Authors: Marjorie Bowen
‘It is a month,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘since the wind has blown favourable for Ireland, and still Hoche does not sail.’
His glance went round the company gathered at Mr. Bond’s house and rested on the grave countenance of Mr. Thomas Addis Emmett, who had lately much withdrawn himself from these meetings. As if replying to a challenge that gentlemen replied:
‘It is a pity that our destinies have to wait on the wind. Does not that fact, my Lord, give you a sharp sense of the unstability of our enterprise?’ Fitzgerald smiled and faintly coloured.
‘Pray, Mr. Emmett, repeat to the meeting the substance of our late conversation in the Shakespeare Gallery in Exchequer Street. These gentlemen must know your mind — and mine.’
The company looked towards Mr. Emmett, who looked down at the papers on the table before him.
‘There is so much at stake,’ he said, and paused. His thoughtful silence impressed the others, for all greatly respected his judgment, his courage, his patriotism.
The meeting was more largely attended than usual and held in greater circumstances of secrecy. To-night there had been no pretence of a musical party, but the gentlemen had come in by twos and threes through the warehouses at the back. The meeting was held in a chamber near the store house; the shutters were closed, the house silent in front, and, to any one patrolling the streets, might have been unoccupied. The police had lately been very active.
Scattered on the table before the Irishmen were the last reports from France, enthusiastic yet anxious messages from Wolfe Tone and from Mr. Lewine, who was in some sort the accredited Minister of the United Irishmen to the French Republic, and who had lately been empowered to obtain a loan of at least half a million pounds from France or Spain; reports, too, from the country — Kildare, Leinster, Wexford.
Fitzgerald continued to look steadily at Mr. Emmett.
‘The wind!’ he exclaimed with nervous impatience, listening to the beating on the shutters, ‘which may at any moment change, and still they do not sail. It is not the fault of Hoche, that I dare swear, nor of Wolfe Tone…it is Ireland’s luck.’
Mr. John Sheares, snuffing a candle carefully, remarked: ‘If need be, we must manage without the French help.’
‘Aye,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘so we must indeed. Yet I cannot help dwelling on the fact that this is the moment for them to land — for us to rise before from England reinforcements are sent. Why, Cork is so defenceless it would fall were only five thousand men landed at Bantry.’
All grew silent. Fitzgerald spoke again, with a slight effort.
‘Mr. Emmett, you were about to speak?’
‘My Lord, I hold it useless! You are not one who is to be influenced once you have made up your mind.’
‘Still I would wish the others to know your opinion — your highly valued opinion, which I, seeing you no longer came to these meetings, asked for —’
‘And answered, my Lord,’ replied Mr. Emmett. ‘By accusing me of deserting the cause —’
‘Why, so I thought you spoke, Mr. Emmett, in those terms. But pray, sir, explain to the company.’
Mr. Emmett rose; his face was flushed. He was moved, though in his whole demeanour was a great steadiness, but all present listened to him intently. He spoke directly to Lord Edward.
‘My Lord, I am not a person to desert a cause in which I have embarked. I knew the dangers of it when I joined it — dangers only for myself or the friends about me. I am not the man to be deterred by the consideration of what may happen to myself or them. We might fall, but the cause might not fail, and, so long as the country was served, it would matter little —’
He paused, smiled sadly. Mr. Henry Sheares moved uneasily, and put his hand over his eyes as if the candle light hurt them. Mr. Oliver Bond’s chin was sunk in his cravat. Fitzgerald seemed to listen more to the wind than to the speaker.
‘— but, my Lord, when I knew that the step you were taking will involve that cause itself — my fears are great; I tremble for the result —’
‘To what step do you refer, sir?’ asked Mr. John Sheares.
