The Rebels of Ireland (44 page)

It couldn't have been better. A speech from Cromwell, whom Parliament, besides giving him military command, had also designated with the title of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Then one of his brave officers and the distinguished Trinity professor would have a public family reunion. It would do honour to the family. Within the hour, he had made sure that several of the lecturers, a selection of the best young scholars, and even the Tidy family would be there to witness the event. So pleased was he that, in the privacy of his lodgings, Doctor Pincher actually hugged himself.

The arrival of Oliver Cromwell and his Roundhead army in Ireland was an impressive business. A hundred and thirty ships came into the Liffey estuary and began to disembark their troops: eight thousand foot soldiers, three thousand ordinary horse, twelve hundred dragoons. There were also the several thousand English troops already in the Dublin garrison. These numbers, though large, were not awesome, but they belonged to what was probably the best fighting force in Europe. The ships also brought quantities of artillery, and last but not least, the sum of seventy thousand pounds to pay for any supplies they might need.

Against them would be arrayed a coalition of forces. Ormond's
army had been shattered at Rathmines. Four thousand men had been killed, and another two and a half thousand taken prisoner. Others had melted away to their homes. Ormond still had about three thousand men, however, camped on the edge of the Midlands. There were also the Royalist forces down in Munster, and the town garrisons in every province—some of them protected by mighty walls. But the coming of Cromwell had also provoked one other important figure.

Owen Roe O'Neill might be proud, but faced with the arrival of Cromwell himself, he had finally agreed: “We must forget our differences and combine the Confederates again.” The papal Nuncio might have been furious, but the Irish prince was now rejoining the Royalist cause. He was sick with a gangrenous leg, but he had five thousand men with him and could call on as many again.

The numbers were with the Royalists. In addition to that, neither the native Irish, nor the Old English in the countryside, nor the Presbyterian Scots of Ulster had any wish to see him there. Cromwell was entering hostile territory.

It was while his army was being received by the Dublin garrison that Oliver Cromwell was taken by carriage to College Green.

The day had started badly for the Tidy family. Perhaps it was Tidy's fault.

The two Roundhead officers who arrived at Christ Church that morning were looking for quarters where troops could be billeted. Considering all that Tidy's wife had done to house the Protestant refugees eight years before, it was not surprising that they should have come to the cathedral precincts.

But they did not understand about the bell.

There was no question, old Tidy had given it his best. Hour after hour, as Cromwell's fleet came into the Liffey, the great bell of Christ Church had tolled its Protestant welcome. For seven whole hours the old sexton had pulled on the bellrope, only letting his son
take a short stint each hour while he drank a tankard of ale to revive him, and attended to the calls of nature. And it had been his intention to ring the bell again today, to mark the entrance of Cromwell into Dublin.

So delighted had he been with these efforts that he had not hesitated, as perhaps he should have done, when he saw the two officers, but presented them with a bill for the princely sum of forty shillings. This had not been well received. Indeed, blunt words had been spoken by the officers when, not knowing the custom of the place, they had refused to pay. The sexton having then informed them that they'd be quartering no troops in the precincts of Christ Church, the larger officer, who seemed to be under the impression that this was a papist church, had remarked: “General Cromwell will quarter his horses in this cathedral if he pleases.” To which Tidy had riposted that the general might put his horses in the nave of Saint Patrick's, but not Christ Church. They had parted on no good terms, despite the efforts of Tidy's wife and Faithful to reassure the officers of their loyal intentions.

It was not a happy Tidy family that walked, while no bell tolled, to listen to Oliver Cromwell.

The crowd at College Green was impressive. The aldermen and city councillors were all there; the great men of Trinity College, old Doctor Pincher easily visible among them; the city's Protestant parish clergy, still a small and unimpressive collection; and a large gathering of citizens. They all watched with interest as, with a cavalry escort, the general arrived in a simple open carriage.

When the carriage stopped, Cromwell did not leave it. He took off his hat and stood up. He was a strongly built, soldierly man, an inch or two under six feet. His greying hair was parted in the centre and hung to his shoulders. His face was not ugly, but plain, and seemed to have warts on one side. When he spoke, his voice was rough and his manner blunt. And the message which Oliver Cromwell now delivered to the people of Ireland was plain and brief.

