The Rebels of Ireland (14 page)

Following his father's instructions, he did not give his name, but when Brian O'Byrne came out to see what he wanted, he gave him the letter and explained that he was ordered to watch O'Byrne read it. Slightly surprised, Brian led him inside, where they went up to the hall.

He was quite surprised to find O'Byrne such a young-looking man, only a few years older than himself; with his tousel of fair hair
he seemed almost boyish. But there was a quiet look of authority in his strange green eyes that impressed Orlando. Sitting at an oak table, O'Byrne read slowly and carefully, his face once or twice registering some surprise. Then he got up, fetched paper, pen, and ink, and wrote down a few words. When this was done, he glanced at Orlando.

“You are his son?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what is in this letter?”

“My father said it was better I should not know.”

“He is right.” Brian O'Byrne nodded.

The contents of the letter had considerably shaken him. It told him in the briefest terms that his inheritance might be at risk, and counselled him to take immediate action. Martin Walsh had been appalled not so much at the naked avarice of Pincher—God knows the lawyer was hardly a stranger to avarice in all conditions of men—but at the absolute political folly of the legalised theft of land from a well-disposed Irishman like Brian O'Byrne. It was precisely the sort of stupidity on the part of the New English which could still, one day, make the island ungovernable. And it was this higher sense of duty which, after his prayers, had decided him to break his duty of confidence and intervene.

It was quite often the case that the English government had regularised the land titles of men like Brian O'Byrne. He knew one or two officials in Dublin Castle who had similar views to his own, and whose names he had given young O'Byrne in his letter. A discreet word with Doyle might also bring some other Protestant gentlemen in to help. But with the Parliament and their friends, let alone Doctor Pincher looking for such opportunities, he advised O'Byrne to go down to Dublin quietly and without delay, “before the hounds pick up your scent.” For reasons he could not give, however, his own part in this affair must never be known. “I have broken a lawyer's oath to tell you this,” he wrote frankly.

“Tell your father, Orlando Walsh, that the O'Byrnes of Rathconan are forever in his debt,” Brian said with feeling.

“I am to watch you burn the letter,” said Orlando.

“You shall.” O'Byrne led him to the fire, and together they watched until the incriminating letter was harmless ashes.

“You must eat with me,” said Brian.

“I'm to sleep in the stable and not give my name,” said Orlando.

“Ah yes, of course.” O'Byrne smiled. “But I promise you this, Orlando Walsh, I shall know you as a friend another time.”

Orlando set out at dawn the next day. The sky over the Wicklow Mountains was clear. A soft breeze was coming from the sea. He was feeling so proud of himself, having accomplished his mission to the letter, and he could not wait to let his father know.

In the middle of the morning, the wind changed and began to come form the north, a little colder. And as he reached the high slope from which the whole panorama of Dublin Bay spread out, he saw that a long, greyish bank of cloud had moved down from Ulster and was already casting a dull shadow over Fingal in the distance. He had made good progress, however, and it was not even noon when he entered the city and rode into the courtyard of his cousin Doyle's house.

Doyle and his wife were not at home, but a servant told him: “He says you're to ride on as soon as you arrive.” As Orlando had planned to do exactly that, he quickly changed to his own horse and set off at once.

The shadow of the cloud bank passed over him just after he crossed the Liffey. As he rode on, the greyness of the day became more encompassing and oppressive, although once or twice, away to his right, he saw the sun's light harshly cut through the cloud in a silvery gash over the sea. His heart was full of happiness as he rode across the familiar plain. He smiled as a flock of pale seagulls suddenly rose from the field in front of him and wheeled loudly in the iron-grey sky. And he felt a surge of warmth as, passing through a familiar little wood, he came in sight of the house.

He was surprised to see his sister at the door.

“Hello, Anne,” he said.

“Thank God you've come. He's been waiting for you.”

“I know.” He smiled. But she gave him a strange look.

“You don't know, Orlando.” He was starting into the house, but she put a restraining hand on his arm. “You can't see him for a few minutes yet. Lawrence is with him.” She took a deep breath. “Your father's been taken very poorly, Orlando. He's not well at all.”

Orlando felt himself go pale.

“When?”

“Early this morning. They sent word to us in Dublin and we came at once. Nobody knew where you were.”

“I was doing something for Father.”

