The Rebels of Ireland (50 page)

From Meath he passed into Kildare. The Deposition, after all, had made mention of Kildare. Again, he conducted his search in the same manner, for another two weeks. But in Kildare, he could find nothing at all.

There remained, however, an obvious possibility. There had been so much movement of people since the Deposition was made. In particular, almost every faithful gentry family had been transplanted into Connacht. From Kildare, therefore, he went westwards, and searched out any old Kildare families who might have been sent there. This was a larger and more difficult task; but he was a man on a mission, and the further he went, the more determined he became not to give up.

It was a distressing experience: to travel from farm to farm, even
cottage to cottage, and see the ancient Catholic families reduced to poverty after the Transplanting. Many of them hoped that with the new Catholic Parliament, they might be restored to their former estates. Maurice hoped and prayed that it might be so. But none of them had any knowledge of the Staff. Week after week passed. Only when he had used all the money he had brought with him did he leave off his quest and return to his home, with the promise to himself that he would resume his search again, as soon as he could.

It was on a day early in July that he came over the pass in the Wicklow Mountains and descended towards the old house at Rathconan that he loved so well.

He was somewhat surprised, as he came towards the door, to see that he had a visitor. As a horse was tethered by the doorway, it was clear that the visitor must have arrived only just before him, coming up from the opposite direction. His wife was standing by the new arrival. So was his son, Thomas. They were looking at him strangely. He rode up and dismounted.

The visitor was a tall, dark-haired, handsome man. He had the air of a military captain. He was middle-aged, perhaps a decade younger than himself, but he looked fit and athletic. He gazed at Maurice, then moved towards him.

“So you are Mwirish, the son of Walter Smith?”

“That is so.”

“I am Xavier O'Byrne. The son of Brian O'Byrne. I just came up to look at the place,” he indicated the house and the land of Rathconan, “now that it's to be returned to me.” He smiled. “I was about to ask your family here: where will you be going to live yourself?”

Maurice was to learn stranger things than that, as he sat at table with O'Byrne that evening. So engrossed had he been in his quest that he had hardly bothered to follow the detailed deliberations of the Dublin Parliament. He had known that land might be restored to those transplanted, but he was not aware of the mechanism by
which such a thing might be accomplished. And to tell the truth, he had never thought of the O'Byrnes.

“King James is against the whole business,” O'Byrne explained, “because he fears that it will stir up too much trouble, but the Catholic gentlemen in the Parliament are absolutely determined. They want all the lands confiscated and given to Protestants by Cromwell to be returned to their owners. Including those who left the country, if they wish to return. So you see, that includes Rathconan.”

“But I am Catholic, and I bought the estate,” Maurice pointed out.

“You are one of many. But you bought it from Budge, you see, who should never have had it in the first place.” He smiled. “You aren't alone. There are numerous people in your position, and the latest idea is to pay compensation. There are quite a few Protestants who sent aid to King William when he came to England. Their lands will be taken, and you'll be paid out of that.”

“But I love Rathconan.”

“I'm glad to hear it. But my own family have been here for centuries.”

Maurice sighed. He couldn't deny the justice of what O'Byrne said; but he wished it were otherwise.

“Nothing will happen for a long while,” O'Byrne assured him. “The Parliament men will go on arguing about it for years, I dare say. And besides, we haven't secured Ireland yet.”

When he discussed the military situation, O'Byrne was both interesting and cynical. “I am a soldier of fortune, Mwirish,” he declared. “I look upon these things with a cold eye. The Irish troops that Tyrconnell has raised—and he has thousands of them—are poorly armed. Some of them haven't even got pikes. They've no training. Brave as lions, of course: it makes me proud to be Irish. But useless. There are Irish officers like myself, men whose families fled Ireland long ago, and who've come back to see what they can get. We train them as best we can. French troops are coming, too. They'll be tough professional soldiers. But if King Billie comes over,
he'll bring an army that's fought in every major campaign in Europe.” He sucked on his teeth. “Most of your boys have never seen anything like that.”

“Will he come?”

“That's the question.” O'Byrne shook his head. “I don't know. So far he doesn't seem to want to. That has to be the hope—that he'll leave King James to keep Ireland. It's a family business: James is his father-in-law, after all; and they were always on friendly terms as long as William and Mary were to inherit England. Perhaps they can come to a new agreement.” He paused to reflect. “Mind you, whether the English Parliament could live with a Catholic Ireland on its doorstep I'm not so sure.”

“At least we have secured Ireland itself,” Maurice said.

“Probably, Mwirish. Probably. Those Protestant boys up in Ulster are still waiting for King Billie. It's a powder keg up there, in my opinion. And you know, we still haven't taken Derry.” It was one of the most remarkable features of that summer. The obstinate defenders of Derry had closed their gates and refused to surrender to James's forces. They'd been trapped and blockaded inside their walls since April, but they still hadn't given up. “They must be eating the rats by now,” said O'Byrne, with a soldier's admiration. “And even when the place does fall, it's very difficult to subdue people like that.”