‘Sir, you have changed a civil into a military organisation — your secretaries, chairmen and delegates are now captains, colonels and adjutant-generals. You have shown a want of caution that must have attracted the attention of the Castle. There has been much rash speaking and writing, a confiding in strangers, gentlemen. I fear that you have roused the government to employ spies and informers —’
Lord Edward put in impetuously: ‘Sir, all the remarks you have made are but so many reasons for an immediate and general rising of the people. Indeed, the reports I have here show that their impatience is no longer to be restrained, nor can it, in my opinion, with advantage to the cause, be resisted —’
‘My Lord,’ replied Mr. Emmet with emphasis, ‘all the services that you or your noble house have ever rendered to the country, or can ever render to it, will never make amends to the people for the misery the failure of your present plans will cause them!’
Fitzgerald rose, picked up and held out the papers before him.
‘I tell you,’ he cried impetuously, ‘our chances of success are magnificent! Examine these returns, which show that one hundred thousand armed men may be counted on!’
‘My Lord, they are on paper, and will not furnish fifty thousand in array. My name, for one, is enrolled there, but, I tell you candidly, you will not find me in your ranks. At first you declared that fifteen thousand Frenchmen were necessary to a rising. Now, when the English begin to pour troops into the country, you would act without waiting for Hoche —’
‘If he does not come, I would. Come, Mr. Emmett, if we cannot get these fifteen thousand Frenchmen, or ten thousand, or five thousand, will you then desert the cause?’
All present looked at the man thus warmly challenged, but Mr. Emmett lost nothing of his composure.
‘My Lord,’ he replied, ‘you put the matter in such a light that I feel branded as a traitor in the eyes of the meeting — but what matters that? If you could obtain but the assistance of three hundred French officers to head our people you might be justified in this attempt, but not without them! Whom have we capable of leading our unfortunate people against a disciplined army?’
Lord Edward laughed.
‘I know something of the English army. By Heaven, there is nothing like discipline there! Besides, we shall greatly outnumber them —’
‘My Lord, we must not be deceived — they
are
disciplined and we are not. If the Irish are repulsed and shaken, who is to reform their lines?’
‘Good God, sir, you pick at straws! I will undertake to seize Dublin without a general rising —’
‘And if you did, my Lord, and were encamped in Phoenix Park, what would you be but a rabble unable to perform the least military evolution? On the arrival of regular troops you would be scattered, massacred — you, my Lord, are the only military man among us, and you cannot be everywhere. You delegate your authority to those whom you think are like yourself, but we have no such persons amongst us.’
There was a murmur among the listeners, most of them assented to the justice of Mr. Emmett’s remarks, agreed that all must depend on the arrival of the French fleet. But Lord Edward broke in with impatience:
‘I say we will not be dependent on these foreigners. If they come in large numbers it may be but a change of masters. We had all determined to rise whether Hoche arrives or not.’
‘I take my leave,’ said Mr. Emmett, crossing to Fitzgerald. ‘I withdraw from these proceedings. I hope to go in mutual confidence and friendship.’
‘Why, surely,’ said John Sheares. ‘There could be no question but that we rely on your good discretion, Mr. Emmett.’
‘I am sorry that you should doubt mine,’ cried Lord Edward, with a cordial clasp of his friend’s hand.
‘’Tis the only thing about you I do doubt, my Lord. My warmest wishes go with you!’
Arthur O’Connor followed Mr. Emmett into the outer room, where a single small lamp lit the dusty expanse of the warehouse.
‘I am sorry for this,’ he said, troubled. ‘We relied greatly on your opinion.’
‘You have had it,’ replied Mr. Emmett. ‘And it was not relished. Do not mistake what I said,’ he added earnestly. ‘Lord Edward — and I know him as well as any man can — is the noblest of human beings. He has no deceit, no meanness, no selfishness in him, but is all frankness, openness and generosity; but — I speak plainly — he is not the man to conduct a revolution to a successful issue.’
‘Where can such be found?’
‘They are rare indeed. Good-bye. God watch over you all!’
