The Rebels of Ireland: The Dublin Saga Read online

  What were they saying? Anne listened, but she couldn’t hear. They seemed angry. Did they know she had deceived them? She hadn’t meant to deceive them. Not at all. But she had fallen in love. She hadn’t meant to do that, either. But then it had been too late.

  Her mother had still been alive the first time she had seen him. Two years ago. They had gone out to a festival at the Curragh. It had been a big affair; English and Irish had come there from far and wide. She had paused for a while to listen to some pipes, while her parents had wandered off to watch a horse race. After listening to the pipers, she had begun to walk across the big open space when she had noticed, a little way off, that some of the young Wicklow men had started a hurling match and that, although this was an Irish game, some of the English youth of Dublin had gone out to challenge them. It was a spirited game, which the Wicklow men were winning easily; but just before the end, a pair of Dubliners in a daring move had broken through and the younger of them had scored dramatically. Moments later, the game had ended, and she had just begun to move away when she saw the two young Dublin men coming in her direction. Hardly realising she was doing so, she waited for them to come near. She could see they had noticed her. They were grinning like a pair of boys after their game.

  “Did you enjoy watching?” The elder of the two was a dark-haired young man with firm, regular features and a pleasant smile. “I am Walter Smith and this is my brother Patrick.” He laughed. “As you see, we did not win our battle.” He gave her a discreet, searching look, but she did not see it, for her eyes were already upon Patrick.

  He was taller than his brother. Slim and athletic. Yet there was something gentle in his manner. His face was oval and wore a couple of days’ stubble—obviously, his beard grew thickly. His brown hair was close-cropped, and she noticed that over his brow it was already thinning. His eyes, also brown, were soft, and they rested upon her.

  “Did you see me score?”

  “I did.” She laughed. He’s pleased with himself, she thought.

  “I did well at the end,” he said.

  “They let us through once,” his brother remarked amiably, “out of charity.”

  “No so.” He looked disappointed. “Do not listen to this fellow.” The soft brown eyes were looking into hers now, and to her surprise, she felt herself blush. “What is your name?” he asked.

  She hardly knew whether to expect to meet Patrick Smith or his brother again. So she had experienced a little stab of excitement a few days later when, coming into Dublin with her mother, she had caught sight of him beside Christ Church. He had come over at once, introduced himself to her mother politely, and chatted easily enough to discover that it was often her habit to ride over on a Thursday to Malahide to visit an old priest who lived there. The following week, he had been waiting by the path to Malahide, and rode with her for a mile along the way.

  Soon after this, she had gone away to France, and during that year her mother had died. Only days after the news had come, she received a letter from him, sending his sympathy and saying that he was thinking of her. In the long months that followed, when she experienced great loneliness, she thought of him quite often. And, though she loved her brother, and knew that her father loved her perfectly, there was nonetheless an aching emptiness in her life where her mother’s love and presence had always been.

  He came to meet her within days of her return. It had been Anne’s idea to take Orlando with them. After all, a girl like herself could hardly disappear alone day after day without exciting comment. As for walking out alone with a young man, and without her father’s permission, it was unthinkable. So she had practised the subterfuge.

  She didn’t enjoy it. She was a normal girl, but she was also serious. She believed in the true faith of her ancestors. She loved her family and trusted them. Each night, she said prayers for her mother’s soul and asked the Blessed Virgin to intercede for her. She hated deceiving her father; she knew it was a sin. If her mother had still been there, she supposed, she would have talked to her about Patrick Smith; but a father was different. Even so, she longed to ask his advice. And she would have done, except that one thing held her back. Fear. Fear that her father might refuse to let her see him anymore.

  She needed him. When they went along the pathways together, she felt an ease and happiness unlike any other she had known before. When he stood close to her, she sometimes almost trembled. When his soft eyes looked down into hers, she felt as if they were melting. The excitement of their meetings, and the growing sense of being loved, filled the void her mother’s death had left. By that summer, it had seemed to her she could not do without him.

  And what would her father have said if he knew? He’d certainly have intervened. As for her brother Lawrence, she didn’t like to think what he’d have said. No, there would be an end to her meetings with Patrick Smith if her family discovered them.

  It was a week ago that Patrick had asked her to marry him. They knew that the thing must be done carefully and in the proper manner. His father would approach hers. The two families would consider each other—they’d be bound to do that anyway. And whether or not Patrick’s father had any previous knowledge of his younger son’s courtship, they both agreed that Martin Walsh must be kept in ignorance. “I daren’t tell him now,” Anne said, “for if he supposed we had deceived him, it would only hurt him and perhaps set him against us.”

  For an awful moment, she had been afraid that Orlando might blurt something out; but he had remembered his promise and kept quiet. She resolved to have one more talk with him—a very firm one—before she left in the morning.

  With luck, by the time she returned from France, she and Patrick would be betrothed. And her dear father would think he’d arranged it all.

  Martin Walsh had turned his face from Lawrence and gazed thoughtfully back at Anne. She was already a handsome young woman now, and she reminded him of his dear wife. Yet she was also still a girl. Innocent. To be protected. Well, he’d talk to his cousin Doyle about the Smith family. But on one matter he was quite determined: he would consider Anne’s happiness above everything. That must be his guide.