But the real surprise for Maurice Smith came when they turned to family matters. He had already ascertained that his old friend Brian O'Byrne had passed away—on a campaign, he'd learned, fighting for the King of France. It was only late in the evening, when he remarked sadly that he'd never known what had become of his own father, that O'Byrne said: “After he fought at Rathmines, you mean?”

“Rathmines? My father was never at the Battle of Rathmines.”

“Oh, but he was,” answered O'Byrne. “My father was with him and he told me the whole business.” And he related all that had passed. “He was no soldier, you know,” O'Byrne added with a smile. “But he fought like a hero, my father said. He never knew for cer
tain, but my father always wondered if he'd gone up to Drogheda, and perished there.”

For some moments Maurice digested this extraordinary piece of news. Then, suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for his vanished father, he felt his eyes fill with tears, and had to look away. “I had no idea he would do such a thing,” he said at last.

“He was a true Irishman,” O'Byrne said quietly.

Then Maurice told him about the Staff of Saint Patrick.

For Donatus Walsh, the autumn and winter of 1689 was a trying time. To everyone's astonishment, Derry had not only held out; late in the summer it had been relieved. To the Protestants of Ulster it was an inspiration; to King James, a bitter blow. Despite the fact that he was a Catholic King on a Catholic island, it showed his enemies that he could be beaten.

Not that King William had fared so much better. He sent over his long-time commander General Schomberg. But instead of sweeping down towards Dublin, the old veteran got stuck up near the Ulster border. Many of his men fell sick during the cold and damp of the Irish winter. The months that followed were, for the most part, a grim stalemate.

Grim for the troops, grim for the people. The winter was cold. The Irish, determined to do nothing to support the English across the water, gave orders that all English imports, including the usual coal for heating the houses of Dublin, should be turned back. They needn't have bothered. The English didn't send any. Shortly before Christmas, Donatus tore down two of the hedges on the estate, to provide fuel for his people. At the start of the new year, going into Dublin, he discovered that half the wooden posts and railings in the city had already been taken for firewood.

He saw Maurice Smith several times. His cousin also introduced him to O'Byrne. Nothing was being done about the land settlement for the time being, and it seemed that, whatever the outcome, the
two men were quite resolved to remain friends. As for Donatus, he was intrigued to meet the soldier of fortune, and enjoyed the soldier's clever, worldly mind. As for the news that the soldier had brought to Maurice of his vanished father, it seemed to have had a strange effect. The solid, punctilious merchant of whom Donatus had always heard, evidently was a far more romantic soul than anyone had realised. Maurice never said so, but Donatus was sure that his cousin felt a new sense of closeness to the parent he had lost. There was a look of peace and joy in his eye when he spoke of Walter now. And Donatus was glad that Maurice should have found such a wellspring of unexpected emotion in the latter half of his life. If anything, the knowledge that his father had sacrificed himself for the Catholic cause seemed to have made Maurice more determined than ever to pursue his quest for the Staff. He spoke of returning to Connacht again in the spring.

But the military stalemate could not go on forever. By February, the rumour was that William, having given up on General Schomberg, might be coming over himself. In March, a force of several thousand Danish soldiers, hired from the King of Denmark, were landed in Ulster. “The Vikings are being used against us again,” the Catholics of Dublin complained. Yet in a way, the forces sent to help them by the King of France were almost as bad. In the first place, they marched into Dublin with every sign of arrogance and contempt for the Dubliners. And they had no sooner arrived than another discovery was made. Several thousand of the mercenaries were Protestants!

Through the month of April, English, Dutch, and German troops were starting to arrive in the north. One of William's naval commanders even made a cheeky raid into Dublin Bay and took away one of James's ships. One way or the other, it seemed to Donatus that matters must come to a head that summer.

Only one piece of cheerful news came during this time. A little before Easter, Donatus learned from his wife that she was pregnant again.

The priest came to his door one day in the middle of May. He was an old man. The cloak he had wrapped around him was spattered with mud and torn in several places; but his blue eyes were keen.

“You were inquiring about the Staff?” In fact, during the winter, Donatus had not been inactive. It had occurred to him to write to the several Irish colleges on the continent, explaining the recently found authentication and asking whether they had any news concerning the Staff. So far, the replies he had received had been courteous and evinced every sign of interest; but sadly there had been no positive news. One never knew, however, what further conversations such an enquiry might provoke in the great Irish Catholic network of the European world. And it seemed that just such a thing had now occurred. “I had a letter,” the priest said, “from a dear friend in Douai. So as I was passing through Dublin on my way overseas, I thought to call upon you.”