‘Are you coming to the meeting at Jackson’s, in Church Street, to-morrow? Tom Reynolds has arranged it —’
‘No, I don’t like Reynolds, I told you. He has a bad character, a spendthrift, a libertine, a flatterer —’
‘Some think him the best and honestest man in the Union.’
Without replying to this Mr. Emmett took his friend’s hand and said:
‘O’Connor, I believe you and I could do this, but we will never get the chance. Sober men aren’t listened to in a crisis, and that is natural enough. Good night.’
And Mr. Emmett went down the dark warehouse stairs, through the mansion, silent save for the fitful melody of Mrs. Bond’s harp, and out into the sombre streets, where the wind, as if in mockery, blew favourable to the fleet that did not sail.
Arthur O’Connor returned to the meeting. Every one was talking together in low tones, discussing the opinions of Mr. Emmett. Some, notably Mr. Henry Sheares, seemed uneasy. Mr. Reynolds was very hot on disregarding all advices, all warnings — an immediate rebellion, whether Hoche sailed or not! Fitzgerald appeared by no means downcast by his friend’s (and he held Emmett very near his heart) disapproval. He asked for silence and addressed the company.
‘Mr. Emmett spoke of spies and informers, gentlemen. I ought to tell you something which occurred to-day, but which was put out of my mind by anxiety for the expedition — by Mr. Emmett’s speech. You should know that I have received a warning.’
Mr. Henry Sheares looked up sharply.
‘An anonymous warning, Lord Edward?’
‘No, there is no need that I should disguise from whom it came — it was my step-father, Mr. Ogilvie.’
‘I expect,’ said Mr. O’Connor, ‘you have had many such warnings from your friends, Lord Fitzgerald? They must guess something of your activities.’
‘I should not trouble you with it if it were nothing more than that. Mr. Ogilvie was sent for by Lord Clare. He found Castlereagh there. They had some conversation. The gist of it was that these two gentlemen, who professed themselves my friends, deputed him to try to get me out of the country.’
At these words all the men gathered round the table and looked at Fitzgerald, who had risen and was standing near the candles, as usual flushed and animated.
‘There is nothing in this, as you will suppose. Indeed, I took it very lightly. Lady Castlereagh is a friend of my wife. It is quite natural he should feel some friendliness towards me, and you may imagine it would be quite likely they should consider that I hold opinions dangerous in these times.’
‘But this was a specific warning, was it not, my Lord?’ put in Mr. Bond anxiously; ‘referred to something known of your actions?’
‘Clare would not say so, and Ogilvie, of course, had to be on his guard, and indeed, himself knows nothing. Why should he? You know I have lately detached myself from all my relatives.’
‘Well, then,’ said Mr. Henry Sheares, relaxing a little in his chair, ‘there is nothing here to make a to-do. Clare and Castlereagh have some inkling, no doubt, that there is trouble brewing for them. They know, of course, of the intended invasion and must suspect that many in Ireland know of it, too.’
‘Nay, but what I have to say to you,’ interrupted Fitzgerald with increasing warmth, ‘is that Clare told Ogilvie that he knew all our proceedings, that he was aware of everything that was going on; in short, there was amongst us, in our most secret councils, some spy or informer in the Castle’s pay.’
He looked smilingly round his friends’ faces as he spoke, and saw on them the expression that had been on his own when Mr. Ogilvie first broke this matter to him.
‘Spy and informer here. But impossible! We are all gentlemen and well known one to the other,’ exclaimed John Sheares.
‘It is monstrous,’ said Tom Reynolds, with contempt. ‘That is one of Clare’s weapons, don’t you see? He knows nothing except that there must be some general understanding among loyal Irishmen, and so he tries to sow dissension, and suspicion.’
‘Yes, yes, so I took it,’ replied Fitzgerald. ‘Of course, he gave Ogilvie no details, but I thought it right to report to you that both Clare and Castlereagh have declared openly they knew all our plans.’
‘Why, then,’ exclaimed Bond, ‘have we not been arrested long since?’
