The Rebels of Ireland (98 page)

John MacGowan surveyed the scene. Less than two hours to go. How in the world was he to get the boy away?

This rising was going to be a catastrophe: he could feel it in his bones. He realized with a sudden shock that the Smith brothers were not there anymore. Emmet had taken off his coat, which lay on the back of his chair, and put on his green uniform. He looked very splendid in it; but MacGowan suspected that the uniform was
serving another purpose also. It was helping Emmet to enter his role, so that there should be no turning back. It might have been a suit of armour.

And what was young William thinking? Had he realized that they were all going to die? At half past eight, he strolled over to William and suggested they should get a breath of air in the yard. Emmet was writing dispatches.

The air outside was warm. There were men resting round the edge of the yard. The rocket, with its eight-foot pole and its long fuse, stood in its heavy trestle launcher, pointing at the sky. Standing beside it, he spoke softly.

“The best men have all left.”

“I know,” said young William calmly.

“We should save Emmet from himself. The rising will fail, and we shall lose everything.”

“The die is cast. He won't turn back. I know him.”

“And you?”

“I do not desert my friends.” It was said quite straightforwardly. That was how he chose to live; it would be how he chose to die. MacGowan looked at him with admiration.

“Quite right,” he said, and went back inside.

So what the devil was he to do now?

Ten more minutes passed. Emmet was busy at his table, but MacGowan observed that he looked up nervously from time to time.

MacGowan wandered round the depot. Nobody took much notice of him. He inspected various weapons, but in the end chose a large and heavy pistol, which he stuffed into his belt. He picked up some wadding. In one room there were some ladders and coils of rope. He took a small coil and slung it over his shoulder. He saw a roll of bandage and took that, too.

He had formed a general plan. After that, he would have to improvise. Back in the main room, Emmet and about a hundred men were waiting. He went outside. It was four minutes to nine.

He continued into the street. There were quite a few people about. There were a couple of inns nearby. Dusk was falling now. A lamplighter was making his rounds. A strange, ambiguous time of the day, this borderland between day and night. He took a deep breath, turned, and ran back into the depot.

“Troops! There are troops coming,” he cried. “From all sides. They'll surround us. Get out at once.”

Emmet leaped up from the table. The men all round the depot were looking at each other. William also stood. He was pale.

“They have us,” MacGowan cried.

Now was the moment. The men were faltering. He could see it in their eyes. That was all he needed: the opportunity of a moment's surrender. If Emmet would just say, “It's over boys—run if you can.” Then he could get young William away to safety. But Emmet was doing no such thing. Damn his noble spirit.

“Pick up your arms, boys,” Emmet was crying. “It's time to fight.”

Some of the men were looking uncertain, others sent up a little cheer. Would they follow him?

“Light the rocket,” cried Emmet.

“We'll do it,” said MacGowan, and grabbing William by the arm, he dragged him into the yard with him. It took only an instant to strike the flint and light a taper. They lit the fuse of the rocket and stood back. After a few moments, the rocket went off with a burst of flame and a roar, climbing high into the sky, hundreds of feet, while they all looked after it as it exploded with a great shower of bright stars. All Dublin must have seen it.

“Come on, boys, let's take the Castle.” Emmet's voice. He was leading the men out into the street. How splendid he looked in his green uniform. He was waving a sword in the air and heading along Thomas Street. Presumably, if he encountered troops, he hoped to break through them.

Young William was going to follow him. MacGowan had to think fast.

“Emmet,” he called out. “Shall I fetch the Wexford men?”

“Do that,” shouted Emmet.

“Can I take William?”

“Yes. William, go with him.”

He was at William's side.

“Come, William. Quick, now,” cried MacGowan. And they began to hurry down Marshalsea Lane in the direction of the quays.

Finn O'Byrne had taken his time. He'd decided to stay out of the depot until he met Lord Mountwalsh. If he'd started walking out closer to the hour, it might have looked suspicious.

The fact that many of the Kildare and Dublin men had left didn't concern him. It would just make it easier to see Emmet and William as they came out. It was possible, he supposed, that Emmet would call the whole thing off, but he didn't think that was in Emmet's character.

