The Rebels of Ireland (95 page)

He was probably in Dublin, then. Every day since getting the letter, she had looked out of her window, half hoping to see him walking towards her through Merrion Square. But, of course, she hadn't seen him. And if he was here secretly, he must be with the United men. She trembled to think what danger he was putting himself in.

But the circumstance that had frightened her most of all was something that had happened in her own house. A week after she had locked the letter away, she had taken it out of the locked drawer in her bureau again, and noticed to her astonishment that the letter had been replaced in the drawer the wrong way up. She was quite certain: she had put the letter in there with the writing facing towards her; now it had been reversed. She had tested the drawer after locking it. Someone, therefore, had picked the lock, read the letter, and replaced it. But who had done so, and what did it mean? And how much danger was her grandson in?

It was strange to be invisible. At first it had seemed exciting, but now William found it lonely.

Robert Emmet was living under an assumed name out at Rathfarnham, a couple of miles farther south. It had been Emmet's idea that William should use Casino. “It's empty,” he explained, “and when I was there before, I made some false panels and trapdoors. So if anyone should come there, I can show you how to hide.” That was exactly what William had done the day the fellow had come snooping round the house. The hiding place had been effective, but he was sorry that it didn't allow him to get a sight of the intruder's face.

Meanwhile, he had grown a moustache and some bushy side-whiskers of which he was rather proud. On Emmet's advice, he
called himself William Casey. “And since nobody outside our Paris group knows a thing about you now,” Emmet had pointed out, “you could be very useful.” The United leaders, Hamilton, Russell, McCabe, Swiney, were a mixed group, some gentlemen and men of intellect, others artisans, but all idealists. He was the youngest of the men present at the meetings, which were usually held at Rathfarnham. “But we take no account of age,” Emmet smiled. Anne Devlin, the girl who acted as housekeeper of the place, was only sixteen, yet they all seemed quite content to trust her with their lives. Men came to see them from all over the island. The men from Wicklow and Ulster promised, “Take Dublin and we'll rise.” The men from Kildare said: “We'll help you take it.”

But the meetings which most impressed William were the ones with the lesser, local commanders. For this was where Emmet really came into his own. It was extraordinary how persuasive he could be, painting a glowing picture of how things would be as soon as Ireland was free. “Napoleon is looking to us Irishmen,” he would tell some humble artisan, “to see whether we have the fight in us. If we want his help, we have to prove ourselves. So where do you stand?” It never seemed to fail.

During May, news came that Napoleon was officially at war with England again. This added urgency to the preparations. By June, a message was sent to Paris to tell Bonaparte that they were almost ready for him.

One evening, they had gone into Dublin to meet some local townsmen. Emmet had been inspiring, but one fellow, who had been especially impressed, had also stared with interest at William, and afterwards had come up to him. Would he also have come from Paris? he asked respectfully. And when William nodded, the fellow remarked: “I could see you were a man of birth and education, Sir. I am Finn O'Byrne, at your service.”

“I am William Casey.”

Finn nodded. “And would you be living in the city, Sir, might I ask?”

“Outside.”

“I am caretaker of a house in the city, Sir, and I have access to others. If ever you should require lodgings, or a place to store anything, I can arrange it and no one need even know you're there. Would you tell Mr. Emmet that as well?”

William said he would, and Finn O'Byrne gave him the address where he could be found. “Would there be anywhere I could find you, Sir?” he asked.

“Through Mr. Emmet,” William answered cheerfully, “who can be reached through the usual channels.”

“You know where to find me, Sir,” Finn repeated, “if ever I can be of service to you.”

He seemed a good fellow, thought William.

With Emmet acting as quartermaster, the preparations went forward at speed. There were three secret caches of weapons in the Dublin Liberties. Only a handful of men, which included the Smith brothers, knew where they were. Blacksmiths had made hundreds of pikes. They had flintlocks, pistols, a formidable quantity of gunpowder. William made himself useful acting as a secretary and right-hand man for Emmet. Only one thing was lacking.

“We need money, William,” Emmet remarked one day in June. “Can you get us any?”

William had a hundred pounds left. He gave fifty to Emmet. He even thought for a moment of going to his grandmother for funds; but if he did that, he'd break his cover; and besides, even if she'd give him money, he couldn't drag her into the conspiracy in such a way. But thinking about it made him realize with a stab of pain how much he missed his family.

