The Rebels of Ireland (89 page)

Budge nodded curtly, wheeled his horse, and was gone.

Finn went down to the arms cache and inspected the pikes. He rearranged them, then covered them over again.

Conall was going to swing. They'd hang him right enough. They'd give him the works, cut him open first, like as not. That's what they did to traitors.

The man was like his father. Arrogant. With all their learning, those Smiths always thought they were better than the Brennans and the O'Byrnes. Even the man's quiet voice, his gentle laugh, had
something of the condescending in it. Well, he wouldn't be so condescending at the end of a rope.

So who was the wiser man now? he thought, as he made his way back into Rathconan.

Rathconan was quiet that night. Soon after dark, as planned, fifteen men stole softly out and, under Finn's direction, took pikes from their different hiding places. Two other caches remained untouched. As agreed, they waited in their own houses until midnight. A little after that, a soft knock came at the door of Finn's cottage, and he came out. Together with Conall, he proceeded to seven other cottages, picking up men at each.

Two of the men carried lamps, covered over so as not to give out any light until it was required.

Silently, they made their way up to the big house. There would be no attempt upon the heavy oak door, which Conall had made himself. They were going to break in one of the windows. This would make a noise, but it hardly mattered. The men who would burst in knew every inch of the house and where each of the inmates would be sleeping.

Big strands of cloud passed across the stars, obscuring the sliver of the moon. The night was dark. There was not a sound as they stood in front of the house.

Then, suddenly, there were torches and lamps behind them. Figures were looming out of the darkness. The door and the windows in front of them burst open with a bang and a clatter, and by the sudden lamplight they saw musket barrels pointed at them.

“Stand fast. One move and we shoot.” The voice of Jonah Budge, harsh and peremptory.

Then his brother Arthur's voice, from the doorway.

“You are all arrested. Conall Smith, come forward.”

They were all held in the house until dawn. Soon after that, manacled and in chains, they were marched out and down the long track towards Wicklow.

As they left Rathconan, Finn O'Byrne saw the figure of Deirdre standing by the roadside. She had been gazing miserably at Conall, but now Finn realised that her eyes were upon him. She stared at him fixedly.

She had guessed. He saw it in her eyes. A terrible look. He turned his face away. How she knew, he could not tell. She could not have seen. It must be by instinct. But she knew.

Though exhilarated from his exploits, Patrick had looked rather tired on the day after his return. Brigid wasn't sorry.

“There's nothing for you to do anyway,” she pointed out. “You've done all you can.”

It proved fairly easy to occupy young William. One day he was sent over to see Kelly at his estate nearby. He could also be sent down to Wexford town to obtain the latest news without much danger. So Brigid had Patrick to herself. The weather was dry and warm. Spring was turning into early summer. For several days, they enjoyed the huge mansion and its grounds like a pair of young lovers.

It was at the end of the first week in June that William returned from Wexford town with the bad news.

Perhaps it was not surprising that after such easy initial success, the rebels should have been a little too confident. At the town of New Ross, guarded by a modest but well-trained garrison of government troops, they had been utterly routed. In the confusion, they had lost two thousand men. Even worse in a way, in Patrick's eyes, was the sequel. During the retreat, a company of the rebels had taken the law into their own hands, rounded up two hundred people whom they took to be Protestant loyalists, and burned them alive in a church at a village called Scullabogue.

“Catholics burning Protestants! We might as well be back in the
time of Cromwell,” Patrick cried in anguish. “This is everything we stand against.”

But there was more news, this time from the north. He was grieved to hear that in Dublin, Lord Edward had died in jail. But when he heard the news that the rising in Rathconan had been betrayed, and that Conall was to be tried for treason, he buried his face in his hands.

“This was my doing,” he moaned. He looked up miserably at Brigid. “I have destroyed your own father. Full of grief though she was, she tried to comfort him and point out that Conall had chosen this path for himself; he listened to her, but the pain on his face remained.

She was not surprised when, the next day, he started a fever.

Part of the difficulty, it seemed to Brigid, was that there was nothing they could do. She knew he would have liked to go up to Rathconan with her, but with the Yeomanry scouring that area, and the likelihood of his own involvement in the United Irishmen being known by now, that was out of the question. Nor was there anything he could do about the disasters that had taken place in the south. This feeling of frustration and helplessness, she was sure, contributed to the worsening of his fever, so that by the fever's third day, she was quite alarmed about him. Young William was wonderful. He made no demands, and did all he could to support her. After a few days, Patrick seemed better, but still very weak. She let William go out for news again, and learned that another section of the United Irish forces were trying to work their way northwards up the coast, commanded by Father Murphy, a priest who, despite the disapproval of the Church, was taking part in the rising.