  Behind her in the water below, the little island with its cleft rock seemed to be bathed in a dying orange flame. Across the landscape, far away to the north-west, lay the hump of the Hill of Tara. The sun, bloodred now, was dropping behind it. Martin turned round once more, to gaze southward across Dublin Bay. It was darkening. On the far side of the bay, the little borough of Dalkey, too, was darkening. And farther to the south, where the distant volcanic hills had been caught by the evening sunlight, the entire coastline was sinking to a monotone beside the iron-grey, sullen sea.

  They came down from the Ben of Howth and began riding westwards across the old Plain of Bird Flocks towards their home. The sun was sinking behind faraway Tara, but the sky overhead was still pale and a great gleam was coming from behind the horizon in the north so that you could see the landscape clearly. They were still some way from home when, about half a mile in front of them, they saw two figures riding down the road from the north towards Dublin. The shapeless form behind, who led a packhorse, was no doubt a servant; but the man who led the way was a striking figure. At that distance, and in the fading light, his tall, thin body, leaning slightly forward, seemed like a stick or, as he moved continually forward, like a single black pen, drawing an inky line across the land.

  So absorbed was Orlando in watching this strange sight that he hardly heard his father’s murmured curse, or realised that he was supposed to stop, until he felt Lawrence’s restraining hand upon his arm.

  “Who is that?” he asked.

  “A man you do not wish to meet.” His father’s voice was very quiet.

  “A Protestant.” From his tone, Lawrence might have said, “The devil himself.”

  They watched in silence as the sticklike figure crossed the empty plain, seemingly unaware of their presence.

  “That,” his father said at last, “is Doctor Pincher.” />
  It had been that morning when Doctor Pincher came round the side of the mound on the slope above the River Boyne. Like so many others who had come that way, he had gazed down to where the swans glided in their stately fashion upon the Boyne’s waters, and noted the quiet peace of the place. Like others, he had stared at the huge grass-covered mounds that stood like silent giants along the little ridge and wondered what the devil they were and how they came to be there. Had anyone been able to tell him—which they couldn’t—that the ancient mounds had once been tombs constructed according to precise astronomical calculation, he would have been astonished. Had any Irish-speaking local informed him— which they didn’t, because he spoke no Irish and wouldn’t have asked them anyway—that under those mounds lay the bright halls of the legendary Tuatha De Danaan, the genius warriors and craftsmen who had ruled the land before the Celtic tribes had come, he would have snorted with disgust. But he did notice that, in front of the largest of the mounds, there seemed to be a broad scattering of white quartz stones. He wondered if, perhaps, they had any value.

  As Doctor Pincher crossed the Boyne below the ancient tombs and made his way southwards that morning, his mind had been busily occupied. For he had just spent several days up in Ulster, and they had been interesting. Very interesting. So much so that, during all that morning and afternoon, he had not spoken a single word to his servant, not even when they stopped to eat.

  He had been ten years in Ireland now, and his views on the Irish had not changed. King James himself had it correctly: he referred to the native Irish Catholics as wild beasts.

  Some might have thought—given that the king’s own mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had been a notable Catholic, and that the rulers of Scotland descended from Irish tribes—that these opinions seemed strange. But since the new Stuart monarch was divinely anointed, and a scholar besides, the correctness of his judgement could not be doubted. As for their governance, the repeated Irish attempts to evade British rule proved that they were incapable of governing themselves.

  As he came to the Plain of Bird Flocks, Doctor Pincher saw the Walshes. He ignored them.

  Whatever his views about the Irish, his teaching position at the new foundation had given Pincher some cause for satisfaction. Trinity College was resolutely Protestant, and he was not the only teacher there with Calvinist learning. Hardly surprisingly, therefore, the Catholics avoided Trinity, while the government servants and other new arrivals from England gave it their enthusiastic support. Pincher’s successful lectures on the classics, philosophy, and theology soon ensured that he was asked to preach at Christ Church Cathedral itself, where he earned a good reputation with his listeners. His stipends from teaching and preaching allowed him to live well.

  Especially as, so far, he had not married. He had it in mind to do so, but although he had met young women, from time to time, to whom he was attracted, sooner or later they had always said or done something that indicated to Pincher that they were unworthy, and so he had never brought the business to any conclusion. He had other family, however. A sister who after a somewhat prolonged spinsterhood had married a worthy man called Budge. And not six months ago, a letter had come with the announcement that she had borne her husband a son and that his name was Barnaby. Barnaby Budge. It was a solid, godly sounding name. And until such time as he should marry and produce children himself, Pincher considered this infant child his heir.

  “I mean to do something for him.” So he had written to his sister. And though he wrote it out of natural family affection, he had a further reason, too. For, if truth were told, in years past, his sister had sometimes shown a slight lack of respect in her manner towards him. The fault was his own. He couldn’t deny it: certain features of his youth; that foolish business that had caused his rapid departure from Cambridge—she had known about that too, alas. These remembrances gave Pincher some pain. His exemplary career in Dublin had put to rest any question about his character long ago. His reputation was solid. He’d worked hard and he’d earned it. For years he had saved. He had been prudent. But he still lacked the tangible proof of his position: property; best of all, some land. And now, it seemed, the means were at hand.

