Catholic rulers had all looked for an opportunity. Over the years, Father Lawrence could remember a dozen hopeful plots and plans, some plausible, some absurd. To his certain knowledge, the plan to take Dublin Castle had originated on the continent. But in his own estimation, none of these dreams, and none of the vague promises of help from overseas would ever materialize until there was a Catholic army with a proper organization and plan, on the ground, in Ireland itself. That was why, the moment he had received hints of what Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire were planning, he had shown such an interest. For the first time, it had seemed to him, there might be a realistic chance.

Faced with Pincher's accusation, however, he gave no ground at all.

“I am surprised at what you say,” he replied blandly. “For as far as I can see, Sir Phelim O'Neill, who proclaims his loyalty to the king, asks only for a promise that the lands of loyal Catholics will not be stolen and that the Graces, granted long ago, should be honoured. True, he has occupied Ulster to force the government's hand. But where did he learn that trick—if not from your own friends the Scottish Covenanters?” There was nothing that Pincher could say to this. It was well known that Sir Phelim had already stated, “It was those Scots who taught us our ABC?” And Father Lawrence could not resist gently asking: “Or would you call the Covenanters traitors, too?”

Pincher could only scowl. But he was not going to let the Jesuit get the better of him.

“I know a traitor when I see one, Priest, and I see one now. No doubt your brother is another. Your whole family is a nest of vipers. But be assured, it will be crushed underfoot.”

Father Lawrence turned. There was no point in continuing the conversation.

After he had gone, Pincher stared after him with loathing. And the doctor had almost forgotten Tidy's wife, when he heard her voice beside him: “I know the Jesuit is wicked, Sir, but I am sorry all the family are traitors.” Pincher glanced down at her and saw there was no trace of irony in her words.

“There can be no truth in a papist,” he muttered irritably.

Any day now. It would be any day. For Orlando Walsh, awaiting the birth of his child, his house was now a private haven—specially blessed, and quite apart from the angry sounds of the world, which seemed far away, almost unreal, and hardly important anymore.

There had been no difficulty with the pregnancy, no alarms. His wife was healthy, and he had no doubt the child would be born healthy, too. Had he, once or twice, wondered whether the baby might not turn out like little Daniel? Not really. Whatever God
gave, he would accept it gratefully. But in his own mind he was sure that, after so many years of faithful waiting, God's gift to him would be perfect in every way.

“If it's a girl, I think we should call her Donata,” he said to Mary. Donata: the one given. “And Donatus if it's a boy,” she said, to which he readily agreed.

At the start of December, several small Catholic foraging parties raided Protestant farms in Fingal. They wanted provisions, but when some of the farmers resisted, there were some scuffles and a few people were hurt. At Orlando's estate, however, everything was quiet.

On the second day, a man he knew slightly from Swords came by with a message. “We've got to defend ourselves, Orlando Walsh,” he announced. “The men in Dublin won't do anything for us.” It was true that during the whole of the last month, the men in Dublin Castle had ignored most of the Fingal gentry. Orlando hadn't been surprised. He knew the mentality of the government's Protestant servants. “We're Catholic, so they don't really trust us,” he mildly remarked. “That's all it is.”

“And they can't defend us, either,” the man from Swords declared. “Or won't. The only force the government has sent out so far was smashed. We can expect nothing from that quarter, and we've farms to protect. That's why you have to come with us.” A party of gentlemen from the area were planning, he told him, to meet with some of Sir Phelim's men. Given his wife's condition, Orlando explained, he couldn't come; but he agreed that the parley was probably sensible. “With luck, as we're mostly Catholic, Phelim O'Neill and his troops will agree to leave us in peace,” he told Mary.

On the third day of December, he received a summons from the Justices in Dublin. It seemed that they were taking an interest in the Fingal landowners after all.

“They're calling us all to meet in Dublin,” he told Mary. “In five days' time.” He saw the anxious look on her face. “I shan't go if the baby's not born,” he promised, and saw her look of relief. He wasn't
inclined to go anyway. He had no wish to be involved in their military operations, either, if he could avoid it.

It was midafternoon on the fourth day when Doyle arrived. He was looking grim.

“You must both come to Dublin at once,” the merchant told him.

“Mary can't travel in her condition, and I don't want to leave the estate when everything is so uncertain,” Orlando explained. But Doyle shook his head.

“You don't understand the mood in Dublin,” he declared. “The castle men are in a state of panic, and the city's being stirred up by men like Pincher.” And when Orlando mentioned that he knew some of the Fingal gentry had gone to meet Phelim O'Neill's men up at Tara, Doyle almost exploded. “No, you don't know. You know nothing, Orlando. Do you hear? The very fact,” he went on more quietly, “that they came to you at all places you under suspicion.” Orlando had received a short letter from Lawrence describing his passage of words with Pincher, but until now he had not supposed that the old man's threats and talk of treason should be taken so seriously. “Come to Dublin,” Doyle urged him, “and prove your loyalty. Otherwise you will be under suspicion.” It annoyed Orlando that anyone would seriously question his loyalty, but he still didn't see that he could leave at present.

“Tell the Justices,” he replied, “that I shall come to the meeting in Dublin if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

“I shall tell them,” answered his kinsman, “and I pray that the child comes in time.”

The next morning, the gentleman from Swords came again. He was in a hurry and did not even dismount. “It's been agreed,” he cried. “We're joining with Phelim O'Neill.”

“In rebellion?”

“Not at all. That's just the point. Every Catholic gentleman in Ireland will come together in a grand league and proclaim our loyalty to the king. There's to be a big meeting at Swords on the eighth
of December, three days from now. I'm going round every estate in the area to spread the word. Mind you're there.”

“But that's the same day we're all supposed to be in Dublin,” Orlando objected.

“You can ignore the damned Protestants in Dublin,” the Swords man cried impatiently. “Stick with your own.”

“I shall come,” Orlando told him also, “if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

“And what,” Mary asked him when he told her afterwards, “if the baby has come before then?”

“I shall go to neither meeting,” Orlando said quietly. It seemed to him the safest thing to do.

Two days later, a servant arrived from Doyle with a letter begging him to come to Dublin at once, without delay. He did not go. That night, Mary went into labour.

The next day, the eighth of December, early in the morning, the child was born. It was healthy, and it was a boy. They called him Donatus.