The Rebels of Ireland (78 page)

Patrick was always glad to be at Rathconan. He loved the sensation of being up in the mountains. But he wasted no time. As soon as he had entered Conall's house, he introduced John MacGowan. Then, seeing Deirdre was still with them, he glanced at Conall enquiringly—in answer to which Conall said quietly:

“It is time that she should know.”

Patrick gave him a brief, thoughtful stare, then nodded. Although he knew very well that Deirdre didn't like him, he bore her no ill will in return.

“You know, perhaps, Deirdre, that for many years I was a member of what is called the Catholic Committee.”

She shrugged.

“I never really knew what it was,” she replied.

“It was nothing very defined, I grant you. We were just a group—a large group—who felt themselves responsible for the Catholics of Ireland. We hoped for Catholic freedom, but we were prepared to be patient. For me, I suppose, it was the continuation of what my Catholic family has stood for in the last three hundred years. When Grattan got his independent Irish Parliament, it was intended that this would lead to a gradual improvement in our Catholic position. So it seemed to all of us at the time. But we had reckoned without the Ascendancy men, and the Castle.”

Grattan's triumph in making the Irish Parliament independent had not been all he had hoped. Despite the fine words, it had never been quite clear who was to decide foreign policy and, still more important, matters of trade. Endless arguments had followed, with London trying to exert its influence in the usual old ways of patronage and bribery, while the Patriots tried to reform the system and to prise Ireland loose. They had not been entirely successful. And when it came to the Catholic issue, they had failed entirely.

For in the Irish Parliament, the core of Protestant settlers were determined to deny the Catholics any power, and few of the moderate Protestants wanted to do battle on the issue. The Patriots had been isolated. While in Dublin Castle, an inner group of three powerful officials known as the Troika—fine administrators, but all three of them ruthlessly anti-Catholic—had managed all government business for years. Viceroys might come and go, Parliaments might meet, but the Troika had kept the well-oiled stagecoach of government bowling securely along the Ascendancy road.

“Nonetheless, I had continued to hope that our quiet diplomacy would bring about change one day,” Patrick explained. “Then came the French Revolution. People became excited. And some Catholics, especially amongst the city tradesmen in Dublin, started to call for radical measures, public campaigns—”

“We remembered what the Covenanters in Scotland had done long ago,” John MacGowan cut in. “So why not a Catholic Covenant?” He
grinned. “Patrick here was horrified. He wouldn't have anything to do with us.”

“But just as important, it has to be said,” Patrick continued, “was the effect the French Revolution had on the Protestants. I learned all about this from one of my Doyle kinsmen. He'd been in the old Volunteers, and he had a radical turn of mind. When the new group we call the United Irishmen started, he joined it. ‘Patrick,' he used to lecture me, ‘Ireland must be a separate republic like France, with freedom of religion, votes for all.' He loved to debate these things. And frankly, that's all the United Irishmen were down here in those days: a debating club. But through the Volunteers, he'd become friends with a family named Law, who were Belfast Presbyterians. And they invited him up there to visit the Belfast United Irishmen. He told me he'd never seen anything like it. They had a huge rally on Bastille Day, and they set up a proper organization. They really meant business—for the Ulster Presbyterians dislike English rule even more than we do.”

“Speak for yourself,” MacGowan muttered with a smile.

“And it's a Protestant who has chivvied us all along. You have heard, perhaps, Deirdre, of Wolfe Tone. He's a man of remarkable charm. It's Tone who persuaded the Ulster Presbyterians that they should campaign jointly with the Catholics—if only because there are so many of us. And he began to persuade many of the Catholic Committee, too.”

“But not you,” John MacGowan reminded him.

“Certainly not. I thought they were dangerous fellows. It was not until that terrible Parliament of '92—which I'm sure you recall—that I came round.” He sighed. “And I owe my conversion to my cousin Hercules.”

All Ireland remembered that Parliament. Perhaps foolishly, he had allowed himself to hope that something might be done. In England, the Whigs were pressing for the relaxing of the old Penal Laws: Burke was even persuading Pitt's Tory government of the case. In
Dublin, the Duke of Leinster and his friends were arguing the same thing. There was already an understanding that Catholics would be allowed back into the legal profession. So when the moderates on the Catholic Committee had presented a modest petition to the Irish Parliament, Patrick had expected at least that it would get a reasonable hearing.

The day before the debate, he had chanced to see his cousin Hercules coming along Dame Street from the direction of the Castle. He was walking with a sturdy figure whom he recognised as Budge's elder son Arthur. It was always unpleasant approaching a man who disliked him so much, but it seemed to him that the importance of the matter was so great that he must speak a word to his cousin; and so, approaching them and making a most courteous bow, he expressed the hope that Hercules would give consideration to the Catholic proposal, explaining: “For it seems to me that, if nothing else, this will deny to the more radical elements the excuse they seek to agitate further.” Hercules had stared at him but said nothing, so that it was impossible to know what he was thinking. Then, with what might have been a nod, he glanced at Arthur Budge and the two men moved on. The next day, Patrick had gone early to the Parliament to hear the debate.

If he had not been there himself, he might not have believed it. If anything, the advice of the London Whigs and the aristocratic Leinsters seemed only to have infuriated the members. They were like a pack of hounds baying for blood. They threw out the proposals by an astonishing vote of 205 to 27, and they freely insulted the Catholics as well. It was as if nothing had changed since the Battle of the Boyne. But for Patrick, the speech that rankled most hurtfully had come from Hercules.

“No matter what tricks, what cheap persuasions the Catholics may attempt, they are never to be trusted. Ireland is a Protestant land, and so it shall remain—immutable, inviolate, triumphant—not for this century only, nor for the next, but for a thousand years!”