‘Ogilvie seemed to have the impression that they were giving us a long rope with which to hang ourselves, but, as you say, I think it but a feint on their part.’
John Sheares reflected a moment. He looked at his brother then shook his head slowly.
‘No, I don’t think it’s possible. They wouldn’t dare to play such a dangerous game. If they really knew anything about us, our leaders would have been arrested long since. They could not venture to risk an invasion, a rising. No, they were laying a trap.’
‘But this question of a traitor,’ pursued Fitzgerald. ‘Is there anything we can do there?’
John Sheares shrugged and threw out his hand in a gesture of incredulity.
‘Why, my Lord, what could we do? We are all gentlemen and have all taken our oaths and are all known one to another. We have no English among us, no man of doubtful character.’
‘Nor in the whole country?’ pursued Fitzgerald, who was still troubled by the vehemence with which Mr. Ogilvie had repeated Clare’s warning. ‘Might there not be some informer somewhere?’
‘If he was in the country, my Lord, he would not know any of the secrets of the society, but only his own small part therein and be of little, if any, use to the Castle.’
Lord Fitzgerald sat down, saying:
‘I fear I waste your time, gentlemen, on trivialities, but I was bound to repeat what Mr. Ogilvie told me.’
Mr. Henry Sheares, who had not the bold character possessed by his brother, but who was an amiable, agreeable man and one who showed more apprehension of danger than most of the United Irishmen, asked:
‘Did Lord Clare mention any names?’
‘So I demanded of Mr. Ogilvie. The answer was — none, except yourself and your brother, Mr. Sheares.’
‘Ah,’ exclaimed John Sheares, ‘I thought so. Lord Clare detests us and would get us if he could — even to the gallows.’
‘Oh, I swear he was frank enough about that,’ smiled Fitzgerald. ‘But let his hatred make you no more uneasy than his friendship does me, sir, and you will be as carefree as I am.’ As if dismissing the subject he picked up a pile of papers, copies of the reports from the provincial centres of the organisation which had been sent to headquarters; detailed plans for the rising, the seizing of the Castle, and the military depôts; for the marching of the insurgents to meet the invaders in Bantry Bay, which the French had finally, on Irish advice, elected for a landing. The English had no batteries there, and even if they had had it would have been impossible to command the whole of the vast bay with even a large amount of artillery.
‘I feel,’ exclaimed Mr. Oliver Bond, rising to fetch some sherry and glasses from the sideboard, ‘as if I was on the edge of a volcano. I would to God it would explode!’
‘The waiting,’ agreed Mr. Sheares, ‘is terrible. This inaction, marking time, wondering from day to day, waiting! Why the fleet was promised in October, now we’re near on Christmas — indeed, Lord Edward is right: one should not wait.’
There fell an anxious silence in the room, disturbed only by the chink of glasses, as Bond served his fellow-members, passing round the table the bottles of brown wine, reflecting the candles, which, burning low, cast a mellow light on the men’s anxious faces above their folded cravats, their dark coats. Beyond them were shadows and beyond that again the glow of the fire which had burnt down to a steady heart of gold.
Fitzgerald suddenly looked up from the glass he had not touched, his nostrils slightly dilated, his eyes gleaming under the disordered dark hair.
‘Listen!’ he cried. ‘I think the wind has changed.’
‘It has dropped,’ said Mr. Bond, pausing with a glass in his hand.
They all listened. The sound of the wind to which they had become used for the last month, a strong steady gale blowing towards Ireland, had indeed suddenly ceased.
Fitzgerald went to the window, regardless of caution, and tore aside the curtains and opened the casement. The moon was labouring through heavy clouds, the warehouse roofs of Dublin showed dark and huddled in the uncertain light, the candles fluttered in the fresh air that suddenly disturbed the still heat of the room.
Fitzgerald took his handkerchief and held it out of the window, and as a gust of wind rose, it was swept away from him. He gave a sharp exclamation:
‘The wind has changed. It is blowing against us!’