He had walked along to Christ Church and turned down Winetavern Street to an inn. He might as well drink a Guinness while he waited. The folding pike William had given him was quite heavy, but he could hardly take it out in public, and so he kept it concealed under his coat. He had to confess, the thing was ingenious. And you never knew, it might still come in useful if there was trouble during the evening. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he sat on a bench in the street, outside the door.

The church bell had just finished striking nine o'clock when he saw the great flash of light in the sky over Thomas Street, and watched the burst of stars as the huge firework exploded in the evening sky.

He stared in horror. Had he mistaken the hour? No. It was nine. The signal had been given an hour early. There was no mistaking it. The rising was starting. And Lord Mountwalsh wasn't even planning to leave his house for half an hour.

He raced up the street. What should he do? Should he wait for Mountwalsh? Might the earl have seen the rocket? Probably not if he was indoors. What the devil should he do?

As he emerged by the cathedral, he saw a hansom cab. He hailed it.

“Whip up your horse,” he cried, “and take me to St. Stephen's Green. Fast as you can.”

Behind iron railings, a huge rectangular garden ran down the centre of Merrion Square. Georgiana had been pacing there uneasily for over an hour when she saw the rocket rise and explode in a great starburst somewhere in the west behind the Castle.

What did it mean? She left the garden. None of the people on the pavement seemed to have seen the rocket. She walked to the railings of Leinster House and made her way round to St. Stephen's Green. Here she saw several people looking up at the sky; but nobody was doing anything. She wondered if she should walk towards the Castle to see what was going on. It was only a ten-minute walk. Or should she go back and call for her carriage again? She hesitated. The feeling that had been with her all day had become even more insistent now. That rocket was a portent of something terrible. She was sure of it.

She hadn't been there five minutes when she saw the hansom cab come hurtling from the eastern end of the Green and race round to the door of Hercules's house. She saw a figure hurry up the steps and pull the bell furiously. When the door was opened, the figure said something, then hurried back to the waiting cab. Moments later, a figure in a long, slightly shabby greatcoat, and with a hat pulled down over his face, came bounding down the steps and leaped into the cab, which dashed away again with a clatter.

Though he was oddly dressed, she recognized her son at once. She turned, hurried back to Merrion Square, and called for her carriage at once. She was so perturbed that she waited for it outside. While waiting, she was almost certain she heard, in the distance, the sound of a pistol shot.

Lord Mountwalsh glared at him.

“What the devil happened?”

“I don't know, my lord.”

“Go to the Castle. I told them ten. I'll have to make sure they know it's begun.”

It was only minutes before they reached the Castle gates. It was obvious at once that the garrison had been alerted by the rocket. The main gate was already closed and a detachment of troops was forming up. A brief word with the officer on duty was enough.

“That'll do. On to Thomas Street,” cried Hercules.

Finn considered a moment.

“Too late, my lord. They'll have gone down to Coal Quay by now,” he said, “to collect the Wexford men. It could be dangerous,” he added. But Hercules only gave him a look of contempt.

“To the quays then as fast as you can,” he called to the cabby. “All we need,” he reminded O'Byrne coldly, “is a clear sight of my son. Nothing else matters now.”

There had been perhaps three hundred men at the Thomas Street depot. A good number had followed Emmet out into Thomas Street. Others looked for the attacking troops, but when they did not see them, retreated back inside.

A short while later, the fellows from Plunkett Street, who'd seen the signal, arrived in haste. The men in the depot quickly supplied them with pikes and arms, and the Plunkett Street party set off after Emmet.

But Robert Emmet's progress towards the Castle had not gone well. His men were nervous and losing heart.

“Come, boys, now is your time for Liberty,” he cried, and fired a pistol into the air to encourage them. But as they went along the street, they were hesitating, breaking up into groups, and melting into the alleyways. As they came in sight of the cathedral precincts, Emmet looked round and discovered that he had not twenty men.

There was nothing to be done, and he knew it. To his right lay Francis Street, which led southwards out of the city.

“This way, boys,” he said sadly, and started down the road towards the distant Wicklow Mountains.

When the Plunkett Street party came down towards the cathedral only minutes later, they could not find him; and so they, too, broke up into groups and wandered away into the night. It was just as well. The firepower now waiting at the Castle was formidable.

That left only the Wexford men, down by the quay.