The Rebels of Ireland (56 page)

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the Presbyterians of Ulster had been leaving. Being intrepid Scots, whole families would often go together, so that thriving colonies of Ulster Presbyterians had sprung into existence in the New World with remarkable speed—colonies where a new arrival like Samuel Law would find a ready welcome in a godly congregation.

Not that the Law brothers were blind to the other reasons for going. They were businessmen, after all. “Land is to be had cheaply in America,” Samuel had pointed out. “The opportunities for trade are sure to grow.” They had also discussed where he should go. Many families they knew had settled in New England, others in Delaware, New York, or even down as far as southern Carolina. There were Ulster settlers all the way down the Eastern Seaboard. But Samuel had expressed a preference for Philadelphia.

“You are still determined upon Philadelphia?” John now enquired. He had not entirely approved of Samuel's choice, objecting: “The place is run by Quakers.”

“There are Presbyterians there,” Samuel reminded him.

Henry decided to come to his aid.

“Philadelphia is a good choice,” he agreed. “It has a fine future. The city has many attractions.” It had not escaped Henry's notice that a family they knew who had emigrated there some months before had a very pretty daughter. And he gave his younger brother a wink that their brother John failed to see. “But I shall miss you,” he added. “And if you ever change your mind and return, I shall rejoice to have you back again.”

Samuel grinned. If he secretly preferred Henry to their older brother John, it was understandable. As tall as his brother, Henry had thick brown, wavy hair and was always judged to be the most handsome of the three. He was the athlete, too. Hardly any of the young men in Belfast could keep up with him in a race. Though he worked just as hard as John, Henry was easygoing. Yet he was also
more adventurous. The women all liked him. Samuel knew a dozen girls who'd be glad to marry Henry, and several times he'd thought his brother was going to choose one of them; but it had seemed to Samuel that something was holding Henry back. It was as if his brother had a plan—no one knew what it was—but something that he meant to accomplish before he settled down.

“With the two of you here, I'm not really needed,” Samuel remarked. “But once I'm established in Philadelphia, I hope we may conduct business together across the Atlantic.”

Henry nodded. Though Samuel did not know it, he and John had already agreed to stake him by sending him a shipload of free goods. As for the business in Ireland, it was true that he and John made a formidable pair. They both knew every aspect of the linen trade, but in recent years John had attended to the supply and manufacture, and Henry to the selling, which reflected their particular talents. If Samuel wants to trade in other commodities, Henry thought, it'll be me that sees the opportunity, and John who'll need persuading.

“I must return to my lodgings soon,” said Samuel. “It's amazing how much there is to do before I leave.”

“Let us pray together, then,” said John Law, “for God's blessing upon your journey, and all that you may undertake.”

And so, with quiet affection, the three brothers prayed together for a little while, as they had always been taught to do.

After Samuel had gone, Henry remained with his brother.

It was quiet. Neither man spoke for a time. Henry watched his brother thoughtfully. Though John never showed his emotions, it was clear that he was melancholy. Perhaps he had been secretly hoping that Samuel would not go. Henry had never been in any doubt that Samuel was leaving, but you never knew with John. He stayed awhile, therefore, to keep him company.

And for another reason, also.

He had been wondering all day whether to give his brother the other piece of unwelcome news, or whether to wait. On balance, he thought it was kinder to let him absorb all the bad news at once.

“We shall have to consider how best to carry on the business when Sam is gone,” he said at last.

“Yes.” John nodded.

“I believe Dublin will be important for us.”

The linen trade had been growing rapidly not only in Ulster, but down in Leinster also. The new Linen Hall in Dublin was already a thriving centre of the trade, and in recent months Henry had made a number of visits to the capital. “There is even more linen being shipped out of Dublin nowadays than out of Belfast,” he had reported. “I think we should have a second business down in Dublin as well,” he now continued. “You have everything so well in hand here, John, that you scarcely have need of me; but if I went down there, we could greatly expand our affairs.”

Since all this was entirely true, there was no need to say that, without the presence of Samuel to act as a buffer between them, Henry would have found his brother's solemn and sometimes over-bearing presence too difficult to live with.

“So you, too, are leaving me.” John nodded slowly.

“Not leaving, John.”

“There is much truth in what you say,” John continued quietly. “I don't deny it.” It was clear that he was not deceived. He knew very well that, behind his brother's genial charm, there was also an ambitious mind, just as ruthlessly determined as he was, and who would find it irksome to take orders from an elder brother. He knew he should not be hurt. “I should come to Dublin to help you set up the manufacture,” he could not help adding.

“Ah.” Realising the hint of reluctance in his own voice, Henry added quickly: “There is no man who could give me better advice, John, in all Ireland.”

