The Rebels of Ireland (97 page)

Yet what was the boy to him? The son of a man he hated, and who hated him. True, but also the grandson of an old friend. And the cousin of Patrick, a man he had loved.

What could he do anyway? The only way to help the boy would be to talk to him, persuade him to cut and run. And how the devil could he find him? Only by joining the conspirators himself, for long enough to do so—and even then, he probably wouldn't be able to persuade the boy anyway. What would happen then? Would his grandmother come and kidnap him? Actually, he thought with a smile, she probably would.

And if he did such a thing, for her sake, he'd clearly be putting his own life at risk. He'd been lucky not to be arrested in '98. This time, he might not be so lucky. A nice present for his grandchildren—to see their grandfather swinging from a bridge. No, it was young William who'd have to swing. He sighed, and tried to put the matter out of his mind.

He argued with himself this way, every day, for almost a week.

On the evening of Friday, July 22, Smith the tobacconist was surprised to find a visitor waiting for him at his door. It was John MacGowan. He said he wanted to become active again. Smith gazed at him thoughtfully.

“Why have you changed your mind, John? Is this something to do with the Walsh boy you were asking about?”

MacGowan had prepared himself for this.

“In a way, yes. I thought to myself, if he's in it, then why is it that I am not?”

“And if he isn't?”

“If you're not in it,” MacGowan grinned, “then I'll stay out, too.”

“You'll risk death?”

“I did before. My children are all grown.”

Smith nodded thoughtfully. Then he gave MacGowan a long look.

MacGowan knew what he was thinking: Was it possible, the tobacconist must be wondering, that his old comrade had turned into a double agent? Such things had happened. The silence was long. In the end, MacGowan spoke.

“If you don't trust me, it's better I go home. The fear of having a traitor beside you does more harm than any good I could possibly do you.” He turned. He was sorry he'd failed, yet also relieved. At least he'd tried; his conscience was clear. He'd gone a dozen paces when he heard Smith's voice behind him.

“Thomas Street. Just past Marshalsea Lane. Tomorrow morning.”

By late Saturday morning, the place was crowded and chaotic. Hundreds of men from Kildare had arrived. There were constant demands: “Where are the blunderbusses? We need more ammunition. Who emptied this powder keg?” William was constantly being sent on errands. Several hundred more men came in from Wexford. They had been persuaded to wait down at the storehouse at Coal Quay. Another group of Dublin men was going to congregate at a house in Plunkett Street. Finn O'Byrne had returned to say that the message was delivered, but he couldn't say at what hour the Wicklow men would arrive.

Amidst all the chaos, there was another welcome addition. John MacGowan had appeared early in the morning and been welcomed by several of the men. He was a calm presence, working at William's side.

“It's still set for ten o'clock tonight,” Emmet confirmed. “We fire a rocket, then swing down to Coal Quay, collect the Wexford men, and march straight to the Castle.”

Finn O'Byrne, who'd been travelling all night, said he was going to rest at his house, but promised to be back later in the day.

Georgiana was restless. The fact that she had dreamed about William was not surprising. But the sensation that afflicted her now
was of a different order. She did not form mental pictures of William. Nor did she feel a sudden panic, like a mother who cannot find her child. The feeling that came to her was not a fear, but a knowledge, quiet but certain, that he was in danger. She had heard people speak of such hidden understandings between people who were close. But she didn't know what she could do about it.

Late in the morning, she ordered her carriage. First she drove to Grafton Street, because that was where she had seen William. Then she went to the house of John MacGowan, to be told that he'd be out all day. After that, to the bafflement of her coachman, who had no idea what she was doing, she drove aimlessly along Dame Street and round by the Castle. She hoped she might receive some sense of where he was, but nothing came. Reluctantly, she went home.

Lord Mountwalsh was waiting in the shadows, half hidden by a pillar, when Finn O'Byrne reached the tomb of Strongbow. He was wearing a nondescript coat with the collar turned up, and a thin scarf covered the lower part of his face. His boots were hardly polished. The disguise was simple but effective. He might have been any Dublin tradesman.

“Tell me all,” he commanded.

Finn gave him a brief account of all that he'd seen. “It will be ten o'clock,” he said. “There will be a rocket.” And he explained the route that Emmet meant to follow.

“Good. I shall tell the Castle to be ready at ten. Nothing will be done to alert the rebels. We want them to show their hand. I shall remain at my house, but at half past nine, I shall come in a plain carriage to the old Hospital of St. John. Meet me there and we shall walk along Thomas Street together. I think this will be sufficient disguise.”

“Yes, my lord. But why do you want to come to Thomas Street?”

“So that you and I may witness Emmet and my son emerging. It might be hard to identify them afterwards, and there must be no
question as to their guilt. There must be unimpeachable testimony at their trial.” He drew himself up. “I intend to testify myself.”

And now there could be no mistaking the terrible Earl of Mountwalsh.

It was during the afternoon that things started to go wrong.

At two o'clock, Emmet went out to a nearby inn with the leaders of the men from Kildare. They were gone a long time. When he returned, Emmet looked pale.

“We may have to do without the Kildare men,” he told William quietly. “They aren't satisfied with the preparations.” He sighed. “You know, we've had to do everything in such a devil of a hurry. But perhaps some of them will stay.”

By late afternoon, though there were still hundreds of men there, the depot was quieter. But the doubts of the Kildare men had affected some of the Dublin commanders, too, and further groups of men were leaving. When Finn O'Byrne reappeared round seven, William explained what had happened. A few minutes later, Emmet called them together.

“With the men here and the Wexford boys, and the other groups who will surely come when the rocket is fired, we still have enough men to surprise the Castle,” he announced.

A little before eight o'clock, O'Byrne went out.

“I'm going to see if I can't bring in some more men,” he said.

“Be back by ten,” said Emmet.

“Take a weapon,” said William, and he gave him one of Emmet's folding pikes. “You can hide it under your coat.”

“Thank you,” said O'Byrne.

It was two hours since a carriage containing the Lord Lieutenant had rolled out of the gates of Dublin Castle and headed out towards the Liberty.

The Lord Lieutenant had been called in to the Castle that afternoon because of a report that a large insurrection was planned for that night. Both he and the Commander in Chief, General Fox, were sceptical.

“The Earl of Mountwalsh may say what he likes,” he had said irritably, “but is there any corroboration? Does he say where these rebels are to be found? How are we to know them? Are we to go out and shoot every drunk on a Saturday night?”

“The signal will be a rocket, at ten o'clock.”

General Fox spoke.

“On the last occasion, on Bastille Day, when that fool of a Town-Major stirred up a crowd for no reason, there were rockets.”

All the same, the troops in the Castle and out at the nearby barracks were all put on alert. They would certainly be prepared. But by six o'clock, the Lord Lieutenant had had enough.

“Maintain the alert,” he'd ordered. “If in doubt deploy, and lock the Castle gates. That's all. Let me know if the revolution starts. I'm going home.”

It was one of the pleasant features of his job that it came with a splendid residence set in the magnificent spaces of Phoenix Park. As his carriage and outriders had clattered down from the Liberty and over the Liffey, he reflected upon what his predecessor had told him about the character of the Earl of Mountwalsh.

Lord Cornwallis had not minced his words. “The fellow's a damned nuisance.” As usual, Cornwallis was right.