The Rebels of Ireland (71 page)

The doctor was moving to his side now, but Fortunatus was trying to say that there was a person to whom he wanted to communicate something more. He was looking at Georgiana.

As she came to his side, he took her hand and gave it a faint but affectionate squeeze. He clearly wanted to say something, and was summoning the strength to do so. Finally, he seemed to be ready.

“One disappointment.” His voice was faint. She leant forward to hear him better. “One regret.”

She tensed, almost drew back. She realised, of course, that he must be disappointed in Hercules—in her son's blunt and brutal nature, so unlike Patrick's fineness. But this was not the moment to say it, and she wished that he would not.

He was gathering his strength again. He wanted to whisper something. She could not very well refuse. She leant down.

“I wish,” he whispered so that no one should hear, “that I could have been George.” And with a final effort, he managed to kiss her hand.

A flood of relief came over her so that she almost laughed. With great affection, she stooped again and kissed his cheek.

The doctor was gently but firmly pushing her to one side now. He was feeling the old man's pulse. Georgiana moved back to George's side. They all waited. Fortunatus suddenly started to sit up. His eyes opened very wide. Then he fell back, and they knew that it was over.

“What did he say to you?” George asked as they left the room.

“Nothing really,” she said.

“He was very fond of you.”

“Yes.”

Then, halfway down the stairs, she quite unexpectedly burst into tears.

It was several days later when the will of Fortunatus was read. The bulk of the estate, which was respectable though not large, passed to George, together with a letter recommending that, while he wished the old Fingal estate to remain in the senior male line, his son might, if he had no need of the money, distribute the excess to various members of the wider family. This, with Georgiana's entire agreement, George did at once. There were also some thoughtful personal remembrances for various people, including a ring for Georgiana and some handsome prints for Hercules.

But there was one other bequest: some property, worth about a fifth of the total, that was left free and clear to his nephew Patrick. No one had known of this, least of all Patrick himself. But as everyone knew of his affection for the young man, who had certainly received little enough from his own father, it certainly did not occur to anyone to complain about it.

Except Hercules.

Georgiana had seen her son irritated, cold, contemptuous, even brutal before; but she had never seen him like this, and she was glad that he had come to his father's house where only she was in the room to see it. He was beside himself with rage.

“How dare he leave those properties to Patrick?” he shouted. “They should have come to me.”

“But you have no need of them, Hercules,” she said gently. “The estate will come to you, and the fortune you're to inherit is huge.”

“Can you not see the principle of it?” he cried. “That is Walsh property. Ours.”

“It was his own to leave. And your cousin Patrick is a Walsh, anyway.”

“Of the cursed Catholic branch, may they rot in hell!” he bellowed. “If that damned papist takes it, then he's a thief.”

This was too much.

“You are jealous, Hercules, because of your grandfather's affection for Patrick. You would do better to hide it.”

But to her shocked surprise, he turned upon her now with a look of terrible coldness.

“You do not understand, Mother,” he said icily. “I have no interest in what my grandfather thought of me, and never had since I was a child. As for Patrick, I despise him. But anyone who takes property from me,” he went on in a deadly tone she had never heard before, “is my enemy. And I destroy my enemies. As for Grandfather, I never wish to hear his name again.”

“He left you some prints. You'll keep those, then, I dare say,” she retorted in some disgust.

He gave her a blank stare.

“I sold them this morning. Fifty guineas.”

Then, banging the door behind him, he walked out.

It was hard for her to feel the same affection for him after that, though, as his mother, she tried.

If Georgiana deplored her son's personal behaviour, there were times in the months that followed when she began to wonder whether some of his political views might even be justified.

The situation in Ireland was becoming increasingly tense. Despite the Patriots' success with the Catholic issue, nothing else had changed. The restrictions on Irish trade were still in place. While Grattan continued his blistering attacks in Parliament, his friend Napper Tandy was busy organising the tradesmen of Dublin: copying the American rebels, they were threatening to start refusing to buy English goods. “Pernicious rabble,” Hercules called them. But he had a more serious objection. “It's one thing for Grattan to attack us in Parliament,” he declared, “but he and Tandy don't seem
to care what other means they use. Next thing we shall have people rioting in the streets.”

Just as worrying was the problem of Ireland's defence. “France is now at war with Britain, and the best of our garrison troops have gone to America,” George pointed out. “If France should decide to invade us, we're practically defenceless.” Parliament had voted to raise a militia, but he wasn't impressed. “It's an empty gesture, since there isn't any money to pay for it.” There was talk of raising private volunteers. In Ulster, they were already starting.