He had been brought there by Almighty God, he told them, to restore them to liberty. Those who, recognising God's Providence, were amongst the godly—by which he meant any good Protestant—could be assured that the barbarous and bloodthirsty Irish would be subdued, and that the Parliament of England would protect them. Those who opposed the authority of the Parliament with arms would be crushed. Let there be no doubt of that.

But let them also understand, he continued, that he had no desire to hurt tender consciences. Those who were well-affected need not fear. The watchword of the army of God was justice: punishment for those who were guilty of shedding innocent blood, but for the rest, gentleness. Virtue and order should be their guide.

“Civil liberties for peaceful people,” he announced.

Then he sat down, put on his hat, and was driven away.

Doctor Pincher frowned. This was not what he had expected at all.

The message was carefully calculated. That was to be expected. And the tactical situation in which Cromwell found himself was well understood. He was a general. He had come to Ireland to protect the Parliamentary forces' western flank. Those opposing the authority of Parliament with arms—in other words, the Royalist forces—would be crushed. This was clear. Of course.

Those who had shed innocent blood would be brought to justice. Did he mean the Irish bands who had run riot when Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire had begun the rebellion in 1641? Presumably. The memory of those massacres, and the refugees coming into Dublin, was still fresh, though identifying the remaining culprits now would not be easy.

But what was this talk of “tender consciences”? The phrase was a code, well known to every listener. It meant those of another faith. If those with tender consciences were “well-affected,” the general had announced, they had nothing to fear. The political language was unmistakable. The hint to the townsmen gathered on College
Green was clear. As far as this blunt English general was concerned, respectable Catholic merchants like the Smiths of Dublin, if they gave him no trouble, could be left alone. It sounded suspiciously as if Cromwell might even let them continue to worship if they did so discreetly and out of sight. Doctor Pincher was appalled.

Was this the general of the army of God? Were the Catholics not even to be forced to convert? Were they not to be dispossessed? Pincher had been waiting for this all his life. Perhaps this speech was just a tactic to keep the Catholics quiet until they could be properly dealt with. He hoped so. But another possibility also occurred to him: could it be that General Cromwell, beyond smashing the Royalists and punishing the guilty, had no plan for Ireland at all? Pincher glanced around the crowd. Everywhere, people were looking at each other with surprise.

It was in some confusion, and with disquiet in his soul, that Pincher prepared for the meeting with his nephew.

By the time that the Tidy family had entered the sanctuary of Trinity College, Pincher had already set the scene. He himself was standing alone, black-gowned and erect, looking towards the gateway where a group of students was watching. By a doorway on the right, several of his fellow lecturers had gathered, waiting to be introduced. The Tidys stood just inside the gateway.

Through which, moments later, a large figure, dressed in the leathers of a Roundhead officer, strode with a heavy tread. He saw Doctor Pincher at once and made straight towards him. And Tidy groaned.

“God's blood,” he muttered. It was the officer with whom he'd quarrelled that morning.

Doctor Pincher stared. The figure coming towards him was tall, but there all family resemblance ended.

Barnaby Budge was burly. His chest was broad, his big breeches clearly housed legs like tree trunks, his leather riding boots were huge. But it was the sight of his face that transfixed the doctor.

Barnaby Budge's face was large and flat. It made Doctor Pincher think of a saddle of mutton. Was it really possible that this brutish fellow lumbering towards him was really his sister's son?

“Doctor Pincher? I am Barnaby.”

The doctor inclined his head. Words would come, no doubt, but at that moment he could think of none. Meanwhile, he realised that the big soldier was studying his physiognomy with interest. Then Pincher heard him mutter to himself: “My mother was wrong.”

“Wrong? How so?” Pincher asked sharply.

Barnaby looked surprised, then embarrassed. He had not imagined that his uncle's hearing, at such an advanced age, would be so keen.

“I see, Sir,” he answered heavily but truthfully, “that you are not ill-looking at all.”

Pincher gazed.

“Come, Nephew,” he said quietly, with a glance towards where the lecturers of Trinity College were watching, “let us discuss family matters at my lodgings.” And giving the Tidys not even a nod, he passed stiffly out through the college gateway with Barnaby striding at his shoulder.

Once at his lodgings, it did not take long to dispose of the necessary family enquiries. The doctor learned that Barnaby had been solidly set up in the drapery trade before joining the army of Cromwell, that he had inherited a little property and a good house. He spoke dutifully of his mother but, it seemed to Pincher, without much affection. He also spoke of the matter of his investment in Ireland.