The weather was still dry. Strangely for that time of year, some of the grass was looking quite parched.

A week went by. She encouraged Patrick to spend time in the sun, and he was getting stronger now, almost his old self again. But the news continued to be bad. Father Murphy had been killed. The United Irishmen were under pressure on the Wicklow border. A big military force, it was said, was coming down from Dublin.

It was a day of rain, the first for weeks, when Kelly came riding up to the door. He was trying to look cheerful, but she could see he was flustered.

“Is he better?” he asked her. “Can he travel?”

“Why?”

“The government army's pushing down from the north. Everyone's withdrawing. He'd better get out. They know who he is. If they find him here…”

“Where can he go?”

“He can come with me. There's still a huge force down at Wexford. He should be safe enough there.” He grinned. “Don't worry, Brigid. If need be, I'll put him on a boat at Wexford and send him to France.”

“I shan't worry,” she said, “because I'm coming too.”

But to this, as soon as he appeared, Patrick refused to agree.

“You've the children to think of now,” he told her. “You aren't involved in the rising. It'll be me they want. And you'll surely be safer here than anywhere else.” He turned to young William. “I count upon you, William, to protect her. Will you promise me that?”

In this strategy, Kelly strongly supported him.

“As long as they don't find Patrick here,” he said, “they'll be satisfied.” He turned to William. “Your quarrel with your father may or may not be known, but you've only to say that you're the son of Lord Mountwalsh and that there are no rebels here, and they won't dare to give trouble in such a place.”

She knew they were right. It was the only way. She gazed at Patrick for a long moment and said:

“I'll help you get ready.”

Ten minutes later, he was ready.

They stood at the door. His horse was being brought round from the stable. The rain was falling, obscuring everything beyond the broad expanse of grass in front of the house, falling quietly like a veil. She could scarcely believe it had all come about so suddenly.

“I shall be safe enough,” he said, and turning once again to William: “You have promised.”

“I shall await word from you.” She reached up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek, feeling the rain on her face, and whispered into his ear: “Thank you for my life.”

He pretended not to understand.

“You will see the children before I do, perhaps. You'll give them every tenderness from me.”

Then William gave him a leg up into the saddle, and wheeling about, he rode away beside Kelly without looking back.

Brigid did not move for a time, but stared into the pale, blank shroud of the rain, falling almost silently—like a curtain, it seemed to her, at the end of a play.

Night. It was almost the midsummer solstice. Below lay the little town of Enniscorthy, shuttered but watchful, where United Irishmen were encamped in their hundreds. Certainly enough to defend the place. But the main army had come up here, onto the pleasant slopes of Vinegar Hill.

It had been Kelly's idea.

“We'll go up the hill, Patrick,” he'd said. “Safety in numbers.”

And Patrick was glad of it. The summer night was warm and clear. Above his head, a crowd of stars sparkled: bright, eternal for a few brief hours, until dawn came to wash them all away.

It was a good place to make a stand. As General Lake and his army pressed down from the north, the advance detachments of the United men had given ground; but at Enniscorthy the British would be facing a much larger force, getting on for twenty thousand strong, with carbines and artillery. “We'll outnumber them by two to one,” Kelly had pointed out. “The terrain's in our favour, too.” For Vinegar Hill was an excellent defensive position. On every side, the British would be forced to mount steep slopes to reach the
United forces entrenched above. It was from a similar hilltop, a month ago, and before they'd even had the firearms, that the United men had driven off the well-trained North Cork Militia. With some confidence, therefore, they waited through the night.

Patrick was happy. He had come there by choice. He could probably have travelled on to Wexford and found a ship, or even gone up into the mountains a dozen miles away to hide. But having been absent for all the setbacks of the last three weeks, he would have felt guilty indeed if he had deserted his comrades now. And what good fellows they were, most of them. He felt a surge of affection for Kelly and for all the thousands of unseen faces upon the hill. He even felt affection for the enemy. They were his fellow human beings, after all. He was sorry that so many would probably have to lose their lives during the day to come. It was a sad necessity that blood would have to be shed and sacrifices made for the creation of the new order in Ireland.