Georgiana was looking out of her bedroom window early one Saturday morning when she saw them—a troop of about a hundred men, marching through Merrion Square. They wore an assortment of uniforms; some carried muskets, some only pikes. At their head rode an officer, and just behind him, proudly carrying a Saint George's flag, marched a young man whom she recognised as one of the Doyles. They were more or less in step and looking rather pleased with themselves.

It was only ten minutes later when Hercules arrived.

“Did you see the Volunteers?” he asked. “They came past my house, so I imagined they'd come down here.”

To her surprise, despite his feelings about Fortunatus, Hercules had recently moved into his grandfather's house. True, he had stripped out every reminder of the old man's occupancy, and painted and repapered every inch of the place. “It suits me to be on St. Stephen's Green,” he had explained, “and Kitty likes it.”

“They looked splendid,” she said.

“Splendid? They looked like damn trouble,” he retorted.

“But they're all good Protestants, ready to defend their country.” After all, the Volunteers had been springing up all over the island. Protestant townsmen and country gentry alike had rallied to the cause. Whatever else his views, no Protestant wanted to be invaded by the French.

“And did you notice who was carrying the colours in that little troop? One of the Doyles, who are all thick as thieves with Napper
Tandy. Don't you see?” he exclaimed impatiently. “It's Grattan's cursed Patriots—only now they're armed.”

Was it so? As it happened, she and George were dining at Leinster House that day. When they were talking with the duke before the meal, she asked him what he thought.

“I fear your son may be right,” he replied. “Personally, I doubt whether these Volunteers would be much use against trained French troops. But we can't very well prevent them forming. So I think we should tell them we're with them, and hope to control them as best we can.” He looked at George. “I hope I can count on your support, Mountwalsh.” The great aristocrat's aquiline features creased into a grin. “After all, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.”

A couple of months later, Hercules and Kitty had their first child. It was a son. Georgiana was the first one round to see the baby and congratulate the parents. Everything passed off well. She gazed at the baby for a long time.

“We shall call him William,” Hercules announced firmly. “After William of Orange.”

Only when she was safely home did Georgiana burst out laughing.

“I almost came out with it in front of Hercules,” she told her husband, “but thank heavens I didn't. You must see the baby's face.” For in their endless minuet, the family genes had apparently decided to show a sense of humour. “He looks exactly like Patrick.”

This happy domestic event could not distract Georgiana from the fact that life in Dublin was becoming quite alarming. Napper Tandy and his tradesmen were carrying out their threat and English goods were now being refused at the port. “The English cloth merchants are really feeling the pinch,” Doyle told her with glee. Many of the newspapers were supporting the action. The Volunteers were growing in numbers every week. They mostly had proper uniforms and insignia now, and they drilled with real purpose. They might be
there, in theory, to fight the French; but there was no doubt that many of them were Napper Tandy's men.

In the summer, Hercules made a brief visit to London. He returned looking sombre. He had met a number of political men, including Lord North, the Prime Minister.

“I never saw a man so miserable in office,” he reported. “He longs to retire and only stays because the king begs him. The American business weighs him down; half the Members of Parliament seem ready to cave in to the colonists, and it's only the king who remains firm. As for Ireland, he despairs of us. He confessed to me privately that he wonders if it mightn't be better to dispense with our Parliament and rule the island direct from Westminster. I can't say I blame him.” He shrugged. “There's no one in London with any backbone.”

Not long afterwards, he came round to see his parents, this time in a furious temper. He was holding a paper in his hand.

“Have you seen this?” he cried. It was a pamphlet. The author was recommending that, like rebellious America, Ireland should break away from Britain entirely. “He even has the impertinence to call it natural justice. And do you know who this author is? None other than a Patriot Member of Parliament, that damned Charles Sheridan.” He gave them both a bleak look. “My family still treats the Sheridans as friends,” he grumbled, “when I could have told you those people were no good.”

But for Georgiana, the event that forced her to concede that Hercules might have a point came in the autumn.

As soon as the new parliamentary session began, the Patriots were in full cry again. Once and for all, Grattan was demanding, give Ireland her own free trade and end the English controls. Meanwhile, the Volunteers held several small parades at which Patriot speeches were made. But the word on the street was that this was only a prelude.

“Wait for King Billie's Birthday,” they said.

Of all the days in the Protestant calendar, none was more popu
lar with the Dublin tradesmen than the anniversary of William of Orange's birth. Each November it was celebrated with dinners and loyal speeches. So when it was announced that the Volunteers would hold a parade in front of King Billie's statue on College Green, it was clearly going to be a large affair.