The speech had been greeted by cheers. Afterwards, as he had
been leaving, he had caught sight of his cousin standing in one of the colonnaded hallways. A tall figure had just come up to him and was shaking him warmly by the hand. It was FitzGibbon, the most powerful member of the Troika.

“It was that vote and the insulting words of my cousin Hercules that made me realise that John MacGowan and his friends were right,” he told Deirdre. “The Ascendancy will give the Catholics nothing, ever.”

But if he hoped that he was making some impression, it was clear that Deirdre, who could not possibly have any love for the Protestants, still regarded him as something even worse.

“So you say. But the Catholics were given the vote the next year,” she pointed out sourly. “Both my daughters' husbands have it.” If she suspected that he was a devil trying to lead her into a trap, she had caught him out in a lie.

And indeed, in 1793 the government in London, now at war with a French Republic, and fearful of trouble in Ireland as well, had begged the unwilling Irish Parliament to do something to keep the Catholics happy. The resulting legislation, however, had been less than it seemed.

“But it was a travesty,” John MacGowan burst out in reply. “Every man with enough property to yield forty shillings may vote. I may vote myself. And what good does that do me? None at all—since no Catholic may sit in our Parliament. I may vote, but only for a Protestant. And since the majority of constituencies are still controlled by a handful of Protestants anyway, nothing will change at all. They gave me the right to join a guild as a full member also—as long as the existing Protestant members invite me in. The thing was designed to make us think we had something, and to give us nothing. It was a mockery, a swindle.”

“And now,” Patrick added, “the Troika have gone to work on King George. The word from London is that he has now privately vowed never to let any Catholic into Parliament.”

It had to be said that King George III of England, as usual, had meant for the best. But just as he had conceived it his duty to hang on to the American colony, he had now been persuaded, by cunning FitzGibbon, that his coronation oath, which obliged him to uphold the Protestant faith, also meant that he must deny political representation to the Catholics. Once he believed he had given his word, nothing would ever persuade honest King George to change his mind. It was one of the Troika's cleverer moves.

“And if that is what the king vows in private, his government in public has shown itself just as determined. When once a viceroy came here—Lord Fitzwilliam, a decent man as it happens—who wanted to meddle with the Troika, he was recalled at once.”

“So if nothing can be done,” Deirdre remarked, “why is it you're here?”

Patrick looked at her seriously. His voice became quieter.

“A little over a year ago, Wolfe Tone was arrested for agitating. He was thrown out of the country. He went to America—to Philadelphia. The home of Benjamin Franklin.” He paused a moment. “There he made many friends: men of importance who had taken part in the American War. He also came to know the representative of the French government. Most people suppose that he is still in America. But he is not. Like Benjamin Franklin, he has gone to France—Revolutionary France—to see whether they will now help Ireland as they helped the Americans before.”

“And will they?”

“We have no idea. But if they do, we must be prepared. If such a thing is done, it must be done quickly and effectively. The larger and better organised the rising, the less the bloodshed need be. The United Irishmen have already shown what it means to act together in brotherhood. I believe all Ireland will rise. We shall have an Irish republic. There will be freedom of religion, as there is in America and France.”

“And what in God's name has this to do with Conall?” she demanded.

For the first time, Conall spoke.

“I am to organise this area, Deirdre. From here all the way down to the border of Wexford. In fact,” he continued gently, “I started many months ago.”

“You devil!” She turned furiously upon Patrick. “Can you leave none of us alone? Do you wish to destroy us all?”

But Conall was shaking his head.

“You do not understand, Deirdre. It was not Patrick who asked me to do anything.” He smiled, perhaps a little sadly. “It was I who asked him.”

She stared at him.

“Your travels…? With my grandfather's verses? They were all for this?”

“No, Deirdre, I'd have done that anyway. But it was a useful excuse to move around the region, as well.”

Deirdre made a gesture of despair.

“John MacGowan is one of our captains in Dublin,” Patrick explained. “And as your two sons there will answer to him, I thought it good that you should meet.”

“Our sons too…?” Deirdre looked horrified.

“They both wished it,” Conall said quietly.

“How many men have you now?” MacGowan asked.

“Around Rathconan, a dozen. In the whole area, a hundred that I can rely on.”

“Who at Rathconan?” Deirdre demanded angrily.

Conall mentioned some of the Brennans and other local families. “Finn O'Byrne is especially eager,” he remarked.

“Finn O'Byrne?” Deirdre gave a look of disgust. “He's the biggest fool of them all. And he hates you, besides.”

“It doesn't matter.” Conall smiled. “He will fight for us because he believes that if we win, Rathconan will be his.”

“But why, Conall?” she cried suddenly. “When you've spent all your life avoiding trouble—why would you do such a thing?”

Patrick thought this was uncalled for. So, by the look of it, did MacGowan. Conall seemed to read their thoughts.

“No,” he said quietly, “she is right.” He paused a moment. “It is true that, seeing the foolishness of my father, I have always taken care not to make the same mistakes. I have never drunk more than a little; I have kept my thoughts to myself. I have made furniture, as well as I know how, for men I despise, and taken their payments politely.” And now a certain edge came into his voice. “In Dublin, I was treated like a dog at school by Protestant boys who had neither my intelligence nor my education; as a man I have seen my fellow countrymen held in subjection by these same bigots and fools. And I have hated them all. But hatred is useless, and revolt is a crime, because, unless it has the means to succeed, it is stupid. So I said to myself: ‘Wait. Wait a lifetime if necessary. But wait until the time is ripe.' And for many years I thought that I should never live to see that time. But now I think it may have come. And if every carving and every piece of furniture that I have ever made should need to be destroyed, as we burn their houses down, I should say: ‘Light the fire and burn them all,' and say it gladly.”