Not that he really missed his parents. He was frankly glad to avoid his father, and his mother, though she loved him, so completely identified with his father's wishes that he never really felt he could talk to her. But Georgiana was another matter. Once or twice, at dusk, he had walked past her house, hoping to catch sight of her at a lighted window. How he'd longed to go up the steps to the door,
with its broad fanlight, and make himself known. The second time he had done this, he had been delighted to see the door open and his brother come out. He had watched him walk dreamily along the street, no doubt happily engaged in some mathematical puzzle, and wished so much that he could come up beside him.

William found Emmet more extraordinary every day. Not content with collecting weapons, he was inventing new ones. He had designed a folding pike that could be concealed under a man's great-coat. The blacksmiths had complained and only made a few, but they worked. As a chemist, he designed grenades and some signal rockets. These last were formidable monsters, with eight-foot poles that would rise hundreds of feet into the sky before discharging different-coloured fireworks that would act as prearranged signals to the troops. Early in July, they tested one, quite effectively, in some fields near Rathfarnham.

William also knew that, at the same time as all these other activities, his friend was conducting a love affair with the daughter of a gentleman whose family house was nearby. William had met Sarah Curran, a dark beauty with a beautiful singing voice, and he counted Emmet a fortunate fellow. His friend was doing so much that it seemed to William that a day of his life must be worth a month of living for most other people.

As July began, however, he could tell that Emmet was concerned. By the middle of the month, he was getting nervous.

“We must act soon, William,” the young man confessed. “We're almost out of money, and it can't be long before we're discovered.”

“What about the French? We can't go without them,” William pointed out.

“Not a word.” Emmet paused. He seemed to be considering something, then irritably shook his head. “The time's drawing close,” he said suddenly. “I need to be in the city from now on, and you should be, too. Have you a place you can use?”

Remembering the helpful offer from Finn O'Byrne, William had gone to see him the next day. O'Byrne had been delighted. “There's
a room you can use in the very house where I live,” he assured him. “It'll be no trouble at all.”

Finn O'Byrne was in luck. Two weeks ago, when he had reported seeing both Emmet and William, Lord Mountwalsh had been pleased. And now, when he told him about this new arrangement, Lord Mountwalsh even smiled.

“You think the conspiracy is moving towards a final phase?'

“I do, your lordship.”

Hercules considered. When O'Byrne had first reported seeing Emmet and William, he had felt duty bound to inform the Castle, at least, about Emmet. But the officials there hadn't been very impressed.

“We know some of the United men have come over from France, but they're small beer. Robert Emmet is very young. He may be here to arrange his family's affairs. Have you anything more specific?”

“No,” Hercules had answered regretfully.

But if O'Byrne could place young William under surveillance, William would probably lead him to Emmet, and who knows what else.

“You are to follow my son,” he told O'Byrne, “and report to me.”

The only thing that puzzled Finn was what this aristocrat meant to do about his son once he had found the conspiracy. Extract the young man to a place of safety, he supposed. Personally, he didn't care, as long as he was paid.

“I will make sure that the young gentleman is not implicated,” he said helpfully.

But he didn't know his man.

Hercules gazed at him. When he had first begun this business, he had only wanted information. But that was before he had realized how far his son was involved. But now his view had changed. First the boy had been thrown out of Trinity, then run away to Paris, and now he was planning an insurrection. For a moment, he even allowed himself to show his feelings to this wretched spy.

“He was my son. But he has betrayed his family, his religion, and his country. He has betrayed me. He is no longer my son.”

“As your lordship pleases.”

“I want him caught in the act, O'Byrne. There must be no uncertainty. The evidence must be irrefutable. I want him arrested. And then I want him hanged.”

O'Byrne stared at him.

“You will say nothing to anyone,” his lordship continued. “You will keep me fully informed and I shall alert the authorities when appropriate. But if you lead the troops to my son at the right moment, I will give you fifty pounds. Can you accomplish that?”

Fifty pounds was a lot of money.

“Oh yes,” said O'Byrne, “I can.”

On the evening of July 14, Dublin was startled by a series of bangs and a burst of fireworks over the Liffey. At Dublin Castle, the officer on watch treated the matter calmly.

“It's Bastille Day,” he said in a bored voice. “Republican fireworks.”

Nonetheless, Dublin city's chief of police, the Town-Major, took a detachment of men down to the quays, where he found a huge bonfire and a crowd, some of whom had discharged shots into the air. He immediately tried to close the festivities down by force. The enraged crowd pelted his men with stones and he was forced to withdraw.

“We must be careful,” an official at the Castle remarked afterwards, “before we take these republican displays too seriously. The Town-Major would have done better not to intervene.”