  Ulster. It was God’s reward.

  Several times as he rode southwards that day, he had found fragments of the Twenty-third Psalm coming into his head with wonderful appropriateness. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He had been a faithful servant, God knew. He should have faith now that the Lord would provide. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . . my cup runneth over. Yes, the chosen congregation would be fed, feasted even, in the midst of the Irish. Thou makest me to lie down in green pastures. . . . Ah, those he had seen, this very week. The green pastures of Ulster. The reward of the Lord. Very soon, the sower should sow his seed upon the good ground there.

  It had been a friend, a godly man, who had told him of a farm up there. The leaseholder was planning to give it up in a year or so, and the place could probably be bought at a good price. The land was excellent. If he went up there now, he might secure a promise that it would be offered to him first.

  So he had visited Ulster and been much impressed. The place was wild, of course, but fertile. In particular, he had been glad to find, along the coast, that communities of Scots, staunch Calvinists like himself, had already crossed the sea and set up little farming and fishing colonies of their own. As for the property in question, he had inspected it, and there had been a meeting of minds. The place, if he wished it, could be his. But more inspiring even than this prospect, for a godly man, had been another thought that the sight of the land, and the good people he found there, had put into his mind.

  Just think, he had said to himself, if this land could be planted.

  Plantation. It was actually the Catholic queen, Mary Tudor, who had begun the process of plantation. Despite the fact that the Irish were Catholic, she distrusted them; and so she had set up two areas on the edge of South Leinster, which were called Kings Country and Queens Country, in which colonies of English settlers were established to act as a sort of military garrison for the area. The process was known as plantation. Other plantations had also been tried, especially down in Munster, where tracts of land had been seized by the government after the big rebellion in Queen Elizabeth’s reign, in the hope that the settlers might teach the Irish how to live as sturdy English yeomen. Although these plantations had not always been successful, the English royal council was still enthusiastic for them. As for Pincher, it seemed to him that the plantations were a wonderful opportunity to do God’s work. Weren’t they exactly the same as the new colonies—Virginia and others—in the New World? Armed communities of godly pilgrims amongst native heathens who, in due course, would either be converted or pushed back into the wilderness, and probable extinction?

  The procedure of plantation was straightforward enough. A huge area would be set aside for subdivision into parcels of land of various sizes. English and Scottish investors—they were called undertakers—would be invited to underwrite the venture, and they in turn were to manage their land grant, supply sturdy tenants from England—yeomen, craftsmen, and the like, of good Protestant persuasion—and enjoy the eventual profits of their enterprise. Thus, they would become landowners of an ideal community. And for a modest investor like himself, there should be excellent opportunities to acquire leases from the undertakers, which could be sublet for a handsome profit.

  No wonder then that his heart rose in exaltation as he considered the idea: a huge tract of Ulster, rid of its papists.

  Would it ever come to pass? Who knew? In God’s good time, he had to believe that it would. Meanwhile, he would begin, if all went well, with a little foothold in the place.

  So he was in a cheerful mood as, coming to the Plain of Bird Flocks, he caught sight of the Catholic Walshes away to his left. He did not let their presence trouble him.

  Since that embarrassing first meeting, he had only encountered the Catholic lawyer occ
asionally. He suspected that Martin Walsh did not like him, though Walsh was far too much of a gentleman ever to show it. For Walsh’s Jesuitical son, he had only loathing. Of his two other children he knew nothing. But he bore families like the Walshes no special ill will. The fact was—you couldn’t escape it—that Walsh was a gentleman even if he was a papist. So long as he was loyal to the English crown—and Martin Walsh was certainly that—there was no need to dispossess them as if they were mere Irish. Pincher wasn’t quite certain what the fate of families like the Walshes should be. They’d be pushed quietly out of power, of course. Some, like the Jesuit Lawrence, would be dealt with in due course. Others would gradually be worn down. They were not the first priority.

  And then a happy thought struck him. By the time his nephew Barnaby Budge was a man of his own age, would Walsh’s younger son still be a papist, enjoying all the fruits of the Walsh family estate? No, he did not think so. Indeed, Pincher cheerfully considered, he could practically guarantee it. By then, to be sure, the Walshes and their kind would be finished.

  It was early in August when Orlando was told by his father: “You’re going to meet young Smith. The man your sister is to marry.”

  Orlando knew that his father had been busy with the matter ever since Anne and Lawrence had left for the continent. There had been discussions with his cousin Doyle, long talks with certain Dublin priests, and meetings with the Smiths themselves. After each of these negotiations, his father would return from Dublin looking preoccupied, but as to the substance of the discussions, his father had never divulged anything. So when his father told him that the young man was to come out to their house alone on a Saturday afternoon, spend the night there, and then go to Mass with them the following morning, he was highly excited, as well as full of joy for his sister.

  “I think you’ll like him,” his father said kindly.

  “Oh, I’m sure I shall,” Orlando replied.