“It will be strange not to have you here,” John said sadly.

“Dublin is not far from Belfast. I shall be coming back and forth all the time.”

“There is another consideration.” John's voice showed his concern. “It is easier by far to be a Presbyterian in Ulster than it is in Dublin. Here we are many, and strong, whereas in Dublin…” He looked at Henry searchingly. “It will be hard for you, Brother.”

Henry returned his gaze evenly. He had given this part of the matter much thought. He gave him a reassuring smile.

“I shall be in God's hands,” he said.

It wasn't exactly a lie.

It was Tidy who saw them coming down the lane. He recognised Walsh at once. Fortunatus was riding a handsome chestnut gelding and leading a packhorse. He wore a long coat and a battered old three-cornered hat. But you could see at once, thought Tidy, that he was a gentleman.

Of all the seventeen living grandchildren of Faithful Tidy, Isaac Tidy was one of the poorest. He was short, with oily, crinkly yellow hair, and he stooped forward. But he had his standards. As a youth he had tried several occupations. He had worked for a printer, for he could read and write, but he had disliked the long hours of drudgery and the smell of printer's ink. He had looked for a position as a verger or sexton in a church. And it was while doing so that he had encountered no less a personage than the Dean of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, who had taken him on as his manservant. The position, it might be thought, was somewhat menial for a man whose grandfather, he quietly let you know, had been Chapter Clerk of Christ Church. “I would not have done it,” he told his family, “for any other man.” Nobody in Dublin would have denied that Dean Jonathan Swift was a man of quite particular stature. And so completely did Tidy identify with his master and his exalted position, so indispensable did he make himself, and so well aware was
everybody of his own, not-to-be-sneezed-at ancestry, that when even the junior clergy addressed him as Mr. Tidy, he took it as no more than his due. And if there was one thing Isaac Tidy liked, it was a gentleman.

For Irish society, as far as Tidy was concerned, was divided into two, and only two, classes. There was “the quality,” or “the gintry,” as he, like many Irishmen, pronounced it; and there was the rest. This single line of demarcation, as mighty and defensive as the Great Wall of China, crossed many social terrains. Dean Swift, a man of birth and education, was gintry, and Tidy wouldn't have served him his claret otherwise. Fortunatus Walsh, the Old English, Protestant member of the Dublin Parliament, with his Fingal estate, was also, obviously, gintry, and so, therefore, was his brother Terence the doctor, despite being a papist. Indeed, even a native Irish Catholic, so long as he was a landowner, or a man of wealth with some plausible claim to princely ancestry, might qualify. But most people you met in the street did not.

He could always tell. He himself didn't always know how he did it. But Tidy usually needed only a few seconds, or at most a minute or two, with any man to sniff him out. And if that man was putting on airs and graces, but he didn't really belong to the gintry, Tidy would know it. He'd be civil enough, usually; he mightn't say anything. But he'd let that man know by subtle means that, even if the Duke of Ormond or the Lord Lieutenant had taken him for a gentleman, he, Isaac Tidy, knew him for the impostor he really was. Under his seemingly subservient gaze, even the boldest intruder began to feel awkward.

As the new arrivals approached Quilca now, Tidy's attention was fixed upon the dark-haired young man who was riding beside Fortunatus. His clothes were carelessly worn. You couldn't tell by that, though. He also was wearing an old three-cornered hat. But where did he get it? Was it his own, or had Fortunatus lent it to him? The strangest thing, though, was that while Fortunatus looked perfectly happy, this young man appeared to be paying him no attention at
all. For while his horse walked beside Walsh's, he himself was busy reading a book. Now, would a member of the gintry do that? For once, Tidy wasn't sure.

As they came to Quilca, Fortunatus felt rather pleased with himself. He knew very well that, before going to France, Terence had impressed upon young Smith the need to behave himself. But it had been a stroke of genius on his own part, he considered, to keep the young man occupied with a book.

Having discovered that Garret was not yet acquainted with them, he had brought two small volumes from his own collection of the plays of Shakespeare, thinking that if the young man got bored during his time at Quilca, nobody in that household would be offended if he sat down in a corner to read. Garret, however, had begun the process a little earlier than he had intended. They had ridden quietly enough on the first day of their journey; but when they had stopped at an inn last night and sat down for supper, Garret, after allowing Fortunatus to engage him in conversation for a while, had not considered it necessary to continue their talk, but had taken out
King Lear
and proceeded to read it for the rest of the meal, remarking only at the end of that silent repast, “This is very good, you know.”

He had finished it that night. This morning he had enquired if there would be books at Quilca, and when Walsh had answered, “Undoubtedly,” he had nodded, then taken out and proceeded to read that play during their journey. He had just come to the end of the third act when they arrived.