“He said as much. He said you'd be coming by our cousin Doyle's, so we sent a message there to tell you to come home at once. What in the world were you doing?” And seeing him shake his head: “It doesn't matter anyway. He can still talk, at least. Stay downstairs. I'm going to tell them you're here.” And she left him.

He waited alone. The house seemed strangely quiet. Some time passed. Then Lawrence came down the stairs.

His brother was dressed in a black soutane. He was looking grave. When he saw Orlando, he did not smile, but he came to him and took his arm gently, in a kindly gesture.

“You must prepare yourself. Our father has suffered a crisis. It was an apoplexy, and you will find him greatly altered since yesterday. Are you ready for this?” Orlando nodded dumbly. “Good. I have been praying with him. But your presence will bring him great comfort.” He paused and glanced at Orlando curiously. “Where were you, by the way?”

“I cannot tell you, Lawrence. I was doing something for Father.”

“You can surely give me some account of your absence?” The question was not unkind, but there was the faintest hint of disapproval in it.

“I promised Father.”

“I see.” A small frown crossed his face, but the Jesuit smoothed it away. He glanced up the stairs to where Anne had now appeared. “He is ready?”

“Yes.” Anne gave Orlando an encouraging smile.

“Is he dying?” asked Orlando.

Nobody replied.

He went up the heavy wooden staircase, and went to the door of his father's chamber. It was ajar. He pushed it open.

His father was alone. He was propped up in a half-sitting position on the carved oak bed. His face was strangely sallow, his eyes sunken, but he gazed at Orlando fondly and did his best to smile.

“I am sorry you should see me like this, Orlando.”

For a moment, Orlando was unable to speak.

“I am sorry, too.” It was not what he wanted to say at all, but he could not think of the right words.

“Come.” His father motioned him to approach. “Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes, Father. Everything.”

“That is good. I am proud of you. Did he say anything?”

“That he was forever in your debt.”

“He burned the letter?”

“Yes. I watched.”

“Not that its discovery would matter much now.” His father spoke the words more to himself than to Orlando. He sighed. The sigh had a faint rasp. Then he smiled at Orlando. “You did well. Very well.”

Orlando wanted so much to say something, to tell his father how much he loved him. But he did not know how. He stood there helplessly. His father was silent for a few moments, his eyes closed. He seemed to be gathering his strength. Then he opened them and looked into Orlando's eyes. It seemed to Orlando that he saw a trace of urgency and fear in his father's gaze.

“Do you remember your promise to me, Orlando? About your marriage?”

“Yes, Father. Of course I do.”

“You promise me to have children.”

“I did.”

“You will?”

“Yes, Father. A dozen at least. I promise.”

“That is good. Thank you. Take my hand.” Orlando took his father's hand. It felt rather cold. His father gently squeezed his hand. “No father, Orlando, could have a better son.” He smiled, then closed his eyes.

A little while passed in silence except for his father's breathing, in which there was faint, wheezing sound. Orlando stood there, still holding his father's cold hand.

Then, without opening his eyes, his father called out quietly:

“Anne.”

And from outside the door, his sister quickly appeared.

“God be with you, my son,” his father said. Then Anne took him out.

She told him to go downstairs. A few moments later, he saw Lawrence going back up. Then he waited, miserably. About half an hour later, Anne came down and told him that his father was gone.

Early the next morning, Orlando walked out alone. The sky was still grey. He walked at a quiet, steady pace along the path past the deserted chapel and was soon on the long slope that led towards the sea. He hadn't encountered a soul when he reached the holy well at Portmarnock.

He knelt down beside the well and started to pray. But though the words came, he could not seem to concentrate as his father had told him he should.

He stood up. He walked three times round the well, saying the paternoster four times. He knew that such little ceremonies could be effective. Then he knelt again. Still he could not find the quietness he sought. He tried to think of the old saint, whose gentle pres
ence blessed the waters of the well. But still nothing came. Then he thought of his father and whispered:

“I promise, Father. I promise. A dozen at least.” Then he burst into tears.

It was more than an hour before he got back to the house. He found Lawrence, looking for him outside.

“Where were you, Orlando?” he asked.

“At the well at Portmarnock,” answered Orlando truthfully.

“Ah.” Lawrence looked thoughtful. “I think it is time,” he said, not unkindly, “that you went to Salamanca.”

 

1626